J'  <N  W.  DWINkL 

ROCHESTER, 


£ 


GIFT   OF 

Louis   J .    O'Brien 
of 


.- 


^ 


/y 


THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


MILTON,  YOUNG,  GRAY,    BEATTIE, 
AND  COLLINS. 


COMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOLUME. 


STEREOTYPED  BY  J.  CRIS3Y  AND  G.  GOODMAN. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

JOHN  GRIGG,  No.  9.  NORTH  FOURTH  STREET. 

1831. 


ifc 


THE 


JOHN  MILTON. 


Contents. 


Page. 

Pi 

«ge. 
151 

ih 

PARADISE  LOST 

L'Allegro,     -                

ib. 

tco 

iser     , 

g 

I  ycidas 

in.r 

24 

1^7 

-    34 

Book  VI,   ....               . 

42 

rj) 

SONNETS. 

To  the  Nightingale                             * 

icq 

56 

ib 

ib 

73 

ib 

ib 

0] 

PARADISE  REGAINED. 

ing  certain  Treatises,         

ib. 

ICQ 

102 

111 

To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell, 

ib. 

124 

To  Sir  Henry  Vane,  the  younger, 
On  the  late  Massacre  at  Piemont, 

ib. 
160 

v/omus, 

ih 

POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS 

ih 

ih 

On  the  death  of  a  fair  Infant, 
At  a  Vacation  Exercise  in  the  College,    - 
On  the  morning  of  Christ's  Nativity,  - 

-  144 
145 
-  146 

148 

On  his  deceased  wife,      .       -       .        , 
To  Cyriac  Skinner,       .... 

ib. 
161 

On  Time,      ....•-.. 

-  149 

ih 

TRANSLATIONS. 

161 

ib 

16° 

170 

On  Shakspeare, 

ib. 

Paraphrase  of  Psalm  cxxxvi,    .... 

ib. 

Cftr  ILtte  of  3Ww  JttWon. 


IT  is  agreed  among  all  writers,  that  the  family 
of  Milton  came  originally  from  Milton  in  Oxford- 
shire ;  but  from  which  of  the  Miltons  is  not  alto- 
gether so  certain.  Some  say,  and  particularly  Mr. 
Philips,  that  the  family  was  of  Milton  near  Abing- 
ton,  in  Oxfordshire,  where  it  had  been  a  long  time 


also  the  coat  of  arms  of  the  family.  He  was  named 
John,  as  his  father  and  grand-father  had  been  be- 
fore him ;  and  from  the  beginning  discovering  the 
marks  of  an  uncommon  genius,  he  was  designed 
for  a  scholar,  and  had  his  education  partly  under 
private  tutors,  and  partly  at  a  public  school.  It 


seated,  as  appears  by  the  monuments  still  to  be ;  has  been  often  controverted  whether  a  public  or 
seen  in  Milton-church.  But  that  Milton  is  not  in  J  private  education  is  best,  but  young  Milton  was 
Oxfordshire,  but  in  Berkshire;  and  upon  inquiry  j  so  happy  as  to  share  the  advantages  of  both.  It 
I  find,  that  there  are  no  such  monuments  in  that !  appears  from  the  fourth  of  his  Latin  elegies,  and 
church,  nor  any  remains  of  them.  It  is  more  pro-  j  from  the  first  and  fourth  of  his  familiar  epistles, 
bable,  therefore,  that  the  family  came,  as  Mr.  that  Mr.  Thomas  Young,  who  was  afterwards 
Wood  says,  from  Milton  near  Halton  and  Thame  pastor  of  the  company  of  English  merchants  re- 
in Oxfordshire :  where  it  flourished  several  years,  siding  at  Hamburg,  was  one  of  his  private  precep- 


till  at  last  the  estate  was  sequestered,  one  of  the 
family  having  taken  the  unfortunate  side  in  the 
civil  wars  between  the  houses  of  York  and  Lan- 
caster. John  Milton,  the  poet's  grand-father,  was, 
according  to  Mr.  Wood,  an  under-ranger  or  keeper 
of  the  forest  of  Shotover,  jiear  Halton,  in  Oxford- 
shire ;  he  was  of  the  religion  of  Rome,  and  such  a 
bigot  that  he  disinherited  his  son  only  for  being  a 
protestant.  Upon  this,  the  son,  the  poet's  father, 
named  likewise  John  Milton,  settled  in  London, 
and  became  a  scrivener  by  the  advice  of  a  friend 
eminent  in  that  profession :  but  he  was  not  so  de- 
voted to  gain  and  to  business,  as  to  lose  all  taste  of 
the  politer  arts,  and  was  particularly  skilled  in 
music,  in  which  he  was  not  only  a  fine  performer, 
but  is  also  celebrated  for  several  pieces  of  his  com- 
position :  and  yt- t.  on  the  other  hand,  he  was  not 
so  fond  of  his  music  and  amusements,  as  in  the 
least  to  neglect  his  business,  but  by  his  diligence 
and  economy  acquired  a  competent  estate,  which 
enabled  him  afterwards  to  retire,  and  live  in  the 
country.  lie  was,  by  all  accounts,  a  very  worthy 
man;  and  married  an  excellent  woman,  Sarah,  of 
the  ancient  family  of  the  Bradshaws,  says  Mr. 
Wood ;  but  Mr.  Philips,  our  author's  nephew,  who 
was  more  likely  to  know,  says,  of  the  family  of  the 
Castons  derived  originally  from  Wales.  Who- 
ever she  was.  she  is  said  to  have  been  a  woman  of 
incomparable  virtue  and  goodness;  and  by  her 
husband  had  two  sons  and  a  daughter. 

The  elder  of  the  sons  was  our  famous  poet,  who 
was  born  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1608,  on  the  9th 
of  December,  in  the  morning  between  six  and  seven 
o'clock,  in  Bread-street,  London,  where  his  father 
lived  at  the  sign 'of  the  spread  eagle,  which  was 


tors :  and  when  he  had  made  good  progress  in  his 
studies  at  home,  he  was  sent  to  St.  Paul's  school 
to  be  fitted  for  the  university  under  the  care  of  Mr. 
Gill,  who  was  the  master  at  that  tune,  and  to 
whose  son  are  addressed  some  of  his  familiar  epis- 
tles. In  this  early  time  of  his  life  such  was  his 
love  of  learning,  and  so  great  was  his  ambition  to 
surpass  his  equals,  that  from  his  twelfth  year  he 
commonly  continued  his  studies  till  midnight, 
which  (as  he  says  himself  in  his  second  Defence) 
was  the  first  ruin  of  his  eyes,  to  whose  natural  de- 
bility too  were  added  frequent  headaches :  but  all 
could  not  extinguish  or  abate  his  laudable  passion 
for  letters.  It  is  very  seldom  seen,  that  such  ap- 
plication and  such  a  genius  meet  in  the  same  per- 
son. The  force  of  either  is  great,  but  both  toge- 
ther must  perform  wonders. 

He  was  now  in  the  seventeenth  year  of  his  age, 
and  was  a  very  good  classical  scholar  and  master 
of  several  languages,  when  he  was  sent  to  the  uni- 
versity of  Cambridge,  and  admitted  at  Christ's 
College  (as  appears  from  the  register)  on  the  12th 
of  February,  1624-5,  under  the  tuition  of  Mr. 
William  Chappel,  afterwards  bishop  of  Cork  and 
Ross,  in  Ireland.  He  continued  above  seven  years 
at  the  university,  and  took  two  degrees,  that  of 
Bachelor  of  Arts  in  1628-9,  and  that  of  Master  in 
1632.  It  is  somewhat  remarkable,  that  though 
the  merits  of  both  our  universities  are  perhaps 
equally  great,  and  though  poetical  exercises  are 
rather  more  encouraged  at  Ox  ford,  yet  most  of  our 
greatest  poets  have  been  bred  at  Cambridge,  as 
Spenser,  Cowley,  Waller,  Dryden,  Prior,  not  to 
mention  any  of  the  lesser  ones,  when  there  is  a 
greater  than  all,  Milton.  He  had  given  early 


LIFE  OF  JOHN  MILTON. 


proofs  of  his  poetic  genius  before  he  went  to  the 
university,  and  there  he  excelled  more  and  more, 
and  distinguished  himself  by  several  copies  of 
Verses  upon  occasional  subjects,  as  well  as  by  all 
his  academical  exercises,  many  of  which  are  print- 
ed among  his  other  works,  and  show  him  to  have 
had  a  capacity  above  his  years :  and  by  his  oblig- 
ing behaviour,  added  to  his  great  learning  and  in- 
genuity, he  deservedly  gained  the  affection  of  many, 
and  admiration  of  all.  We  do  not  find,  however, 
that  he  obtained  any  preferment  in  the  university, 
or  a  fellowship  in  his  own  college ;  which  seems 
the  more  extraordinary,  as  that  society  has  always 
encouraged  learning  and  learned  men,  had  the 
most  excellent  Mr.  Mede,  at  that  time  a  fellow, 
and  afterwards  boasts  the  great  names  of  Cud- 
worth,  and  Burnet,  author  of  the  Theory  of  the 
Earth,  and  several  others.  And  this,  together 
with  some  Latin  verses  of  his  to  a  friend,  reflect- 
ing upon  the  university  seemingly  on  this  account, 
might  probably  have  given  occasion  to  the  re- 
proach which  was  afterwards  cast  upon  him  by 
his  adversaries,  that  he  was  expelled  from  the*  uni- 
versity for  irregularities  committed  there,  and 
forced  to  fly  to  Italy :  but  he  sufficiently  refutes 
this  calumny  in  more  places  than  one  of  his  works; 
and  indeed  it  is  no  wonder,  that  a  person  so  en- 
gaged in  religious  and  political  controversies  as  he 
was,  should  be  calumniated  and  abused  by  the  con- 
trary party. 

He  was  designed  by  his  parents  for  holy  orders ; 
and  among  the  manuscripts  of  Trinity  College,  in 
Cambridge,  there  are  two  draughts  in  Milton's 
own  hand,  of  a  letter  to  a  friend,  who  had  impor- 
tuned him  to  take  orders,  when  he  had  attained 
the  age  of  twenty-three :  but  the  truth  is,  he  had 
conceived  early  prejudices  against  the  doctrine  and 
discipline  of  the  church,- and  subscribing  to  the 
articles  was  in  his  opinion  subscribing  slave. 
This,  no  doubt,  was  a  disappointment  to  his 
friends,  who,  though  in  comfortable,  were  yet  by 
no  means  in  great  circumstances :  and  neither  does 
he  seem  to  have  had  any  inclination  to  any  other 
profession ;  he  had  too  free  a  spirit  to  be  limited 
and  confined ;  and  was  for  comprehending  all 
sciences,  but  professing  none.  And  therefore  after 
he  had  left  the  university  in  1G32,  he  retired  to  his 
father's  house  in  the  country  ;  for  his  father  had 
by  this  time  quitted  business,  and  lived  at  an  estate 
which  he  had  purchased  at  Horton,  near  Cole- 
brooke,  in  Buckinghamshire.  Here  he  resided 
with  his  parents  for  the  space  of  five  years,  and, 
as  he  himself  has  informed  us,  (in  his  second  De- 
fence, and  the  seventh  of  his  familiar  Epistles) 
read  over  all  the  Greek  and  Latin  authors,  parti- 
cularly the  historians;  but  now  and  then  made  an 
excursion  to  London,  sometimes  to  buy  books,  or 
to  meet  his  friends  from  Cambridge,  and  at  other 


times  to  learn  something  new  in  the  mathematics 
or  music,  with  which  he  was  extremely  delighted. 

His  retirement,  therefore,  was  a  learned  retire- 
ment, and  it  was  not  long  before  the  world  reaped 
the  fruits  of  it.  It  was  in  the  year  1634  that  his 
Mask  was  presented  at  Ludlow-Castle.  There 
was  formerly  a  president  of  Wales,  and  a  sort  of  a 
court  kept  at  Ludlow,  which  has  since  been  abo- 
lished ;  and  the  president  at  that  time  was  the  Earl 
of  Bridgewater,  before  whom  Milton's  Mask  was 
presented  on  Michaelmas  night,  and  the  principal 
parts,  those  of  the  two  brothers,  were  performed  by 
his  Lordship's  sons,  the  Lord  Brackly,  and  Mr. 
Thomas  Egerton,  and  that  of  the  lady  by  his 
Lordship's  daughter,  the  Lady  Alice  Egerton. 
The  occasion  of  this  poem  seems  to  have  been 
merely  an  accident  of  the  two  brothers  and  the 
lady  having  lost  one  another  on  their  way  to  the 
castle:  and  it  is  written  very  much  in  imitation  of 
Shakspeare's  Tempest,  and  the  Faithful  Shep- 
herdess of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher ;  and  though 
one  of  the  first,  is  yet  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of 
Milton's  compositions.  It  was  for  some  time 
handed  about  only  in  manuscript ;  but  afterwards 
to  satisfy  the  importunity  of  friends,  and  to  save 
the  trouble  of  transcribing,  it  was  printed  at  Lon- 
don, though  without  the  author's  name,  in  1637, 
with  a  dedication  to  the  Lord  Brackly  by  Mr.  H. 
Lawes,  who  composed  the  music,  and  played  the 
part  of  the  attendant  Spirit.  It  was  printed  like- 
wise at  Oxford  at  the  end  of  Mr.  R.'s  poems,  as  we 
learn  from  a  letter  of  Sir  Henry  Wotton  to  our 
author ;  but  who  that  Mr.  R.  was,  whether  Ran- 
dolph, the  poet,  or  who  else,  is  uncertain.  It  has 
ately,  though  with  additions  and  alterations,  been 
exhibited  on  the  stage  several  times. 

In  1637,  he  wrote  another  excellent  piece,  his 
Lycidas,  wherein  he  laments  the  untimely  fate  of  a 
friend,  who  was  unfortunately  drowned  that  same 
year  in  the  month  of  August,  on  the  Irish  seas,  in 
his  passage  from  Chester.  This  friend  was  Mr. 
Edward  King,  son  of  Sir  John  King,  Secretary 
of  Ireland  under  GLueen  Elizabeth,  King  James  I. 
and  Charles  I. ;  and  was  a  fellow  of  Christ's  Col- 
ege,  and  was  so  well  beloved  and  esteemed  at 
Cambridge,  that  some  of  the  greatest  names  in  the 
University  have  united  in  celebrating  his  obse- 
quies, and  published  a  collection  of  poems,  Greek 
and  Latin  and  English,  sacred  to  his  memory. 
The  Greek  by  H.  More,  &c.;  the  Latin  by  T. 
Farnaby,  J.  Pearson,  &c.;  the  English  by  H. 
King,  J.  Beaumont,  J.  Cleaveland,  with  several 
others;  and  judiciously  the  last  of  all  as  the  best 
of  all,  is  Milton's  Lycidas.  "  On  such  sacrifices 
the  Gods  themselves  strow  incense;"  and  one  would 
almost  wish  so  to  have  died,  for  the  sake  of  having 
been  so  lamented.  But  this  poem  is  not  all  made 
up  of  sorrow  and  tenderness;  there  is  a  mixture 


LIFE  OP  JOHN'  MILTON. 


Vll 


of  satire  and  indignation ;  for  in  part  of  it  the  poet 
takes  occasion  to  inveigh  against  the  corruptions 
of  the  clergy,  and  seems  to  have  first  discovered 
his  acrimony  against  Archbishop  Laud,  and  to 
have  threatened  him  with  the  loss  of  his  head, 
which  afterwards  happened  to  him  through  the 
fury  of  his  enemies.  At  least  I  can  think  of  no 
sense  so  proper  to  be  given  to  the  following  verses 
in  Lycidas. 

Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said ; 
But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 
Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more. 

About  this  time,  as  we  learn  from  some  of  his 
familiar  epistles,  he  had  some  thoughts  of  taking 
chambers  at  one  of  the  Inns  of  Court,  for  he  was 


Mr.  R.  in  the  very  close  of  the  late  R.'s  poems, 
printed  at  Oxford;  whereunto  it  is  added,  as  I 
now  suppose,  that  the  accessory  might  help  out 
the  principal,  according  to  the  art  of  stationers, 
and  leave  the  reader  con  labocca  dolce. 

"Now,  Sir,  concerning  your  travels,  wherein  I 
may  challenge  a  little  more  privilege  of  discourse 
with  you;  I  suppose,  you  will  not  blanch  Paris  in 
your  way.  Therefore  I  have  been  bold  to  trouble 
you  with  a  few  lines  to  Mr.  M.  B.  whom  you  shall 
easily  find  attending  the  young  Lord  S.  as  his  go- 
vernor ;  and  you  may  surely  receive  from  him  good 
directions  for  shaping  of  your  farther  journey  into 
Italy,  where  he  did  reside  by  my  choice 


time  for  the  king,  after  mine  own  recess  from 
Venice. 

I  should  think  that  your  best  line  will  be 


not  very  well  pleased  with  living  so  obscurely  in  j  through  the  whole  length  of  France  to  Marseilles, 
the  country :  but  his  mother  dying,  he  prevailed  and  thence  by  sea  to  Genoa,  whence  the  passage 
with  his  father  to  let  him  indulge  a  desire,  which  into  Tuscany  is  as  diurnal  as  a  Gravesend  barge. 


he  had  long  entertained,  of  seeing  foreign  coun- 
tries, and  particularly  Italy:  and  having  commu 
nicated  his  design  to  Sir  Henry  Wotton,  who  had 
formerly  been  ambassador  at  Venice,  and  was 
then  Provost  of  Eton  College,  and  having  also 
sent  him  his  Mask,  of  which  he  had  not  yet  pub- 
licly acknowledged  himself  the  author,  he  received 
from  him  the  following  friendly  letter  dated  from 
the  College  the  10th  of  April,  1738. 


"  SIR, 
"It  was  a 


special  favour,  when  you  lately 


bestowed  upon  me  here  the  first  taste  of  your  ac- 
quaintance, though  no  longer  than  to  make  me 
know,  that  I  wanted  more  time  to  value  it,  and  to 
enjoy  it  rightly.  And  in  truth,  if  I  could  then 
have  imagined  your  farther  stay  in  these  parts, 
which  I  understood  afterwards  by  Mr.  H.,  I  would 
have  been  bold,  in  our  vulgar  phrase,  to  mend  my 
draught,  for  you  left  me  with  an  extreme  thirst, 
and  to  have  begged  your  conversation  again  joint- 
ly with  your  said  learned  friend,  at  a  poor  meal  or 
two,  that  we  might  have  banded  together  some 
good  authors  of  the  ancient  time,  among  which  I 
observed  you  to  have  been  familiar. 

"  Since  your  going,  you  have  charged  me  with 
new  obligations,  both  for  a  very  kind  letter  from 
you,  dated  the  sixth  of  this  month,  and  for  a 
dainty  piece  of  entertainment,  that  came  there- 
with ;  wherein  I  should  much  commend  the  tra- 
gical part,  if  the  lyrical  did  not  ravish  with  a  cer- 
tain done  delicacy  in  your  songs  and  odes,  where- 
in I  must  plainly  confess  to  have  seen  yet  nothing 
parallel  in  our  language,  ipsa  mollities.  But  1 
must  not  omit  to  tell  you,  that  I  now  only  owe  you 
thanks  for  intimating  unto  me,  how  modestly  so- 
ever, the  true  artificer.  For  the  work  itself  I  had 
viewed  some  good  while  before  with  singular  de- 
light, having  received  it  from  our  common  friend 


I  hasten,  as  you  do,  to  Florence  or  Sienna,  the 
rather  to  tell  you  a  short  story,  from  the  interest 
you  have  given  me  in  your  safety. 

"  At  Sienna  I  was  tabled  in  the  house  of  one 
Alberto  Scipione,  an  old  Roman  courtier,  in  dan- 
gerous times,  having  been  steward  to  the  Duca  di 
Pagliano,  who  with  all  his  family  were  strangled, 
save  this  only  man,  that  escaped  by  foresight  of 
the  tempest.  With  him  I  had  often  much  chat 
of  those  affairs;  into  which  he  took  pleasure  to 
look  back  from  his  native  harbour;  and  at  my  de- 
parture toward  Rome,  which  had  been  the  centre 
of  his  experience,  I  had  won  confidence  enough  to 
beg  his  advice,  how  I  might  carry  myself  securely 
there,  without  offence  of  others,  or  of  my  own  con- 
science: Signer  Arrigo  meo,  says  he,  i  pensieri 
stretti,  il  visa  sciolto,  that  is,  your  thoughts 
close,  and  your  countenance  loose,  will  go  safely 
over  the  whole  world.  Of  which  Delphian  oracle 
(for  so  I  found  it)  your  judgment  doth  need  no 
commentary;  and  therefore,  Sir,  I  will  commit 
you  with  it  to  the  best  of  all  securities,  God's  dear 
love,  remaining  your  friend,  as  much  at  command 
as  any  of  longer  date. 

H.  WOTTON 

"  P.  S.  Sir,  I  have  expressly  sent  this  by  my 
footboy  to  prevent  your  departure,  without  some 
acknowledgment  from  me  of  the  receipt  of  your 
obliging  letter,  having  myself  through  some  busi- 
ness, I  know  not  how,  neglected  the  ordinary  con- 
veyance. In  any  part  where  I  shall  understand 
you  fixed,  I  shall  be  glad  and  diligent  to  enter- 
tain yott  with  home-novelties,  even  for  some  fo- 
mentation of  our  friendship,  too  soon  interrupted 
in  the  cradle." 

Soon  after  this  he  set  out  upon  his  travels,  being 
of  an  age  to  make  the  proper  improvements,  and 


Viu 


LIFE  OF  JOHN  MILTON. 


not  barely  to  see  sights  and  to  learn  the  languages, 
like  most  of  our  modern  travellers,  who  go  out 
boys,  and  return  such  as  we  see,  but  such  as  I  do 
not  choose  to  name.  He  was  attended  by  only  one 
servant,  who  accompanied  him  through  all  his  tra- 
vels; and  he  went  first  to  France,  where  he  had  re- 
commendations to  the  Lord  Scudamore,  the  English 
ambassador  there  at  that  time ;  and  as  soon  as  he 
came  to  Paris,  he  waited  upon  his  Lordship,  and 
was  received  with  wonderful  civility;  and  having 
an  earnest  desire  to  visit  the  learned  Hugo  Gro- 
tius,  he  was  by  his  Lordship's  means  introduced 
to  that  great  man,  who  was  then  ambassador  at 
the  French  court  from  the  famous  Christina  dueen 
of  Sweden;  and  the  visit  was  to  their  mutual  sa- 
tisfaction ;  they  were  each  of  them  pleased  to  see 
a  person,  of  whom  they  had  heard  such  commen- 
dations. But  at  Paris  he  stayed  not  long;  his 
thoughts  and  his  wishes  hastened  into  Italy;  and 
so  after  a  few  days  he  took  leave  of  the  Lord  Scu- 
damore, who  very  kindly  gave  him  letters  to  the 
English  merchants,  in  the  several  places  through 
which  he  was  to  travel,  requesting  them  to  do  him 
all  the  good  offices  which  lay  in  their  power. 

From  Paris  he  went  directly  to  Nice,  where  he. 
took  shipping  for  Genoa,  from  whence  he  went  to 
Leghorn,  and  thence  to  Pisa,  and  so  to  Florence, 
in  which  city  he  found  sufficient  inducements  to 
make  a  stay  of  two  months.  For  besides  the  curio- 
sities and  other  beauties  of  the  place,  he  took  great 
delight  in  the  company  and  conversation  there,  and 
frequented  their  academies  as  they  are  called,  the 
meetings  of  the  most  polite  and  ingenious  persons, 
which  they  have  in  this,  as  well  as  in  the  other 
principal  cities  of  Italy,  for  the  exercise  and  im- 
provement of  wit  and  learning  among  them.  And 
in  these  conversations  he  bore  so  good  a  part,  and 
produced  so  many  excellent  compositions,  that  he 
was  soon  taken  notice  of,  and  was  very  much 
courted  and  caressed  by  several  of  the  nobility  and 
prime  wits  of  Florence.  For  the  manner  is,  as  he 
says  himself  in  the  preface  to  his  second  book  of 
the  Reason  of  Church-government,  that  every  one 
must  give  some  proof  of  his  wit  and  reading  there, 
and  his  productions  were  received  with  written  en- 
comiums which  the  Italian  is  not  forward  to  bestow 
on  men  of  this  side  the  Alps.  Jacomo  Gaddi,  An- 
tonio Francini,  Carlo  Dati,  Beneditto  Bonmatthei, 
Cultellino,  Frescobaldi,  Clementilli,  are  reckoned 
among  his  particular  friends.  At  Gaddi's  house 
the  academies  were  held,  which  he  constantly  fre- 
quented. Antonio  Francini  composed  an  Italian 
ode  in  his  commendation.  Carlo  Dati  wrote  a  La- 
tin eulogium  of  him,  and  corresponded  with  him 
after  his  return  to  England.  Bonmatthei  was  at 
that  time  about  publishing  an  Italian  grammar; 
and  the  eighth  of  our  author's  familiar  epistles, 
dated  at  Florence,  September  10, 1638,  is  address- 
ed to  him  upon  that  occasion,  commending  his  de- 


sign, and  advising  him  to  add  some  observations 
concerning  the  true  pronunciation  of  that  language 
for  the  use  of  foreigners. 

So  much  good  acquaintance  would 4  probably 
have  detained  him  longer  at  Florence,  if  he  had 
not  been  going  to  Rome,  which  to  a  curious  travel- 
ler is  certainly  the  place  the  most  worth  seeing  of 
any  in  the  world.  And  so  he  took  leave  of  his 
friends  at  Florence,  and  went  from  thence  to  Sien- 
na, and  from  Sienna  to  Rome,  where  he  stayed 
much  about  the  same  time  that  he  had  continued 
at  Florence,  feasting  both  his  eyes  and  his  mind, 
and  delighted  with  the  fine  paintings  and  sculp- 
tures, and  other  rarities  and  antiquities  of  the  city, 
as  well  as  with  the  conversation  of  several  learned 
and  ingenious  men,  and  particularly  of  Lucas  Hol- 
stenius, keeper  of  the  Vatican  library,  who  re- 
ceived him  with  the  greatest  humanity,  and  show- 
ed him  all  the  Greek  authors,  whether  in  print  or 
in  manuscript,  which  had  passed  through  his  cor- 
rection; and  also  presented  him  to  Cardinal  Bar- 
berini,  who  at  an  entertainment  of  music,  perform- 
ed at  his  own  expense,  waited  for  him  at  the  door, 
and  taking  him  by  the  hand  brought  him  into  the 
assembly.  The  next  morning  he  waited  upon  the 
Cardinal  to  return  him  thanks  for  his  civilities, 
and  by  the  means  of  Holstenius  was  again  intro- 
duced to  his  Eminence,  and  spent  some  time  in 
conversation  with  him.  It  seems  that  Holstenius 
had  studied  three  years  at  Oxford,  and  this  might 
dispose  him  to  be  more  friendly  to  the  English,  but 
he  took  a  particular  liking  and  affection  to  Milton ; 
and  Milton,  to  thank  him  for  all  his  favours,  wrote 
to  him  afterwards  from  Florence  the  ninth  of  his 
familiar  epistles.  At  Rome  too  Selvaggi  made  a 
Latin  distich  in  honour  of  Milton,  and  Salfilli  a 
Latin  tetrastich,  celebrating  him  for  his  Greek  and 
Latin  and  Italian  poetry;  and  he  in  return  pre- 
sented to  Salfilli  in  his  sickness  those  fine  Scazons, 
or  Iambic  verses  having  a  spondee  in  the  last  foot, 
which  are  inserted  among  his  juvenile  poems. 

From  Rome  he  went  to  Naples,  in  company 
with  a  certain  hermit ;  and  by  his  means  was  in- 
troduced to  the  acquaintance  of  Giovanni  Baptista 
Manso,  Marquis  of  Villa,  a  Neapolitan  nobleman, 
of  singular  merit  and  virtue,  to  whom  Tasso  ad- 
dresses his  dialogue  of  friendship,  and  whom  he 
mentions  likewise  in  his  Gierusalemme  Liberata 
with  great  honour.  This  nobleman  was  particu- 
larly civil  to  Milton,  frequently  visited  him  at  his 
lodgings,  and  went  with  him  to  show  him  the 
Viceroy's  palace,  and  whatever  was  curious  or 
worth  notice  in  the  city ;  and  moreover  he  honour- 
ed him  so  far  as  to  make  a  Latin  distich  in  his 
praise,  which  is  printed  before  our  author's  Latin 
I  poems,  as  is  likewise  the  other  of  Selvaggi,  and  the 
I  Latin  tetrastich  of  Salfilli  together  with  the  Italian 
ode  and  the  Latin  eulogium  before  mentioned.  We 
!  may  suppose  that  Milton  was  not  a  little  pleased 


LIFE  OP  JOHN  MILTON. 


IX 


with  the  honours  conferred  upon  him  by  so  many 
persons  of  distinction,  and  especially  by  one  of 
such  quality  and  eminence  as  the  Marquis  of  Vil- 
la; and  as  a  testimony  of  his  gratitude  he  present- 
ed to  the  Marquis  at  his  departure  from  Naples 
his  eclogue  intitled  Mansus,  which  is  well  worth 
reading  among  his  Latin  poems.  So  that  it  may 
be  reckoned  a  peculiar  felicity  of  the  Marquis  of 
Villa's  life,  to  have  been  celebrated  both  by  Tasso 
and  Milton,  the  one  the  greatest  modern  poet  of 
his  own,  and  the  other  the  greatest  of  foreign  na- 
tions. 

Having  seen  the  finest  parts  of  Italy,  Milton 
was  now  thinking  of  passing  over  into  Sicily  and 
Greece,  when  he  was  diverted  from  his  purpose  by 
the  news  from  England,  that  things  were  tending 
to  a  civil  war  between  the  King  and  Parliament : 
for  he  thought  it  unworthy  of  himself  to  be  taking 
his  pleasure  abroad,  while  his  countrymen  were 
contending  for  liberty  at  home.  He  resolved  there- 
fore to  return  by  the  way  of  Rome,  though  he  was 
advised  to  the  contrary  by  the  merchants,  who  had 
received  intelligence  from  their  correspondents, 
that  the  English  Jesuits  there  were  forming  plots 
against  him,  in  case  he  should  return  thither,  by 
reason  of  the  great  freedom  which  he  had  used  in 
all  his  discourses  of  religion.  For  he  had  by  no 
means  observed  the  rule,  recommended  to  him  by 
Sir  Henry  "VVotton,  of  keeping  his  thoughts  close 
and  his  countenance  open.  He  had  visited  Gali- 
leo, a  prisoner  to  the  Inquisition,  for  asserting  the 
motion  of  the  earth,  and  thinking  otherwise  in  as- 
tronomy than  the  Dominicans  and  Franciscans 
thought.  And  though  the  Marquis  of  Villa  kad 
shown  him  such  distinguishing  marks  of  favour  at 
Naples,  yet  he  told  him  at  his  departure  that  he 
would  have  shown  him  much  greater,  if  he  had 
been  more  reserved  in  matters  of  religion.  But  he 
had  a  soul  above  dissimulation  and  disguise;  he 
was  neither  afraid  nor  ashamed  to  vindicate  the 
truth ;  and  if  any  man  had,  he  had  in  him  the  spi- 
rit of  an  old  martyr.  He  was  so  prudent  indeed, 
that  he  would  not  of  his  own  accord  begin  any 
discourse  of  religion ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  was 
so  honest,  that  if  he  was  questioned  at  all  about 
liis  faith,  he  would  not  dissemble  his  sentiments, 
whatever  was  the  consequence.  And  with  this 
resolution  he  went  to  Rome  the  second  time,  and 
stayed  there  two  months  more,  neither  concealing 
his  name,  nor  declining  openly  to  defend  the  truth, 
if  any  thought  proper  to  attack  him :  and  yet,  God's 
good  providence  protecting  him,  he  came  safe  to 
his  kind  friends  at  Florence,  where  he  was  received 
with  as  much  joy  and  affection  as  if  he  had  re- 
turned into  his  own  country. 

Here  likewise  he  stayed  two  months,  as  he  had 
done  before,  excepting  only  an  excursion  of  a  few 
days  to  Lucca ;  and  then  crossing  the  Appenine, 
and  passing  through  Bologna  and  Ferrara,  he 


came  to  Venice,  in, which  city  he  spent  a  month; 
and  having  shipped  off  the  books  which  he  had 
collected  during  his  travels,  and  particularly  a  chest 
or  two  of  choice  music  books  of  the  best  masters 
flourishing  about  that  time  in  Italy,  he  took  his 
course  through  Verona,  Milan,  and  along  the  lake 
Leman  to  Geneva.  In  this  city  he  tarried  some 
time,  meeting  here  with  people  of  his  own  princi- 
ples, and  contracted  an  intimate  friendship  with 
Giovanni  Deodati,  the  most  learned  professor  of 
divinity,  whose  annotations  upon  the  Bible  are 
published  in  English.  And  from  thence  return- 
ing through  France,  the  same  way  that  he  had 
gone  before,  he  arrived  safe  in  England,  after  a 
peregrination  of  one  year  and  about  three  months, 
having  seen  more,  and  learned  more,  and  con- 
versed with  more  famous  men,  and  made  more 
real  improvements,  than  most  others  in  double  the 
time. 

His  first  business  after  his  return  was  to  pay 
his  duty  to  his  father,  and  to  visit  his  other  friends; 
but  this  pleasure  was  much  diminished  by  the  loss 
of  his  dear  friend  and  schoolfellow  Charles  Deo- 
dati in  his  absence.  While  he  was  abroad,  he 
heard  it  reported  that  he  was  dead ;  and  upon  his 
coming  home  he  found  it  but  too  true,  and  lamented 
his  death  in  an  excellent  Latin  eclogue  entitled 
Epitaphium  Damonis.  This  Deodati  had  a  father 
originally  of  Lucca,  but  his  mother  was  English, 
and  he  was  born  and  bred  in  England,  and  studied 
physic,  and  was  an  admirable  scholar,  and  no  less 
remarkable  for  his  sobriety  and  other  virtues  than 
for  his  great  learning  and  ingenuity.  One  or  two 
of  Milton's  familiar  epistles  are  addressed  to  him; 
and  Mr.  Toland  says  that  he  had  in  his  hands 
two  Greek  letters  of  Deodati  to  Milton,  very  hand- 
somely written.  It  may  be  right  for  scholars  now 
and  then  to  exercise  themselves  in  Greek  and  La- 
tin; but  we  have  much  more  frequent  occasion  to 
write  letters  in  our  own  native  language,  and  in 
that  therefore  we  should  principally  endeavour  to 
excel. 

Milton  soon  after  his  return,  had  taken  a  lodg- 
ing at  one  Russel's,  a  taylor.  in  St.  Bride's  Church- 
yard; but  he  continued  not  long  there,  having  not 
sufficient  room  for  his  library  and  furniture;  and 
therefore  determined  to  take  a  house,  and  accord- 
ingly took  a  handsome  garden-house  in  Aldersgate 
street,  situate  at  the  end  of  an  entry,  which  was 
the  more  agreeable  to  a  studious  man  for  its  privacy 
and  freedom  from  noise  and  disturbance.  And  in 
this  house  he  continued  several  years,  and  his  sis- 
ter's two  sons  were  put  to  board  with  him,  first 
the  younger  and  afterwards  the  elder:  and  some 
other  of  his  intimate  friends  requested  of  him  the 
same  favour  for  their  sons,  especially  since  there 
was  little  more  trouble  in  instructing  half  a  dozen 
than  two  or  three :  and  he,  who  could  not  easily 
deny  any  thing  to  his  friends,  and  who  knew  that 


LIFE  OP  JOHN  MILTON. 


the  greatest  men  in  all  ages  had  delighted  in  teach- 
ing others  the  principles  of  knowledge  and  virtue, 
undertook  the  office,  not  out  of  any  sordid  and 
mercenary  views,  but  more  from  a  benevolent  dis- 
position, and  a  desire  to  do  good.  And  his  method 
of  education  was  as  much  above  the  pedantry  and 
jargon  of  the  common  schools,  as  his  genius  was 
superior  to  that  of  a  common  school-master.  One 
of  his  nephews  has  given  us  an  account  of  the 
many  authors  both  Latin  and  Greek,  which  (be- 
sides those  usually  read  in  the  schools)  through 
his  excellent  judgment  and  way  of  teaching  were 
run  over  within  no  greater  compass  of  time,  than 
from  ten  to  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  of  age.  Of 
the  Latin  the  four  authors  concerning  husbandry, 
Cato,  Varro,  Columella,  and  Palladius,  Cornelius 
Celsus  the  physician,  a  great  part  of  Pliny's  Na- 
tural History,  the  Architecture  of  Vitruvius,  the 
Stratagems  of  Frontinus,  and  the  philosophical 
poets  Lucretius  and  Manilius.  Of  the  Greek  He- 
siod,  Aratus'  Phenomena  and  Diosemeia,  Diony- 
sius  Afer  de  situ  orbis,  Oppian's  Cynegetics  and 
Halieutics,  GLuintus  Calaber's  poem  of  the  Trojan 
war  continued  from  Homer,  Apollonius  Rhodius' 
Argonautics,  and  in  prose,  Plutarch's  Placita  phi- 
losophorum,  and  of  the  education  of  children.  Xe- 
nophon's  Cyropsedia  and  Anabasis,  JElian's  Tac- 
tics, and  the  stratagems  of  Polyaenus.  Nor  did 
this  application  to  the  Greek  and  Latin  tongues 
hinder  the  attaining  to  the  chief  oriental  languages, 
the  Hebrew,  Chaldee  and  Syriac,  so  far  as  to  go 
through  the  Pentateuch  or  five  books  of  Moses  in 
Hebrew,  to  make  a  good  entrance  into  the  Tar- 
gum  or  Chaldee  paraphrase,  and  to  understand 
several  chapters  of  St.  Matthew  in  the  Syriac 
Testament;  besides  the  modern  languages,  Italian 
and  French,  and  a  competent  knowledge  of  the 
mathematics  and  astronomy.  The  Sunday's  ex- 
ercise for  his  pupils  was  for  the  most  part  to  read 
a  chapter  of  Greek  Testament,  and  to  hear  his 
learned  exposition  of  it.  The  next  work  after 
this  was  to  write  from  his  dictation  some  part  of  a 
system  of  divinity,  which  he  had  collected  from 
the  ablest  divines,  who  had  written  upon  that  sub- 
ject. Such  were  his  academic  institutions;  and 
thus  by  teaching  others  he  in  some  measure  en- 
larged his  own  knowledge ;  and  having  the  read- 
ing of  so  many  authors  as  it  were  by  proxy,  he 
might  possibly  have  preserved  his  sight,  if  he  had 
not  moreover  been  perpetually  busied  in  reading 
or  writing  something  himself.  It  was  certainly  a 
very  recluse  and  studious  life,  that  both  he  and  his 
pupils  led;  but  the  young  men  of  that  age  wefe 
of  a  different  turn  from  those  of  the  present ;  and 
he  himself  gave  an  example  to  those  under  him 
of  hard  study  and  spare  diet ;  only  now  and  then, 
once  in  three  weeks  or  a  month,  he  made  a  gaudy 
day  with  some  young  gentlemen  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, the  chief  of  whom,  says  Mr.  Philips,  were 


Mr.  Alphry  and  Mr.  Miller,  both  of  Gray's  Inn, 
and  two  of  the  greatest  beaus  of  those  times. 

But  he  was  not  so  fond  of  this  academical  life, 
as  to  be  an  indifferent  spectator  of  what  was  acted 
upon  the  public  stage  of  the  w.orld.  The  nation 
was  now  in  a  great  ferment  in  1641,  and  the  cla- 
mour run  high  against  the  bishops,  when  he  joined 
loudly  in  the  cry,  to  help  the  puritan  ministers,  (as 
he  says  himself  in  his  second  Defence)  they  being 
inferior  to  the  bishops  in  learning  and  eloquence; 
and  published  his  two  books,  Of  Reformation  in 
England,  written  to  a  friend.  About  the  same 
time  certain  ministers  having  published  a  treatise 
against  episcopacy,  in  answer  to  the  Humble  Re- 
monstrance of  Dr.  Joseph  Hall,  Bishop  of  Nor- 
wich, under  the  title  of  Smectymnuus,  a  word 
consisting  of  the  initial  letters  of 'their  names,  Ste- 
phen Marshal,  Edmund  Calamy,  Thomas  Young, 
Matthew  Newcomen,  and  William  Spurstow; 
and  Archbishop  Usher  having  published  at  Ox- 
ford a  refutation  of  Smectymnuus,  in  a  tract  con- 
cerning the  original  of  Bishops  and  Metropolitans; 
Milton  wrote  his  little  piece  Of  Prelatical  Episco- 
pacy, in  opposition  chiefly  to  Usher,  for  he  was  foi 
contending  with  the  most  powerful  adversary; 
there  would  be  either  less  disgrace  in  the  defeat, 
or  more  glory  in  the  victory.  He  handled  the 
subject  more  at  large  in  his  next  performance, 
which  was  the  Reason  of  Church  Government 
urged  against  Prelacy,  in  two  books.  And  Bishop 
Hall  having  published  a  Defence  of  the  Humble 
Remonstrance,  he  wrote  Animadversions  upon  it. 
All  these  treatises  he  published  within  the  course 
of  one  year,  1641,  which  show  how  very  diligent 
he  was  in  the  cause  that  he  had  undertaken.  And 
the  next  year  he  set  forth  his  Apology  for  Smec- 
tymnuus, in  answer  to  the  Confutation  of  his  Ani- 
madversions, written  as  he  thought  himself  by 
Bishop  Hall,  or  his  son.  And  here  very  luckily 
ended  a  controversy,  which  detained  him  from 
greater  and  better  writings  which  he  was  medi- 
tating, more  useful  to  the  public,  as  well  as  more 
suitable  to  his  own  genius  and  inclination :  but  he 
thought  all  this  while  that  he  was  vindicating 
ecclesiastical  liberty. 

In  the  year  1643,  and  the  thirty-fifth  year  of  his 
age.  he  married  ;  and  indeed  his  family  was  now 
growing  so  numerous,  that  it  wanted  a  mistress 
at  the  head  of  it.  His  father,  who  had  lived  with 
his  younger  son  at  Reading,  was,  upon  the  taking 
of  that  place  by  the  forces  under  the  Earl  of  Es- 
sex,, necessitated  to  come  and  live  in  London  with 
this  his  elder  son,  with  whom  he  continued  in 
tranquillity  and  devotion  to  his  dying  day.  Some 
addition  too  was  to  be  made  to  the  number  of  his 
pupils.  But  before  his  father  or  his  new  pupils 
were  come,  he  took  a  journey  in  the  Whitsuntide 
vacation,  and  after  a  month's  absence  returned 
with  a  wife.  Mary  the  eldest  daughter  of  Mr. 


LIFE  OP  JOHN  MILTON. 


Richard  Powell,  of  Foresthill,  near  Shotover  in 
Oxfordshire,  a  justice  of  the  peace,  and  a  gentle- 
man of  good  repute  and  figure  in  that  county.  But 
she  had  not  cohabited  with  her  husband  above  a 
month,  before  she  was  earnestly  solicited  by  her 
relations  to  come  and  spend  the  remaining  part 
of  the  summer  with  them  in  the  country.  If  it 
was  not  at  her  instigation  that  her  friends  made 
this  request,  yet  at  least  it  w'as  agreeable  to  her 
inclination;  and  she  obtained  her  husband's  con- 
sent upon  a  promise  of  returning  at  Michaelmas. 
And  in  the  mean  while  his  studies  went  on  very 
vigorously;  and  his  chief  diversion,  after  the  busi- 
ness of  the  day,  was  now  and  then  in  an  evening 
to  visit  the  Lady  Margaret  Lee,  daughter  of  the 
Earl  of  Marlborough,  Lord  High  Treasurer  of 
England,  and  President  of  the  Privy  Council  to 
King  James  I.  This  Lady,  being  a  woman  of 
excellent  wit  and  understanding,  had  a  particular 
honour  for  our  author,  and  took  great  delight  in  his 
conversation ;  as  likewise  did  her  husband  Captain 
Hobson,  a  very  accomplished  gentleman.  And 
what  a  regard  Milton  again  had  for  her,  he  has 
left  upon  record  in  a  sonnet  to  her  praise,  extant 
among  his  other  poems. 

Michaelmas  was  now  come,  but  he  heard  no- 
thing of  his  wife's  return.  He  wrote  to  her,  but 
received  no  answer.  He  wrote  agairr  letter  after 
letter,  but  received  no  answer  to  any  of  them.  He 
then  despatched  a  messenger  with  a  letter,  de- 
suing  her  to  return;  but  she  positively  refused, 
and  dismissed  the  messenger  with  contempt. 
Whether  it  was,  that  she  had  conceived  any  dis- 
like to  her  husband's  person  or  humour;  or  whe- 
ther she  could  not  conform  to  his  retired  and  phi- 
losophical manner  of  life,  having  been  accustom- 
ed to  a  house  of  much  gaiety  and  company;  or 
whether  being  of  a  family  strongly  attached  to 
the  royal  cause,  she  could  not  bear  her  husband's 
republican  principles;  or  whether  she  was  over- 
persuaded  by  her  relations,  who  possibly  might 
repent  of  having  matched  the  eldest  daughter  of 
the  family  to  a  man  so  distinguished  for  taking 
the  contrary  party,  the  King's  head-quarters  being 
in  their  neighbourhood  at  Oxford,  and  his  Majesty 
having  now  some  fairer  prospect  of  success ;  whe- 
ther any  or  all  of  these  were  the  reasons  of  this 
extraordinary  behaviour;  however  it  was,  it  so 
highly  incensed  her  husband,  that  he  thought  :*. 
would  be  dishonourable  ever  to  receive  her  again 
after  such  a  repulse,  and  he  determined  to  repu- 
diate her  .as  she  had  in  effect  repudiated  him,  and 
to  consider  her  no  longer  as  his  wife.  And  to 
fortify  this  his  resolution,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
justify  it  to  the  world,  he  wrote  the  Doctrine  and 
Discipline  of  Divorce,  wherein  he  endeavours  to 
prove,  that  indisposition,  unfitness,  or  contrariety 
of  mind,  proceeding  from  any  unchangeable  cause 
in  nature,  hindering  and  ever  likelv  to  hinder  the 


main  benefits  of  conjugal  society,  which  are  so- 
lace and  peace,  are  greater  reasons  of  divorce  than 
adultery  or  natural  frigidity,  especially  if  there  be 
no  children,  and  there  be  mutual  consent  for  se- 
paration. He  published  it  at  first  without  his 
name,  but  the  style  easily  betrayed  the  author ; 
and  afterwards  a  second  edition,  much  augment- 
ed, with  his  name;  and  he  dedicated  it  to  the  Par- 
liament of  England  with  the  Assembly  of  Divines, 
that  as  they  were  then  consulting  about  the  gene- 
ral reformation  of  the  kingdom,  they  might  also 
take  this  particular  case  of  domestic  liberty  into 
their  consideration.  And  then,  as  it  was  objected, 
that  his  doctrine  was  a  novel  notion,  and  a  paradox 
that  no  body  had  ever  asserted  before,  he  endea- 
voured to  confirm  his  own  opinion  by  the  authority 
of  others,  and  published  in  1644  the  Judgment  of 
Martin  Bucer,  &c. :  and  as  it  was  still  objected, 
that  his  doctrine  could  not  be  reconciled  to  Scrip- 
ture, he  published,  in  1645,  his  Tetrachordon,  or 
Expositions  upon  the  four  chief  places  jn  Scrip- 
ture, which  treat  of  marriage,  or  nullities  in  mar- 
riage. At  the  first  appearing  of  the  Doctrine  and 
Discipline  of  Divorce  the  clergy  raised  a  heavy 
outcry  against  it,  and  daily  solicited  the  Parlia- 
ment to  pass  some  censure  upon  it ;  and  at  last 
one  of  them,  in  a  sermon  preached  before  the 
Lords  and  Commons  on  a  day  of  humiliation  in 
August,  1644,  roundly  told  them  that  there  was  a 
book  abroad,  which  deserved  to  be  burned,  and 
that  among  their  other  sins  they  ought  to  repent, 
that  they  had  not  yet  branded  it  with  some  mark 
of  their  displeasure.  And  Mr.  Wood  informs  us, 
that  upon  Milton's  publishing  his  three  books  of 
Divorce,  the  Assembly  of  Divines,  that  was  then 
sitting  at  Westminster,  took  special  notice  of  them; 
and  notwithstanding  his  former  services  in  writing 
against  the  bishops,  caused  him  to  be  summoned 
before  the  House  of  Lords :  but  that  House,  whe- 
ther approving  his  doctrine,  or  not  favouring  his 
accusers,  soon  dismissed  him.  He  was  attacked 
too  from  the  press  as  well  as  from  the  pulpit,  in  a 
pamphlet  entitled  Divorce  at  Pleasure,  and  in  ano- 
ther entitled  an  Answer  to  the  Doctrine  and  Dis- 
cipline of  Divorce,  which  was  licensed  and  recom- 
mended by  Mr.  Joseph  Caryl,  a  famous  Presby- 
terian divine,  and  author  of  a  voluminous  com- 
mentary on  the  book  of  Job :  and  Milton,  in  his 
Colasterion  or  Reply,  published  in  1645,  expostu- 
lates smartly  with  the  licenser,  as  well  as  handles 
very  roughly  the  nameless  author.  And  these 
provocations,  I  suppose,  contributed  not  a  little  to 
make  him  such  an  enemy  to  the  Presbyterians,  to 
whom  he  had  before  distinguished  himself  a 
friend.  He  composed  likewise  two  of  his  sonnets 
on  the  reception  his  book  of  Divorce  met  with,  but 
the  latter  is  much  the  better  of  the  two.  To  this 
account  it  may  be  added  from  Antony  Wood,  that 
after  the  King's  restoration,  when  the  subject  of 


Xll 


LIFE  OF  JOHN  MILTON. 


divorce  was  under  consideration  with  the  Lords 
upon  the  account  of  John  Lord  Ross,  or  Roos,  his 
separation  from  his  wife  Anne  Pierpoint,  eldest 
daughter  to  Henry,  Marquis  of  Dorchester,  he 
was  consulted  by  an  eminent  member  of  that 
House,  and  about  the  same  time  by  a  chief  officer 
of  state,  as  being  the  prime  person  who  was  know- 
ing in  that  affair. 

But  while  he  was  engaged  in  this  controversy 
of  divorce,  he  was  not  so  totally  engaged  in  it,  but 
he  attended  to  other  things;  and  about  this  time 
published  his  Letter  of  Education  to  Mr.  Samuel 
Hartlib,  who  wrote  some  things  about  husbandry, 
and  was  a  man  of  considerable  learning,  as  ap- 
pears from  the  letters  which  passed  between  him 
and  the  famous  Mr.  Mede,  and  from  Sir  William 
Petty's  and  Pell  the  mathematician's  writing  to 
him,  the  former  his  Treatise  for  the  Advancement 
of  some  particular  parts  of  Learning,  and  the  lat- 
ter his  Idea  of  the  Mathematics,  as  well  as  from 
this  letter  of  our  author.  This  letter  of  our  au- 
thor has  usually  been  printed  at  the  end  of  his 
poems,  and  is  as  I  may  say  the  theory  of  his  own 
practice ;  and  by  the  rules  which  he  has  laid  down 
for  education,  we  see  in  some  measure  the  method 
that  he  pursued  in  educating  his  own  pupils. 
And  in  1644,  he  published  his  Areopagitica,  or 
Speech  for  the  Liberty  of  Unlicensed  Printing  to 
the  Parliament  of  England.  It  was  written  at 
the  desire  of  several  learned  men,  and  is  perhaps 
the  best  vindication  that  has  been  published  at 
any  time  or  in  any  language,  of  that  liberty  which 
is  the  basis  and  support  of  all  other  liberties,  the 
liberty  of  the  press :  but  alas,  it  had  not  the  de- 
sired effect ;  for  the  Presbyterians  were  as  fond  of 
exercising  the  licensing  power,  when  they  got  it 
into  their  own  hands,  as  they  had  been  clamor- 
ous before  in  inveighing  against  it,  while  it  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  prelates.  And  Mr.  Toland  is 
mistaken  in  saying,  "  that  such  was  the  effect  of 
this  piece,  that  the  following  year  Mabol,  a  li- 
censer, offered  reasons  against  licensing;  and  at 
his  own  request  was  discharged  that  office."  For 
neither  was  the  licenser's  name  Mabol,  but  Gil- 
bert Mabbot;  neither  was  he  discharged  from  his 
office  till  May,  1649,  about  five  years  afterwards, 
though  probably  he  might  be  swayed  by  Milton's 
arguments,  as  every  ingenuous  person  must,  who 
peruses  and  considers  them.  And  in  1645,  was 
published  a  collection  of  his  poems,  Latin  and 
English,  the  principal  of  which  are  on  the  Morn- 
ing of  Christ's  Nativity,  L' Allegro,  II  Penseroso, 
Lycidas,  the  Mask,  &c.  &c.:  and  if  he  had  left 
no  other  monuments  of  his  poetical  genius  behind 
him,  these  would  have  been  sufficient  to  have  ren- 
dered his  name  immortal. 

But  without  doubt  his  Doctrine  of  Divorce  and 
the  maintenance  of  it  principally  engaged  his 
thoughts  at  this  period ;  and  whether  others  were 


convinced  or  not  at  his  arguments,  he  was  certain- 
ly convinced  himself  that  he  was  in  the  right ;  and 
as  a  proof  of  it  he  determined  to  marry  again,  and 
made  his  addresses  to  a  young  lady  of  great  wit 
and  beauty,  one  of  the  daughters  of  Dr.  Davis. 
But  intelligence  of  this  coming  to  his  wife,  and 
the  then  declining  state  of  the  King's  cause,  and 
consequently  of  the  circumstances  of  Justice  Pow- 
ell's family,  caused  them  to  set  all  engines  on  work 
to  restore  the  wife  again  to  her  husband.  And 
his  friends  too  for  different  reasons  seem  to  have 
been  as  desirous  of  bringing  about  a  reconciliation 
as  her's,  and  this  method  of  effecting  it  was  con- 
certed between  them.  He  had  a  relation,  one 
Blackborough,  living  in  the  lane  of  St.  Martin's 
Le  Grand,  whom  he  often  visited;  and  one  day 
when  he  was  visiting  there,  it  was  contrived  that 
the  wife  should  be  ready  in  another  room ;  and  as 
he  was  thinking  of  nothing  less,  he  was  surprised 
to  see  her,  whom  he  had  expected  never  to  have 
seen  any  more,  falling  down  upon  her  knees  at  his 
feet,  and  imploring  his  forgiveness  with  tears.  At 
first  he  showed  some  signs  of  aversion,  but  he  con- 
tinued not  long  inexorable;  his  wife's  intreaties, 
and  the  intercession  of  friends  on  both  sides,  soon 
wrought  upon  his  generous  nature,  and  procured 
a  happy  reconciliation  with  an  act  of  oblivion  of 
all  that  was  past.  But  he  did  riot  take  his  wife 
home  immediately;  it  was  agreed  that  she  should 
remain  at  a  friend's,  till  the  house  that  he  had 
newly  taken  was  fitted  for  their  reception;  for 
some  other  gentlemen  of  his  acquaintance,  having 
observed  the  great  success  of  his  method  of  educa- 
tion, had  recommended  their  sons  to  his  care;  and 
his  house  in  Aldersgate-street  not  being  large 
enough,  he  had  taken  a  larger  in  Barbican:  and 
till  this  could  be  got  ready,  the  place  pitched  upon 
for  his  wife's  abode  was  the  widow  Webber's  house 
in  St.  Clement's  Churchyard,  whose  second  daugh- 
ter had  been  married  to  the  other  brother  many 
years  before.  The  part  that  Milton  acted  in  this 
whole  affair,  showed  plainly  that  he  had  a  spirit 
capable  of  the  strongest  resentment,  but  yet  more 
inclinable  to  pity  and  forgiveness:  and  neither  in 
this  was  any  injury  done  to  the  other  lady,  whom 
he  was  courting,  for  she  is  said  to  have  been  al- 
ways averse  from  the  motion,  not  daring  I  suppose 
to  venture  in  marriage  with  a  man  who  was  known 
to  have  a  wife  still  1'ving.  He  might  not  think 
himself  too  at  liberty  as  before,  while  his  wife  con- 
tinued obstinate;  for  his  most  plausible  argument 
for  divorce  proceeds  upon  a  supposition,  that  the 
thing  be  done  with  mutual  consent. 

After  his  wife's  return  his  family  was  increased 
not  only  with  children,  but  also  with  his  wife's  re- 
lations, her  father  and  mother,  her  brothers  and 
sisters,  coming  to  live  with  him  in  the  general  dis- 
tress and  ruin  of  the  royal  party:  and  he  was  so 
far  from  resenting  their  former  ill  treatment  of  him, 


LIFE  OF  JOHN  MILTON. 


Xiii 


that  he  generously  protected  them,  and  entertained 
them  very  hospitably,  till  their  affairs  were  accom- 
modated through  his  interest  with  the  prevailing 
faction.  And  then  upon  their  removal,  and  the 
death  of  his  own  father,  his  house  looked  again 
like  the  house  of  the  Muses;  but  his  studies  had 
like  to  have  been  interrupted  by  a  call  to  public 
business;  for  about  this  time  there  was  a  design 
of  constituting  him  Adjutant  General  in  the  army 
under  Sir  William  Waller;  but  the  new  modelling 
of  the  army  soon  following,  that  design  was  laid 
aside.  And  not  long  after,  his  great  house  in  Bar- 
bican being  now  too  large  for  his  family,  he  quit- 
ted it  for  a  smaller  in  High  Holborn,  which  open- 
ed backward  into  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  where  he 
prosecuted  his  studies  till  the  King's  trial  and 
death,  when  the  Presbyterians  declaiming  tragi- 
cally against  the  King's  execution,  and  asserting 
that  his  person  was  sacred  and  inviolable,  provoked 
him  to  write  the  Tenure  of  Kings  and  Magistrates, 
proving  that  it  is  lawful  to  call  a  tyrant  to  account 
and  to  depose  and  put  him  to  death,  and  that  they 
who  of  late  so  much  blame  deposing  are  the  men 
who  did  it  themselves :  and  he  published  it  at  the 
beginning  of  the  year  1649,  to  satisfy  and  com- 
pose the  minds  of  the  people.  *Not  long  after  this 
he  wrote  his  Observations  on  the  Articles  of  Peace 
between  the  Earl  of  Ormond  and  the  Irish  Rebels. 
And  in  these  and  all  his  writings,  whatever  others 
of  different  parties  may  think,  he  thought  himself 
an  advocate  for  true  liberty,  for  ecclesiastical  liber- 
ty in  his  treatises  against  the  bishops,  for  dom^tic 
liberty  in  his  books  of  divorce,  and  for  civil  liberty 
in  his  writings  against  the  king  in  defence  of  the 
parliament  and  people  of  England. 

After  this  he  retired  again  to  his  private  studies; 
and  thinking  that  he  had  leisure  enough  for  such 
a  work,  he  applied  himself  to  the  writing  of  a  His- 
tory of  England,  which  he  intended  to  deduce 
from  the  earliest  accounts  down  to  his  own  times : 
and  he  had  finished  four  books  of  it,  when  neither 


charged  the  business  of  his  office  a  very  little  time, 
before  he  was  called  to  a  work  of  another  kind. 
For  soon  after  the  king's  death  was  published  a 
book  under  his  name,  entitled  Euan  B*<r/>ux»,  or  the 
Royal  Image:  and  this  book,  like  Caesar's  last 
will,  making  a  deeper  impression,  and  exciting 
greater  commiseration  in  the  minds  of  the  people, 
than  the  king  himself  did  while  alive,  Milton  was 
ordered  to  prepare  an  answer  to  it,  which  was 
published  by  authority,  and  entitled  E/xoyo*\*<r/»e, 
or  the  Image-breaker,  the  famous  surname  of  many 
Greek  emperors,  who,  in  their  zeal  against  idola- 
try, broke  all  superstitious  images  to  pieces.  This 
piece  was  translated  into  French;  and  two  replies 
to  it  were  published,  one  in  1651,  and  the  other  in 
1692,  upon  the  reprinting  of  Milton's  book  at 
Amsterdam.  In  this  controversy  a  heavy  charge 
has  been  alleged  against  Milton.  Some  editions 
of  the  king's  book  have  certain  prayers  added  at 
the  end,  and  among  them  a  prayer  in  time  of  cap- 
tivity, which  is  taken  from  that  of  Pamela  in  Sir 
Philip  Sidney's  Arcadia :  and  it  is  said,  that  this 
prayer  was  added  by  the  contrivance  and  artifice 
of  Milton,  who,  together  with  Bradshaw,  prevail- 
ed upon  the  printer  to  insert  it,  that  from  thence 
he  might  take  occasion  to  bring  a  scandal  upon 
the  king,  and  to  blast  the  reputation  of  his  book, 
as  he  has  attempted  to  do  in  the  first  section  of  his 
answer.  This  fact  is  related  chiefly  upon  the  au- 
thority of  Henry  Hills  the  printer,  who  had  fre- 
quently affirmed  it  to  Dr.  Gill  and  Dr.  Bernard, 
his  physicians,  as  they  themselves  have  testified. 
But  Hills  was  not  himself  the  printer,  who  was 
dealt  with  in  this  manner,  and  consequently  he 
could  have  the  story  only  from  hearsay:  and 
though  he  was  Cromwell's  printer,  yet  afterwards 
he  turned  papist  in  the  reign  of  James  II,  in  order 
to  be  that  King's  printer,  and  it  was  at  that  time 
that  he  used  to  relate  this  story ;  so  that  I  think,  little 
credit  is  due  to  his  testimony.  And  indeed  I  can 
not  but  hope,  and  believe,  that  Milton  had  a  soul 


courting  nor  expecting  any  such  preferment,  he  above  being  guilty  of  so  mean  an  action,  to  serve 
was  invited  by  the  Council  of  State  to  be  their  so  mean  a  purpose;  and  there  is  as  little  reason  for 
Latin  Secretary  for  foreign  affairs.  And  he  served  fixing  it  upon  him,  as  he  had  to  traduce  the  king 
in  the  same  capacity  under  Oliver,  and  Richard,  |  for  profaning  the  duty  of  prayer  "  with  the  pollut- 
and  the  Rump,  till  the  Restoration ;  and  without  ed  trash  of  Romances."  For  there  are  not  many 
doubt  a  better  Latin  pen  could  not  have  been  found  j  finer  prayers  in  the  best  books  of  devotion;  and 
in  the  kingdom.  For  the  Republic  and  Cromwell  the  king  might  as  lawfully  borrow  and  apply  it  to 
scorned  to  pay  that  tribute  to  any  foreign  Prince,  his  own  occasions,  as  the  Apostle  might  make 
which  is  usually  paid  to  the  French  king,  of  ma-  quotatiops  from  Heathen  poems  and  plays :  and  it 
naging  their  affairs  in  his  language ;  they  thought  became  Milton  the  least  of  all  men  to  bring  such 
h  an  indignity  and  meanness  to  which  this  or  any !  an  accusation  against  the  king,  as  he  was  himself 
free  nation  ought  not  to  submit;  and  took  a  noble  particularly  fond  of  reading  romances,: and  has 
resolution  neither  to  write  any  letters  to  any  foreign !  made  use  of  them  in  some  of  the  best  and  latest 
states,  nor  to  receive  any  answers  from  them,  but'  of  his  writings. 


in  the  Latin  tongue,  which  was  common  to  them 


all. 


But  it  was  not  only  in  foreign  dispatches  that 


But  his  most  celebrated  work  in  prose  is  his  De- 
fence of  the  people  of  England  against  Salmasius, 
Defensio  pro  populo  Anglicano  contra  Claudii 


the  government  made  use  of  his  pen.    He  had  dis- '  Anonymi,  alias  Salmasia,  Defensionem  Regiam. 


XIV 


LIFE  OP  JOHN  MILTON. 


Salmasius,  by  birth  a  Frenchman,  succeeded  the 
famous  Scaliger  as  honorary  Professor  of  the  uni- 
versity of  Leyden,  and  had  gained  great  reputa- 
tion by  his  Plinian  Exercitations  on  Solinus,  and 
by  his  critical  remarks  on  several  Latin  and  Greek 
authors,  and  was  generally  esteemed  one  of  the 
greatest  and  most  consummate  scholars  of  that 
age :  and  is  commended  by  Milton  himself  in  his 
Reason  of  Church  Government,  and  called  the 
learned  Salmasius.  And  besides  his  great  learn- 
ing he  had  extraordinary  talents  in  railing.  "  This 
prince  of  scholars,  as  somebody  said  of  him,  seemed 
to  have  erected  his  throne  upon  a  heap  of  stones, 
that  he  might  have  them  at  hand  to.  throw  at  every 
one's  head  who  passed  by."  He  was,  therefore, 
courted  by  Charles  II,  as  the  most  able  man  to 
write  a  defence  of  the  late  king,  his  father,  and  to 
traduce  his  adversaries,  and  a  hundred  Jacobuses 
were  given  him  for  that  purpose,  and  the  book  was 
published  in  1649,  with  this  title,  Defensio  Regia 
pro  Carolo  I.  ad  Carolum  II.  No  sooner  did  this 
book  appear  in  England,  but  the  Council  of  State 
unanimously  appointed  Milton,  who  was  then  pre- 
sent, to  answer  it :  and  he  performed  the  task  with 
amazing  spirit  and  vigour,  though  his  health  at 
that  time  was  such,  that  he  could  hardly  endure 
the  fatigue  of  writing,  and  being  weak  in  body  he 
was  forced  to  write  by  piece-meal,  and  to  break  off 
almost  every  hour,  as  he  says  himself  in  the  intro- 
duction. This  necessarily  occasioned  some  delay, 
so  that  his  Defence  of  the  people  of  England  was 
not  made  public  till  the  beginning  of  the  year 
1651 :  and  they  who  can  not  read  the  original,  may 
yet  have  the  pleasure  of  reading  the  English  trans- 
lation by  Mr.  Washington,  of  the  Temple,  which 
was  printed  in  1692,  and  is  inserted  among  Mil- 
ton's works  in  the  two  last  editions.  It  was  some- 
what extraordinary,  that  Salmasius,  a  pensioner 
to  a  republic,  should  pretend  to  write  a  defence  of 
monarchy,  but  the  States  showed  their  disappro- 
bation by  publicly  condemning  his  book,  and  or- 
dering it  to  be  suppressed.  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  Milton's  book  was  burnt  at  Paris,  and  at 
Toulouse,  by  the  hands  of  the  common  hangman ; 
but  this  served  only  to  procure  it  the  more  readers: 
it  was  read  and  talked  of  every  where,  and  even 
they  who  were  of  different  principles,  yet  could 
not  but  acknowledge  that  he  was  a  good  defender 
of  a  bad  cause ;  and  Salmasius's  book  underwent 
only  one  impression,  while  this  of  Milton  passed 
through  several  editions.  On  the  first  appearance 
of  it,  he  was  visited  or  invited  by  all  the  foreign 
ministers  at  London,  not  excepting  even  those  of 
crowned  heads;  and  was  particularly  honoured 
and  esteemed  by  Adrian  Paaw,  ambasssador  from 
the  States  of  Holland.  He  was  likewise  highly 
complimented  by  letters  from  the  most  learned  and 
ingenious  persons  in  France  and  Germany ;  and 
Leonard  Philaras,  an  Athenian  born,  and  ambas- 


sador from  the  Duke  of  Parma  to  the  French  king, 
wrote  a  fine  encomium  of  his  Defence,  and  sent 
him  his  picture,  as  appears  from  Milton's  Letter 
to  Philaras,  dated  at  London,  in  June,  1652.  And 
what  gave  him  the  greatest  satisfaction,  the  work 
was  highly  applauded  by  those,  who  had  desired 
him  to  undertake  it ;  and  they  made  him  a  present 
of  a- thousand  pounds,  which,  in  those  days  of  fru- 
gality, was  reckoned  no  inconsiderable  reward  for 
his  performance.  But  the  case  was  far  otherwise 
with  Salmasius.  He  was  then  in  high  favour  at 
the  court  of  Christina,  Ctueen  of  Sweden,  who 
had  invited  thither  several  of  the  most  learned  men 
of  all  countries :  but  when  Milton's  Defence  of 
the  People  of  England  was  brought  to  Sweden, 
and  was  read  to  the  Glueen  at  her  own  desire,  he 
sunk  immediately  in  her  esteem,  and  the  opinion 
of  every  body ;  and  though  he  talked  big  at  first, 
and  vowed  the  destruction  of  Milton  and  the  Par- 
liament, yet  finding  that  he  was  looked  upon  with 
coldness,  he  thought  proper  to  take  leave  of  the 
court ;  and  he  who  came  in  honour,  was  dismissed 
with  contempt.  He  died  some  time  afterwards  at 
Spa,  in  Germany,  and,  it  is  said,  more  of  a  broken 
heart  than  of  any  distemper,  leaving  a  posthumous 
reply  to  Milton,  which  was  not  published  till  after 
the  Restoration,  and  was  dedicated  to  Charles  II. 
by  his  son  Claudius ;  but  it  has  done  no  great  ho- 
nour to  his  memory,  abounding  with  abuse  much 
more  than  argument. 

Isaac  Vossius  was  at  Stockholm,  when  Milton's 
bo$k  was  brought  thither,  and  in  some  of  his  let- 
ters to  Nicholas  Heinsius,  published  by  Professor 
Burman  in  the  third  tome  of  his  Sylloge  Epistola- 
rum,  he  says,  that  he  had  the  only  copy  of  Milton's 
book,  that  the  dueen  borrowed  it  of  him,  and  was 
very  much  pleased  with  it,  and  commended  Mil- 
ton's wit  and  manner  of  writing  in  the  presence 
of  several  persons,  and  that  Salmasius  was  very 
angry,  and  very  busy  in  preparing  his  answer, 
wherein  he  abused  Milton  as  if  he  had  been  one 
of  the  vilest  catamites  in  Italy,  and  also  criticised 
his  Latin  poems.  Heinsius  writes  again  to  Vos- 
sius from  Holland,  that  he  wondered  that  only  one 
copy  of  Milton's  book  was  brought  to  Stockholm, 
when  three  were  sent  thither,  one  to  the  dueen, 
another  to  Vossius  which  he  had  received,  and  the 
third  to  Salmasius ;  that  the  book  was  in  every 
body's  hands,  and  there  had  been  four  editions  in 
a  few  months  besides  the  English  one;  that  a 
Dutch  translation  was  handed  about,  and  a  French 
one  was  expected.  And  afterwards  he  writes  from 
Venice,  that  Holstenius  had  lent  him  Milton's 
Latin  poems;  that  they  were  nothing,  compared 
with  the  elegance  of  his  Apology ;  that  he  had 
offended  frequently  against  prosody,  and  here  was 
a  great  opening  for  Salmasius' criticism:  but  as  to 
Milton's  having  been  a  catamite  in  Italy,  he  says, 
that  it  was  a  mere  calumny;  on  the  contrary,  KQ 


LIFE  OF  JOHN  MILTON. 


XV 


was  disliked  by  the  Italians,  for  the  severity  of  his 
manners,  and  for  the  freedom  of  his  discourses 
against  popery.  And  in  others  of  his  letters  to 
Vosssius  and  to  J.  Fr.  Gronovius  from  Holland, 
Heinsius  mentions  how  angry  Salmasius  was  with 
him  for  commending  Milton's  book,  and  says  that 
Graswinkelius  had  written  something  against  Mil- 
ton, which  was  to  have  been  printed  by  Elzever, 
but  it  was  suppressed  by  public  authority. 

The  first  reply  that  appeared  was  published  in 
1651,  and  entitled  an  Apology  for  the  king  and 
people,  &c.  Apologia  pro  rege  et  populo  Angli- 
cano  contra  Johannis  Polipragmatici  (alias  Mil- 
toni  Angli)  Defensionem  destructivam  regis  et 
populi  Anglicani.  It  is  not  known,  who  was  the 
author  of  this  piece.  Some  attribute  it  to  one  Ja- 
nus, a  lawyer  of  Gray's  Inn,  and  others  to  Dr. 
John  Bramhall,  who  was  then  Bishop  of  Deny, 
and  was  made  Primate  of  Ireland  after  the  restora- 
tion :  but  it  is  utterly  improbable,  that  so  mean  a 
performance,  written  in  such  barbarous  Latm,  and 
so  full  of  solecisms,  should  come  from  the  nands 
of  a  prelate  of  such  distinguished  abilities  and 
learning.  But  whoever  was  the  author  of  it,  Mil- 
ton did  not  think  it  worth  his  while  to  animadvert 
upon  it  himself,  but  employed  the  younger  of  his 
nephews  £o  answer  it;  but  he  supervised  and  cor- 
rected the  answer  so  much  before  it  went  to  the 
press,  that  it  may  in  a  manner  be  called  his  own. 
It  came  forth  in  1652  under  this  title,  Johannis 
Philippi  Angli  Responsio  ad  Apologiam  anony- 
mi  cujusdam  tenebrionis  pro  rege  et  populo  An- 
glicano  inrantissimam ;  and  it  is  printed  with 
Milton's  works ;  and  throughout  the  whole  Mr. 
Philips  treats  Bishop  Bramhall  with  great  severity 
as  the  author  of  the  Apology,  thinking  probably 
that  so  considerable  an  adversary  would  make  the 
answer  more  considerable. 

Sir  Robert  Filmer  likewise  published  some  ani- 
madversions upon  Milton's  Defence  of  the  people, 
in  a  piece  printed  in  1652,  and  entitled  Observa- 
tions concerning  the  original  of  government,  upon 
Mr.  Hobbes'  Leviathan,  Mr.  Milton  against  Sal- 
masius, and  Hugo  Grotius  de  Jure  belli:  but  I  do 
not  find  that  Milton  or  any  of  his  friends  took  any 
notice  of  it;  but  Milton's  quarrel  was  afterwards 
sufficiently  avenged  by  Mr.  Locke,  who  wrote 
against  Sir  Robert  Filmer's  principles  of  govern- 
ment, more  I  suppose  in  condescension  to  the  pre- 
judices of  the  age,  than  out  of  any  regard  to  the 
weight  or  importance  of  Filmer's  arguments. 

It  is  probable  that  Milton,  when  he  was  first 
made  Latin  Secretary,  removed  from  his  house  in 
High  Holborn  to  be  nearer  Whitehall:  and  for 
acme  time  he  had  lodgings  at  one  Thomson's,  next 
door  to  the  Bull-head  tavern  at  Charing  Cross, 
opening  into  Spring-garden,  till  the  apartment, 
appointed  for  him  in  Scotland-Yard,  could  be  got 
leady  for  hw  reception.  He  then  removed  thither : 


and  there  his  third  child,  a  son  was  bom,  and 
named  John,  who  through  the  ill  usage  or  bad 
constitution  of  the  nurse  died  an  infant.  His  own 
health  was  too  greatly  impaired ;  and  for  the  be- 
nefit of  the  air,  he  removed  from  his  apartment  in 
Scotland- Yard  to  a  house  in  Petty-France  West- 
minster, which  was  next  door  to  Lord  Scuda- 
more's,  and  opened  into  St.  James*  Park;  and 
there  he  remained  eight  years,  from  the  year  1652 
till  within  a  few  weeks  of  the  King's  restoration. 
In  this  house  he  had  not  been  settled  long,  before 
his  first  wife  died  in  child-bed ;  and  his  condition 
requiring  some  care  and  attendance,  he  was  easily 
induced  after  a  proper  interval  of  time  to  marry  a 
second,  who  was  Catharine,  daughter  of  Captain 
Woodcock,  of  Hackney :  and  she  too  died  hi  child- 
bed within  a  year  after  their  marriage,  and  her 
child,  who  was  a  daughter,  died  in  a  month  after 
her;  and  her  husband  has  done  honour  to  her 
memory  in  one  of  his  sonnets. 

Two  or  three  years  before  this  second  marriage 
he  had  totally  lost  his  sight.  And  his  enemies 
triumphed  in  his  blindness,  and  imputed  it  as  a 
judgment  upon  him  for  writing  against  the  King: 
but  his  sight  had  been  decaying  several  years  be- 
fore, through  his  close  application  to  study,  and 
the  frequent  head- aches  to  which  he  had  been 
subject  from  his  childhood,  and  his  continual  tam- 
pering v«th  physic,  which  perhaps  was  more  per- 
nicious than  all  the  rest:  and  he  himself  has  in- 
formed us  in  his  second  Defence,  that  when  he 
was  appointed  by  authority  to  write  his  Defence 
of  the  people  against  Salmasius,  he  had  almost 
lost  the  sight  of  one  eye,  and  the  physicians  de- 
clared to  him,  that  if  he  undertook  that  work,  he 
would  also  lose  the  sight  of  the  other:  but  he  was 
nothing  discouraged,  and  chose  rather  to  lose  both 
his  eyes  than  desert  what  he  thought  his  duty.  It 
was  the  sight  of  his  left  eye  that  he  lost  first:  and 
at  the  desire  of  his  friend  Leonard  Philaras,  the 
Duke  of  Parma's  minister  at  Paris,  he  sent  him  a 
particular  account  of  his  case,  and  of  the  manner 
of  his  growing  blind,  for  him  to  consult  Thevenot 
the  physician,  who  was  reckoned  famous  in  cases 
of  the  eyes.  The  letter  is  the  fifteenth  of  his  fami- 
liar epistles,  is  dated  September  28th,  1654;  and 
is  thus  translated  by  Mr.  Richardson. 

"  Since  you  advise  me  not  to  fling  away  all 
hopes  of  recovering  my  sight,  for  that  you  have  a 
friend  at  Paris,  Thevenot  the  physician,  particu- 
larly famous  for  the  eyes,  whom  you  offer  to  con- 
sult in  my  behalf  if  you  receive  from  me  an  account 
by  which  he  may  judge  of  the  causes  and  symp- 
toms of  my  disease,  I  will  do  what  you  advice  me 
to,  that  I  may  not  seem  to  refuse  any  assistance 
that  is  offered,  perhaps  from  God. 

"  I  think  it  is  about  ten  years,  more  or  less,  since 
I  began  to  perceive  that  my  eye-sight  grew  weak 


XVI 


LIFE  OF  JOHN  MILTON. 


and  dim,  and  at  the  same  time  my  spleen  and 
bowels  to  be  oppressed  and  troubled  with  flatus ; 
and  in  the  morning  when  I  began  to  read,  accord- 
ing to  custom,  my  eyes  grew  painful  immediately, 
and  to  refuse  reading,  but  were  refreshed  after  a 
moderate  exercise  of  the  body.  A  certain  iris  be- 
gan to  surround  the  light  of  the  candle  if  I  looked 
at  it;  soon  after  which,  on  the  left  part  of  the  left 
eye  (for  that  was  some  years  sooner  clouded)  a 
mist  arose  which  hid  every  thing  on  that  side ;  and 
looking  forward  if  I  shut  my  right  eye,  objects  ap- 
peared smaller.  My  other  eye  also,  for  these  last 
three  years,  failing  by  degrees,  some  months  before 
all  sight  was  abolished,  things  which  I  looked  upon 
seemed  to  swim  to  the  right  and  left;  certain  in- 
verate  vapours  seem  to  possess  my  forehead  and 
temples,  which  after  meat  especially,  quite  to  eve- 
ning, generally,  urge  and  depress  my  eyes  with  a 
sleepy  heaviness.  Nor  would  I  omit  that  whilst 
there  was  as  yet  some  remainder  of  sight,  I  no 
sooner  lay  down  in  my  bed,  and  turned  on  my 
side,  but  a  copious  light  dazzled  out  of  my  shut 
eyes;  and  as  my  sight  diminished  every  day,  co- 
lours gradually  more  obscure  flashed  out  with  ve- 
hemence; but  now  that  the  lucid  is  in  a  manner 
wholly  extinct,  a  direct  blackness,  or  else  spotted, 
and,  as  it  were,  woven  with  ash-colour,  is  used  to 
pour  itself  in.  Nevertheless  the  constant  and 
settled  darkness  that  is  before  me  as  well  by  night 
as  by  day,  seems  nearer  to  the  whitish  than  the 
blackish ;  and  the  eye  rolling  itself  a  little,  seems 
to  admit  I  know  not  what  little  smallness  of  light 
as  through  a  chink." 

But  it  does  not  appear  what  answer  he  received; 
we  may  presume,  none  that  administered  any  re- 
lief. His  blindness  however  did  not  disable  him 
entirely  from  performing  the  business  of  his  office. 
An  assistant  was  allowed  him,  and  his  salary  as 
secretary  still  continued  to  him. 

And  there  was  farther  occasion  for  his  service 
besides  dictating  of  letters.  For  the  controversy 
with  Salmasius  did  not  die  with  him,  and  there 
was  published  at  the  Hague,  in  1652,  a  book  en- 
titled the  Cry  of  the  King's  Blood,  &c.,  Regii  san- 
guinis  Clamor  ad  coelum  adversus  Parricidas  An- 
glicanos.  The  true  author  of  this  book  was  Peter 
du  Moulin,  the  younger,  who  was  afterwards  pre- 
bendary of  Canterbury:  and  he  transmitted  his 
papers  to  Salmasius;  and  Salmasius  intrusted 
them  to  the  care  of  Alexander  Morus,  a  French 
minister;  and  Morus  published  them  with  a  dedi- 
cation to  King  Charles  II.  in  the  name  of  Adrian 
Ulac,  the  printer,  from  whence  he  came  to  be  re- 
puted the  author  of  the  whole.  This  Morus  was 
the  son  of  a  learned  Scotsman,  who  was  president 
of  the  college,  which  the  Protestants  had  formerly 
at  Castres  in  Languedoc;  and  he  is  said  to  have 
been  a  man  of  a  most  haughty  disposition,  and 


immoderately  addicted  to  women,  hasty,  ambi- 
tious, full  of  himself  and  his  own  performances, 
and  satirical  upon  all  others.  He  was  however 
esteemed  one  of  the  most  eminent  preachers  of  that 
age  among  the  Protestants;  but  as  Monsieur 
Bayle  observes,  his  chief  talent  must  have  consist- 
ed in  the  gracefulness  of  his  delivery,  or  in  those 
sallies  of  imagination  and  quaint  turns  and  allu- 
sions, whereof  his  sermons  are  full;  for  they  retain 
not  those  charms  in  reading,  which  they  were  said 
to  have  formerly  in  the  pulpit.  Against  this  man, 
therefore,  as  the  reputed  author  of  Regii  sanguinis 
Clamor,  &c.,  Milton  published  by  authority  his 
Second  Defence  of  the  people  of  England,  Defen- 
sio  Secunda  pro  populo  Anglicano,  in  1654,  and 
treats  Morus  with  such  severity  as  nothing  could 
have  excused,  if  he  had  not  been  provoked  to  it 
by  so  much  abuse  poured  upon  himself.  There 
is  one  piece  of  his  wit,  which  had  been  published 
before  in  the  newspapers  at  London,  a  distich 
upon  ^lorus  for  getting  Pontia  the  maid-servant 
of  his  friend  Salmasius  with  child. 

Galli  ex  concubitu  gravidam  te,  Pontia,  Mori  • 

Quis  benemoratam  morigeramque  negetl 
Upon  this  Morus  published  his  Fides  Publica  in 
answer  to  Milton,  in  which  he  inserted  several 
testimonies  of  his  orthodoxy  and  morals,  signed  by 
the  consistories,  academies,  synods,  and  magis- 
trates of  the  places  where  he  had  lived ;  and  disown- 
ed his  being  the  author  of  the  book  imputed  to 
him,  and  appealed  to  two  gentlemen  of  great  credit 
with  the  Parliament  party,  who  knew  the  real 
author.  This  brought  Du  Moulin,  who  was  then 
in  England,  into  great  danger;  but  the  govern- 
ment suffered  him  to  escape  with  impunity,  rather 
than  they  would  publicly  contradict  the  great  pa- 
tron of  their  cause.  For  he  still  persisted  in  his 
accusation,  and  endeavoured  to  make  it  good  in 
his  Defence  of  himself,  Autoris  pro  se  Defensio, 
which  was  published  in  1655,  wherein  he  opposed 
to  the  testimonies  in  favour  of  Morus  other  testi- 
monies against  him ;  and  Morus  replied  no  more. 
After  this  controversy  was  ended,  he  was  at 
leisure  again  to  pursue  his  own  private  studies, 
which  were  the  History  of  England  before  men- 
tioned, and  a  new  Thesaurus  of  the  Latin  tongue, 
intended  as  an  improvement  upon  that  by  Robert 
Stephens ;  a  work  which  he  had  been  long  col- 
lecting from  the  best  and  purest  Latin  authors, 
and  continued  at  times  almost  to  his  dying  day : 
but  his  papers  were  left  so  confused  and  imper- 
fect, that  they  could  not  be  fitted  for  the  press, 
though  great  use  was  made  of  them  by  the  com- 
pilers of  the  Cambridge  Dictionary,  printed  in 
1693.  These  papers  are  said  to  have  consisted 
of  three  large  volumes  in  folio;  and  it  is  a  great 
pity  that  they  are  lost,  and  no  account  is  given 
what  is  become  of  the  manuscript.  It  is  commonly 
said  too  that  at  this  time  he  began  his  famous 


LIFE  OF  JOHN  MILTON 


XVI I 


poem  of  Paradise  Lost ;  and  it  \s  certain,  that  he 
WBB  glad  to  be  released  from  those  controversies, 
which  detained  him  so  long  from  following  things 
more  agreeable  to  his  natural  genius  and  inclina- 
tion, though  he  was  far  from  ever  repenting  of  his 
writings  in  defence  of  liberty,  but  gloried  in  them 
to  the  last. 

The  only  interruption  now  of  his  private  stu- 
dies was  the  business  of  his  office.  In  1655,  there 
was  published  in  Latin  a  writing  in  the  name  of 
the  Lord  Protector,  setting  forth  the  reasons  of  the 
war  with  Spain:  and  this  piece  is  rightly  ad- 
judged to  our  author,  both  on  account  of  the  pe- 
culiar elegance  of  the  style,  and  because  it  was  his 
province  to  write  such  things  as  Latin  secretary; 
and  it  is  printed  among  his  other  prose  works  in 
the  last  edition.  And  for  the  same  reasons  I  am 
inclined  to  think,  that  the  famous  Latin  verses  to 
Christina,  Queen  of  Sweden,  in  the  name  of 
Cromwell,  were  made  by  our  author  rather  than 
Andrew  Man-el.  In  those  days  they  had  admi- 
rable intelligence  in  the  secretary's  office;  and 
Mr.  Philips  relates  a  memorable  instance  or  two 
upon  his  own  knowledge.  The  Dutch  were  send- 
ing a  plenipotentiary  to  England  to  treat  of  peace; 
but  the  emissaries  of  the  government  had  the  art 
to  procure  a  copy  of  his  instructions  in  Holland, 
which  were  delivered  by  MUton  to  his  kinsman, 
who  was  then  with  him.  to  translate  them  for  the 
use  of  the  Council,  before  the  said  plenipotentiary 
had  taken  shipping  for  England;  and  an 
to  all  that  he  had  in  charge  was  prepared,  and  Jay 
ready  for  him  before  he  made  his  public  entry  into 
London.  Another  time  a  person  came  to  London 
with  a  very  sumptuous  train,  pretending  himself 
an  agent  from  the  Prince  of  Conde,  who  was  then 
in  arms  against  Cardinal  Mazarine:  but  the  go- 
vernment suspecting  him,  set  their  instruments  to 
work  so  sun  t  in  a  few  days  they  re- 

ceived intelligence  from  Paris,  that  he  was  a  spy 
employed  by  Charles  II.:  whereupon  the  very 
next  morning  Milton's  kinsman  was  sent  to  him 
with  an  order  of  Council,  commanding  him  to  de- 
part the  kingdom  within  three  days,  or  expect  the 
punishment  of  a  spy.  This  kinsman  was  in  all 
probability  Mr.  Philips  or  his  brother,  who  were 
Milton's  nephews,  and  lived  very  much  with  him, 
and  one  or  both  of  them  were  assistant  to  him  in 
his  office.  His  blindness  no  doubt  was  a  great 
hindrance  and  inconvenience  to  him  in  his  busi- 
ness, though  sometimes  a  political  use  might  be 
made  of  it ;  as  men's  natural  infirmities  are  often 
pleaded  in  excuse  for  not  doing  what  they  have 
no  great  inclination  to  do.  Thus  when  Crom- 
3  we  may  collect  from  Whitlock.  for  some 
reasons  delayed  artfully  to  sign  the  treaty  con- 
cluded with  Sweden,  and  the  Swedish  ambassa- 
dor made  frequent  complaints  of  it.  it  v. 
cused  to  him,  been'  Mint  of 

2 


his  blindness,  proceeded  slower  in  business,  and 
had  not  yet  put  the  articles  of  the  treaty  into  Latin. 
Upon  which  the  ambassador  was  greatly  surprised, 
that  things  of  such  consequence  should  be  en- 
trusted to  a  blind  man,  for  he  must  necessarily 
employ  an  amanuensis,  and  that  amanuensis 
might  divulge  the  articles;  and  said  that  it  was 
very  wonderful,  that  there  should  be  only  one  man 
in  England  who  could  write  Latin,  and  he  a 
blind  one.  But  his  blindness  had  not  diminished, 
but  rather  increased  the  vigour  of  his  mind ;  and 
his  state-letters  will  remain  as  authentic  memo- 
rials of  those  times,  to  be  admired  equally  by 
critics  and  politicians;  and  those  particularly  about 
the  sufferings  of  the  poor  Protestants  in  Piedmont, 
who  can  read  without  sensible  emotion?  This 
was  a  subject  he  had  very  much  at  heart,  as  he 
was  an  utter  enemy  to  all  sorts  of  persecution; 
and  among  his  sonnets  there  is  a  most  excellent 
one  upon  the  same  occasion. 

But  Oliver  Cromwell  being  dead,  and  the  go- 
vernment weak  and  unsettled  in  the  hands  of  Ri- 
chard and  the  Parliament,  he  thought  it  a  season- 
able time  to  offer  his  advice  again  to  the  public ; 
and  in  1659  published  a  Treatise  of  Civil  Power 
in  Ecclesiastical  causes ;  and  another  tract  entitled 
Considerations  touching  the  likeliest  Means  to  re- 
move Hirelings  out  of  the  Church;  both  addressed 
to  the  Parliament  of  the  commonwealth  of  Eng- 
land. And  after  the  parliament  was  dissolved,  he 
answer  wrote  a  letter  to  some  statesman,  with  whom  he 
had  a  serious  discourse  the  night  before,  concern- 
ing the  ruptures  of  the  commonwealth;  and  ano- 
ther, as  it  is  supposed,  to  General  Monk,  being  a 
brief  delineation  of  a  free  commonwealth,  easy  to 
]>e  put  in  practice,  and  without  delay.  These  two 
pieces  were  communicated  in  manuscript  to  Mr. 
Toland  by  a  friend  who  a  little  after  Milton's 
death  had  them  from  his  nephew;  and  Mr.  To- 
land gave  them  to  be  printed  in  the  edition  of  our 
author's  prose-works  in  1698.  But  Milton,  still 
finding  that  affairs  were  every  day  tending  more 
and  more  to  the  subversion  of  the  commonwealth, 
and  the  restoration  of  the  royal  family,  published 
his  Ready  and  Easy  Way  to  establish  a  Free  Com- 
monwealth, and  the  excellence  thereof,  compared 
with  the  inconveniences  and  dangers  of  readmit- 
ting kingslup  in  this  nation.  We  are  informed  by 
Mr.  Wood  that  he  published  this  piece  in  Febru- 
ary 1659-60;  and  after  this  he  published  Brief 
Notes  upon  a  late  Sermon,  entitled,  The  Fear  of 
God  and  the  King,  preached  by  Dr.  Matthew 
Griffith  at  Mercer's  Chapel,  March  25,  1660:  so 
bold  and  resolute  was  he  in  declaring  his  senti- 
ments to  the  last,  thinking  that  his  voice  was  the 
voice  of  expiring  liberty. 

A  little  before  the  King's  landing,  he  was  dis- 
charged from  his  office  of  Latin  Secretary,  and  was 
forced  »•  liouse  in  Petty  France,  where 


XV111 


LIFE  OP  JOHN  MILTON. 


he  had  lived  eight  years  with  great  reputation,  and 
had  been  visited  by  all  foreigners  of  note,  who 
could  not  go  out  of  the  country  without  seeing  a 
man  who  did  so  much  honour  to  it  by  his  writings, 
and  whose  name  was  as  well  known  and  as  famous 
abroad  as  in  his  own  nation ;  and  by  several  per- 
sons of  quality  of  both  sexes,  particularly  the  pious 
and  virtuous  Lady  Ranelagh,  whose  son  for  some 
time  he  instructed,  the  same  who  was  paymaster 
of  the  forces  in  King  William's  time ;  and  by  many 
learned  and  ingenious  friends  and  acquaintance, 
particularly  Andrew  Marvel,  and  young  Laurence, 
son  to  the  President  of  Oliver's  Council,  to  whom 
he  has  inscribed  one  of  his  sonnets,  and  Marcha- 
mont  Needham,  the  writer  of  Politicus,  and  above 
all,  Cyriac  Skinner,  whom  he  has  honoured  with 
two  sonnets.  But  now  it  was  not  safe  for  him  to 
appear  any  longer  in  public,  so  that  by  the  advice 
of  some  who  wished  him  well  and  were  concerned 
for  his  preservation,  he  fled  for  shelter  to  a  friend's 
house  in  Bartholomew  Close,  near  West  Smith- 
field,  where  he  lay  concealed  till  the  worst  of  the 
storm  was  blown  over.  The  first  notice  that  we 
find  taken  of  him  was  on  Saturday  the  16th  of 
June,  1660,  when  it  was  ordered  by  the  House  of 
Commons,  that  his  Majesty  should  be  humbly 
moved  to  issue  his  proclamation  for  the  calling  in 
of  Milton's  two  books,  his  Defence  of  the  People, 
and  Iconoclastes,  and  also  Goodwyn's  book  entitled 
the  Obstructors  of  Justice,  written  in  justification 
of  the  murder  of  the  late  king,  and  to  order  them 
to  be  burnt  by  the  hands  of  the  common  hangman. 
At  the  same  time  it  was  ordered  that  the  Attorney 
General  should  proceed  by  way  of  indictment  or 
information  against  Milton  and  Goodwyn  in  re- 
spect of  their  books,  and  that  they  themselves 
should  be  sent  for  in  custody  of  the  Serjeant-at- 
arms  attending  the  House.  On  Wednesday,  June 
27th,  an  order  of  Council  was  made  agreeable  to 
the  order  of  the  House  of  Commons  for  a  procla- 
mation against  Milton's  and  Goodwyn's  books; 
and  the  proclamation  was  issued  the  13th  of  Au- 
gust following,  wherein  it  was  said  that  the  au- 
thors had  fled  or  did  abscond:  and  on  Monday, 
August  27th,  Milton's  and  Goodwyn's  books  were 
burnt,  according  to  the  proclamation,  at  the  Old 
Bailey,  by  the  hands  of  the  common  hangman. 
On  Wednesday,  August  29th,  the  act  of  indem- 
nity was  passed,  which  proved  more  favourable 
to  Milton  than  could  well  have  been  expected ;  for 
though  John  Goodwyn  Clerk  was  excepted  among 
the  twenty  persons  who  were  to  have  penalties  in- 
flicted upon  them,  not  extending  to  life,  yet  Mil- 
ton was  not  excepted  at  all,  and  consequently  was 
included  in  the  general  pardon.  We  find  indeed 
that  afterwards  he  was  in  custody  of  the  Serjeant- 
at-arms;  but  the  time  when  he  was  taken  into 
custody  is  not  certain.  He  was  not  in  custody  on 
the  12th  of  September,  for  that  day  a  list  of  the 


prisoners  in  custody  of  the  Serjeant-at-arms  was 
read  in  the  House,  and  Milton  is  not  among  them; 
;  and  on  the  13th  of  September  the  House  adjourn- 
j  ed  to  the  6th  of  November.  It  is  most  probable, 
therefore,  that  after  the  act  or  indemnity  was  pass- 
ed, and  after  the  House  had  adjourned,  he  came 
out  of  his  concealment,  and  was  afterwards  taken 
into  custody  of  the  Serjeant-at-arms  by  virtue  of 
the  former  order  of  the  House  of  Commons ,  but 
we  can  not  find  that  he  was  prosecuted  by  the  At- 
torney General,  nor  was  he  continued  in  custody 
very  long:  for  on  Saturday  the  15th  of  December, 
1660,  it  was  ordered  by  the  House  of  Commons, 
that  Mr.  Milton  now  in  custody  of  the  Serjeant- 
at-arms,  should  be  forthwith  released,  paying  his 
fees;  and  on  Monday  the  17th  of  December,  a 
complaint  being  made  that  the  Serjeant-at-arms 
had  demanded  excessive  fees  for  his  imprisonment, 
I  it  was  referred  to  the  committee  of  privileges  and 
elections  to  examine  this  business,  and  to  call  Mr, 
Milton  and  the  Serjeant  before  them,  and  to  de- 
termine what  was  fit  to  be  given  to  the  Serjeant 
for  his  fees  in  this  case;  so  courageous  was  he  at 
all  times  in  defence  of  liberty  against  all  the  en- 
croachments of  power,  and  though  a  prisoner, 
would  yet  be  treated  like  a  freeborn  Englishman. 
This  appears  to  be  the  matter  of  fact,  as  it  may  be 
collected  partly  from  the  Journals  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  partly  from  Kennet's  Historical 
Register:  and  the  clemency  of  the  government  was 
surely  very  great  towards  him,  considering  the 
nature  of  his  offences;  for  though  he  was  not  one 
of  the  King's  judges  and  murderers,  yet  he  contri- 
buted more  to  murder  his  character  and  reputation 
than  any  of  them  all:  and  to  what  therefore  could 
it  be  owing,  that  he  was  treated  with  such  lenity, 
and  was  so  easily  pardoned?  It  is  certain,  there 
was  not  wanting  powerful  intercession  for  him 
both  in  Council  and  in  Parliament.  It  is  said 
that  Secretary  Morrice  and  Sir  Thomas  Clargis 
greatly  favoured  him,  and  exerted  their  interest 
in  his  behalf;  and  his  old  friend  Andrew  Marvel, 
member  of  Parliament  for  Hull,  formed  a  consi- 
derable party  for  him  in  the  House  of  Commons; 
and  neither  was  Charles  the  Second  (as  Toland 
says)  such  an  enemy  to  the  Muses,  as  to  require 
his  destruction.  But  the  principal  instrument  in 
obtaining  Milton's  pardon  was  Sir  William  Da- 
venant,  out  of  gratitude  for  Milton's  having  pro- 
cured his  release,  when  he  was  taken  prisoner  in 
1650.  It  was  life  for  life.  Davenant  had  been 
saved  by  Milton's  interest,  and  in  return  Milton 
was  saved  at  Davenant's  intercession.  This  story 
Mr.  Richardson  relates  upon  the  authority  of  Mr. 
Pope;  and  Mr.  Pope  had  it  from  Betterton  the 
famous  actor,  who  was  first  brought  upon  the 
stage  and  patronised  by  Sir  William  Davenant, 
and  might  therefore  derive  the  knowledge  of  this 
transaction  from  the  fountain. 


S  MILTON. 


XIX 


Milton  having  thus  obtained  his  pardon,  and 
being  set  at  liberty  auain,  took  a  house  in  Holborn, 
near  Red  Lion  Fields ;  but  he  removed  soon  into 
Jewen  street,  near  Aldersgate  street,  and  while  he 
lived  there,  being  in  his  53d  or  51th  year,  and  blind 
and  infirm,  and  wanting  somebody  better  than 
servants  to  attend  and  look  after  him,  he  employ- 
ed his  friend  Dr.  Paget  to  choose  a  proper  consort 
for  him ;  and  at  his  recommendation  married  his 
third  wife,  Elizabeth  Minshul.  of  a  gentleman's 
family  in  Cheshire,  and  related  to  Dr.  Paget.  It 
is  said  that  an  offer  was  made  to  Milton,  as  well 
as  to  Thurloe,  of  holding  the  same  place  of  Secre- 
tary under  the  king,  which  he  had  discharged  with 
so  much  integrity  and  ability  under  Cromwell ;  but 
he  persisted  in  refusing  it,  though  the  wife  pressed 
his  compliance.  "Thou  art  in  the  right,"  said 
he;  "you,  as  other  women,  would  ride  in  your 
coach  5  for  me,  my  aim  is  to  live  and  die  an  honest 
man."  What  is  more  certain  is,  that  in  1661  he 
published  his  Accedence  commenced  Grammar, 
and  a  tract  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  entitled,  Apho- 
risms of  State ;  as  in  1658  he  had  published  ano- 
ther piece  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  entitled,  The 
Cabinet  Council  discabinated,  which  he  printed 
from  a  manuscript,  that  had  lain  many  years  in 
his  hands,  and  was  given  him  for  a  true  copy  by 
a  learned  man  at  his  death,  who  had  collected  se- 
veral such  pieces :  an  evident  sign,  that  he  thought 
it  no  mean  employment,  nor  unworthy  of  a  man 
of  genius,  to  be  an  editor  of  the  works  of  great 
authors.  It  was  while  he  lived  in  Jewen  street, 
that  Elwood,  the  quaker,  (as  we  learn  from  the 
history  of  his  life  written  by  his  own  hand)  was 
first  introduced  to  read  to  him ;  for  having  wholly 
lost  his  sight,  he  kept  always  somebody  or  other  to 
perform  that  office,  and  usually  the  son  of  some 
gentleman  of  his  acquaintance,  whom  he  took  in 
kindness,  that  he  might  at  the  same  time  improve 
him  in  his  learning.  Elwood  was  recommended 
to  him  by  Dr.  Paget,  and  went  to  his  house  every 
afternoon,  except  Sunday,  and  read  to  him  such 
books  in  the  Latin  tongue,  as  Milton  thought  pro- 
per. And  Milton  told  him.  that  if  he  would  have 
the  benefit  of  the  Latin  tongue,  not  only  to  read 
and  understand  Latin  authors,  but  to  converse  with 
foreigners  either  abroad  or  at  home,  he  most  learn 
the  foreign  pronunciation ;  and  he  instructed  him 
how  to  read  accordingly.  And  having  a  curious 
ear,  he  understood  by  my  tone,  says  Elwood,  when 
I  understood  what  I  read,  and  when  I  did  not ; 
and  he  would  stop  me,  and  examine  me,  and  open 
the  most  difficult  passages  to  me.  But  it  was  not 
long  after  his  third  marriage,  that  he  left  Jewen 
street,  and  removed  to  a  house  in  the  Artillery 
Walk,  leading  to  Bunhill  Fields :  and  this  was 
his  last  stage  in  this  world  ;  he  continued  longer 
in  this  house  than  he  had  done  in  any  other,  and 
lived  here  to  his  dying  day  only  when  the  plague 


began  to  rage  in  London  in  16tj">,  he  removed  to 
a  small  house  at  St.  Giles  Chalfont,  in  Bucking- 
hamshire, which  Elwood  had  taken  for  him  and 

ilv;  and  there  he  remained  during  that 
dreadful  calamity :  but  after  the  sickness  was  over, 
and  the  city  was  cleansed  and  made  safely  habita- 

in,  he  returned  to  hi>  house  in  London. 

jreat  work  of  Paradise  Lost,  had  princi- 
pally engaged  his  thoughts  for  some  years  past, 
and  was  now  completed.  It  is  probable,  that  his 
first  design  of  writing  an  epic  poem  was  owing  to 
his  conversations  at  Naples  with  the  Marquis  of 
Villa,  about  Tasso,  and  his  famous  poem  of  the 
Delivery  of  Jerusalem ;  and  in  a  copy  of  verses 
presented  to  that  nobleman  before  he  left  Naples, 
he  intimated  his  intention  of  fixing  upon  king  Ar- 
thur for  his  hero.  And  in  an  eclogue,  made  soon 
after  his  return  to  England,  upon  the  death  of  his 
friend  and  school-fellow  Deodati,  he  proposed  the 
same  design  and  the  same  subject,  and  declared 
his  ambition  of  writing  something  in  his  native 
language,  which  might  render  his  name  illustrious 
in  these  islands,  though  he  should  be  obscure  and 
inglorious  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  And  in  other 
parts  of  his  works,  after  he  had  engaged  in  the 
controversies  of  the  times,  he  still  promised  to  pro- 
duce some  noble  poenYor  other  at  a  fitter  season ; 
but  it  does  not  appear  that  he  had  then  determined 
upon  the  subject,  and  king  Arthur  had  another 
fate,  being  reserved  for  the  pen  of  Sir  Richard 
Blackraore.  The  first  hint  of  Paradise  Lost  is 
said  to  have  been  taken  from  an  Italian  tragedy  ; 
and  it  is  certain,  that  he  first  designed  it  a  tragedy 
himself,  and  there  are  several  plans  of  it  in  the 
form  of  a  tragedy  still  to  be  seen  in  the  author's 
own  manuscript  preserved  in  the  library  of  Tri- 

'.lege,  Cambridge.  And  it  is  probable,  that 
he  did  not  barely  sketch  out  the  plans,  but  also 
wrote  some  parts  of  the  drama  itself.  His  ne- 
phew, Philips,  informs  us,  that  some  of  the  verses 
at  the  beginning  of  Satan's  speech,  addressed  to 
the  sun,  in  the  fourth  book,  were  shown  to  him 
and  some  others  as  designed  for  the  beginning  of 
the  tragedy,  several  years  before  the  poem  was  be- 
gun :  and  many  other  passages  might  be  produced, 
which  plainly  appear  to  have  been  originally  in- 
tended for  the  scene,  and  are  not  so  properly  of 
the  epic,  as  of  the  tragic  strain.  It  was  not  till 
after  he  was  disengaged  from  the  Salmasian  con- 
troversy, which  ended  in  1655,  that  he  began  to 
mould  the  Paradise  Lost  in  its  present  form ;  but 
after  the  Restoration,  when  he  was  dismissed  from 
public  business,  and  freed  from  controversy  of 
every  kind,  he  prosecuted  the  work  with  closer 
application.  Mr.  Philips  relates  a  very  remarka- 
ble circumstance  in  the  composure  of  this  poem, 
which  he  says  he  had  reason  to  remember,  as  it 
was  told  him  by  Milton  himself,  that  his  vein  ne- 
ver happily  flowed  but  from  the  autumnal  equinox 


XX 


LIFE  OF  JOHN  MILTON. 


to  the  vernal,  and  that  what  he  attempted  at  other 
times  was  not  to  his  satisfaction,  though  he  court- 
ed his  fancy  never  so  much.  Mr.  Toland  ima- 
gines that  Philips  might  be  mistaken  as  to  the 
time,  because  our  author,  in  his  Latin  elegy,  writ- 
ten in  his  twentieth  year,  upon  the  approach  of 
the  spring,  seems  to  say  just  the  contrary,  as  if  he 
could  not  make  any  verses  to  his  satisfaction  till 
the  spring  begun :  and  he  says  farther,  that  a  ju- 
dicious friend  of  Milton's  informed  him,  that  he 
could  never  compose  well  but  in  spring  and  au- 
tumn. But  Mr.  Richardson  can  not  comprehend, 
that  either  of  these  accounts  is  exactly  true,  or  that 
a  man  with  such  a  work  in  his  head  can  suspend 
it  for  six  months  together,  or  only  for  one ;  it  may 
go  on  more  slowly,  but  it  must  go  on :  and  this 
laying  it  aside  is  contrary  to  that  eagerness  to 
finish  what  was  begun,  which  he  says  was  his  tem- 
per, in  his  epistle  to  Deodati,  dated  Sept.  2,  1G37. 
After  all  Mr.  Philips,  who  had  the  perusal  of  the 
poem  from  the  beginning,  by  twenty  or  thirty 
verses  at  a  time,  as  it  was  composed,  and  having 
not  been  shown  any  for  a  considerable  while  as  the 
summer  came  on,  inquired  of  the  author  the  reason 
of  it,  could  hardly  be  mistaken  with  regard  to  the 
time :  and  it  is  easy  to  conceive,  that  the  poem  might 
go  on  much  more  slowly  in  summer  than  in  other 
parts  of  the  year;  for,  notwithstanding  all  that  poets 
may  say  of  the  pleasures  of  that  season,  I  imagine 
most  persons  find  by  experience,  that  they  can  com- 
pose better  at  any  other  time,  with  more  facility  and 
more  spirit,  than  during  the  heat  and  languor  of 
summer.  Whenever  the  poem  was  written,  it  was 
finished  in  1665,  and,  as  Elwood  says,  was  shown 
to  him  that  same  year  at  St.  Giles  Chalfont,  whi- 
ther Milton  had  retired  to  avoid  the  plague,  and  it 
was  lent  to  him  to  peruse  it,  and  give  his  judg- 
ment of  it;  and,  considering  the  difficulties  which 
the  author  lay  under,  his  uneasiness  on  account  of 
the  public  affairs  and  his  own,  his  age  and  infirm- 
ities, his  gout  and  blindness,  his  not  being  in  cir- 
cumstances to  maintain  an  amanuensis,  but  obliged 
to  make  use  of  any  hand  that  came  next  to  write 
his  verses  as  he  made  them,  it  is  really  wonderful, 
that  he  should  have  the  spirit  to  undertake  such  a 
work,  and  much  more,  that  he  should  ever  bring  it 
to  perfection.  And  after  the  poem  was  finished, 
still  new  difficulties  retarded  the  publication  of  it. 
It  was  in  danger  of  being  suppressed  through  the 
malice  or  ignorance  of  the  licencer,  who  took  ex- 
ception at  some  passages,  and  particularly  at  that 
noble  simile,  in  the  first  book,  of  the  sun  in  an 
eclipse,  in  which  he  fancied  that  he  had  discovered 
treason.  It  was  with  difficulty  too  that  the  author 
could  sell  the  copy ;  and  he  sold  it  at  last  only  for 
five  pounds,  but  was  to  receive  five  pounds  more 
after  the  sale  of  thirteen  hundred  of  the  first  im- 
pression, and  five  pounds  more  after  the  sale  of  as 
many  of  the  second  impression,  and  five  more  after 


the  sale  of  as  many  of  the  third,  and  the  number 
was  not  to  exceed  fifteen  hundred.  And  what  a 
poor  compensation  was  this  for  such  an  inestimable 
performance!  and  how  much  more  do  others  get 
by  the  works  of  great  authors,  than  the  authors 
themselves!  This  original  contract  with  Samuel 
Simmons,  the  printer,  is  dated  April  27, 1667,  and 
is  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Tonson,  the  bookseller,  as 
is  likewise  the  manuscript  of  the  first  book  copied 
fair  for  the  press,  with  the  Imprimatur,  by  Thomas 
Tomkyns,  chaplain  to  the  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury: so  that,  though  Milton  was  forced  to  make 
use  of  different  hands  to  write  his  verses  from  time 
to  time  as  he  had  occasion,  yet  we  may  suppose 
that  the  copy  for  the  press  was  written  all,  or  at 
least  each  book  by  the  same  hand.  The  first  edi- 
tion, in  ten  books,  was  printed  in  a  small  quarto ; 
and  before  it  could  be  disposed  of,  had  three  or 
more  different  title  pages  of  the  years  1667, 1668, 
and  1669.  The  first  sort  was  without  the  name 
of  Symmons,  the  printer,  and  began  with  the  poem 
immediately  following  the  title  page,  without  any 
argument,  or  preface,  or  table  of  errata :  to  others 
was  prefixed  a  short  advertisement  of  the  printer 
to  the  reader  concerning  the  argument,  and  the 
reason  why  the  poem  rhymes  not ;  and  then  fol- 
lowed the  argument  of  the  several  books,  and  the 
preface  concerning  the  kind  of  verse,  and  the  table 
of  errata :  others  again  had  the  argument,  and  the 
preface,  and  the  table  of  errata,  without  that  short 
advertisement  of  the  printer  to  the  reader :  and  this 
was  all  the  difference  between  them,  except  now 
and  then  of  a  point  or  a  letter,  which  were  altered 
as  the  sheets  were  printing  off.  So  that,  notwith- 
standing these  variations,  there  was  still  only  one 
impression  in  quarto ;  and  two  years  almost  elaps- 
ed, before  thirteen  hundred  copies  could  be  sold, 
or  before  the  author  was  entitled  to  his  second  five 
pounds,  for  which  his  receipt  is  still  in  being,  and 
is  dated  April  26, 1669.  And  this  was  probably 
all  that  he  received ;  for  he  lived  not  to  enjoy  the 
benefits  of  the  second  edition,  which  was  not  pub- 
lished till  the  year  1674,  and  that  same  year  he 
died.  The  second  edition  was  printed  in  a  small 
octavo,  and  was  corrected  by  the  author  himself, 
and  the  number  of  books  was  augmented  from  ten 
to  twelve,  with  the  addition  of  some  few  verses : 
and  this  alteration  was  made  with  great  judgment, 
not  for  the  sake  of  such  a  fanciful  beauty  as  re- 
sembling the  number  of  books  in  the  JEneid,  but 
for  the  more  regular  disposition  of  the  poem,  be- 
cause the  .seventh  and  tenth  books  were  before  too 
long,  and  are  more  fitly  divided  each  into  two. 
The  third  edition  was  published  in  1678 ;  and  it 
appears  that  Milton  had  left  his  remaining  right 
in  the  copy  to  his  widow,  and  she  agreed  with 
Simmons,  the  printer,  to  accept  eight  pounds  in 
full  of  all  demands,  and  her  receipt  for  the  money 
is  dated  December  21, 1680.  But  a  little  before 


LIFE  OF  JOHN  MILTON. 


XXI 


this  Simmons  had  covenanted  to  assign  tin1  whole 
right  of  copy  to  Brabazon  Aylmer,  the  bookseller 
for  twenty-five  pounds;  and  Alymer  afterwards 
sold  it  to  old  Jacob  Tonson  at  two  different  times, 
one  half  on  the  17th  of  August,  1683,  and  the 
other  half  on  the  -Jlth  of  March,  10!»0,  with  a  con- 
siderable advance  of  the  price:  and  except  one 
fourth  of  it  which  has  boon  assigned  to  several 
persons,  his  family  have  enjoyed  the  right  of  copy 

ace.  By  the  last  assignment  it  appears  that 
the  book  was  growing  into  repute  and  rising  in 
valuation;  and  to  what  pervcrseness  could  it  be 
owing  that  it  was  not  better  received  at  first  1  We 
«•  there  were  principally  two  reasons ;  the 
prejudices  against  the  author  on  account  of  his 
principles  and  party ;  and  many,  no  doubt,  were 
offended  with  the  novelty  of  a  poem  that  was  not 
in  rhyme.  Rymer,  who  was  a  redoubted  critic  in 
those  days,  would  not  so  much  as  allow  it  to  be  a 
poem  on  this  account ;  and  declared  war  against 
Milton  as  well  as  against  Shakspeare;  and  threat- 
ened that  he  would  write  reflections  upon  the  Pa- 
radise Lost,  wliich  some  (says  he*)  are  pleased  to 
call  a  poem,  and  would  assert  against  the  slender 
sophistry  wherewith  the  author  attacks  it.  And 
such  a  man  as  Bishop  Burnet  makes  it  a  sort  of 
objection  to  Milton,  that  he  affected  to  write  in 
blank  verse  without  rhyme.  And  the  same  rea- 
son induced  Dryden  to  turn  the  principal  parts  of 
Paradise  Lost  into  rhyme  in  his  Opera  called  the 
State  of  Innocence  and  Fall  of  Man;  to  tag  his 
lines,  as  Milton  himself  expressed  it,  alluding  to 
the  fashion  then  of  wearing  tags  of  metal  at  the 
end  of  their  ribbons. 

We  are  told  indeed  by  Mr.  Richardson,  that  Sir 
George  Hungerford,  an  ancient  member  of  Parlia- 
ment, told  him,  that  Sir  John  Denham  came  into 
the  House  one  morning  with  a  sheet  of  Paradise 
Lost  wet  from  the  press  in  his  hand ;  and  being 

what  he  had  there,  said  that  he  had  part  of 
the  noblest  poem  that  ever  was  written  in  any 

.'2G  or  in  any  age.  However  it  is  certain 
that  the  book  was  unknown  till  about  two  years 
after,  when  the  Earl  of  Dorset  produced  it,*as  Mr* 
Richardson  wrxs  informed  by  Dr.  Tancrcd  Robin- 
son, the  physician,  who  had  heard,  the  story  often 
from  Fleetwood  Shepherd  himself,  that  the  Earl, 
in  company  with  Mr.  Shepherd,  looking  about  for 
books  in  Little  Britain,  accidentally  met  with  Pa- 
radise Lost ;  and  being  surprised  at  some  passages 
in  dipping  here  and  there,  he  l>oiig!it  it.  The 
bookscl!  his  Lordship  to  speak  in  its  fa- 

vour if  ho  liked  it,  for  the  impression  lay  on  his 
hands  as  waste  paper.  The  Earl  having  read  it 
sent  it  to  Dryden,  who  in  a  short  time  returned  it 
with  this  answer,  ::  This  man  cuts  us  all  out  and 
the  ancients  too."  Dryden's  epigram  upon  Milton 

'See By  iiesof  ihc  tost 


is  too  weil  known  to  be  repeated ;  and  those  Latin 
verses  by  Dr.  Barrow  the  physician,  and  the  Eng- 
lish ones  by  Andrew  Marvel,  Esq.  usually  pre- 
fixed to  the  Paradise  Lost,  were  written  before  the 
second  edition,  and  were  published  with  it.  But 
still  the  poem  was  not  generally  known  and  esteem- 
ed, nor  met  with  the  deserved  applause,  till  after 
the  edition  in  folio,  which  was  published  in  1688 
by  subscription.  The  Duke  of  Buckingham  in 
his  Essay  on  poetry  prefers  Tasso  and  Spencer  to 
Milton :  and  it  is  related  in  the  life  of  the  witty 
Earl  of  Rochester,  that  he  had  no  notion  of  a  bet- 
ter poet  than  Cowlcy.  In  1686  or  thereabout  Sir 
William  Temple  published  the  second  part  of  his 
Miscellanies,  and  it  may  surprise  any  reader,  that 
in  his  Essay  on  Poetry  he  takes  no  notice  at  all 
of  Milton ;  nay  he  says  expressly  that  after  Arios- 
to,  Tasso,  and  Spenser,  he  knows  none  of  the 
Moderns  who  have  made  any  achievements  in 
heroic  poetry  worth  recording.  And  what  can  we 
think,  that  he  had  not  read  or  heard  of  the  Para- 
dise Lost,  or  that  the  author's  politics  had  preju- 
diced him  against  his  poetry  ?  It  was  happy  that 
all  great  men  were  not  of  hi^mind.  The  book- 
seller was  advised  and  encouraged  to  undertake 
the  folio  edition  by  Mr.  Sommers,  afterwards  Lord 
Sommers,  who  not  only  subscribed  himself,  but 
was  zealous  in  promoting  the  subscription :  and  in 
the  list  of  subscribers  we  find  some  of  the  most 
eminent  names  of  that  time,  as  the  Earl  of  Dorset, 
Waller,  Dryden,  Dr.  Aldrich,  Mr.  Atterbury,  and 
among  the  rest  Sir  Roger  Lestrange,  though  he 
had  formerly  written  a  piece  entitled  No  blind 
guides,  &c.  against  Milton's  Notes  upon  Dr.  Grif- 
fith's sermon.  There  were  two  editions  more  in 
folio,  one  I  think  in  1G92,  the  other  in  1695,  which 
was  the  sixth  edition;  for  the  poem  was  now  so 
well  received,  that  notwithstanding  the  price  of  it 
was  four  times  greater  than  before,  the  sale  in- 
creased double  the  number  every  year;  as  the 
bookseller,  who  should  best  know,  has  informed 
us  in  his  dedication  of  the  smaller  editions  to  Lord 
Sommevs. "  Since  that  time  not  only  various  edi- 
tions have  been  printed,  but  also  various  notes  and 
translations.  The  first  person  who  wrote  annota- 
tions upon  Paradise  Lost  was  P.  H.  or  Patrick 
Hume,  of  whom  we  know  nothing,  unless  his 
name  may  lead  us  to  some  knowledge  of  his  coun- 
try, but  he  has  the  merit  of  being  the  first  (as  I  say) 
who  wrote  notes  upon  Paradise  Lost,  and  his  notes 
were  printed  at  the  end  of  the  folio  edition  in  1695. 
Mr.  Addison's  Spectators  upon  the  subject  con- 
tributed not  a  little  to  establishing  the  character, 
and  illustrating  the  beauties  of  the  poem.  In  1732 
appeared  Dr.  Bentley's  new  edition  with  notes: 
and  the  year  following  Dr.  Pearce  published  his 
Review  of  the  text,  in  which  the  chief  of  Dr.  Bent- 
ley's  emendations  arc  considered,  and  several  other 
emendations  and  observations  are  offered  to  the 


XXII 


LIFE  OF  JOHN  MILTON. 


public.  And  the  year  after  that  Messieurs  Rich- 
ardson, father  and  son,  published  their  Explana- 
tory notes  and  remarks.  The  poem  has  also  been 
translated  into  several  languages,  Latin,  Italian, 
French,  and  Dutch;  and  proposals  have  been  made 
for  translating  it  into  Greek.  The  Dutch  trans- 
lation is  in  blank  verse,  and  printed  at  Harlem. 
The  French  have  a  translation  by  Mons.  Dupre 
de  St.  Maur;  but  nothing  shows  the  weakness 
and  imperfection  of  their  language  more,  than  that 
they  have  few  or  no  good  poetical  versions  of  the 
greatest  poets;  they  are  forced  to  translate  Homer, 
Virgil,  and  Milton  into  prose :  and  blank  verse 
their  language  has  not  harmony  and  dignity  enough 
to  support ;  their  tragedies,  and  many  of  their 
comedies  are  in  rhyme.  Rolli,  the  famous  Italian 
master  here  in  England,  made  an  Italian  transla- 
tion; and  Mr.  Richardson  the  son,  saw  another  at 
Florence  in  manuscript  by  the  learned  Abbe  Sal- 
vini,  the  same  who  translated  Addison's  Cato  into 
Italian.  One  William  Hog  or  Hogseus  translated 
Paradise  Lost,  Paradise  Regained,  and  Samson 
Agonistes  into  Latin  verse  in  1690;  but  this  ver- 
sion is  very  unworthy  of  the  originals.  There  is 
a  better  translation  of  the  Paradise  Lost  by  Mr. 
Thomas  Power,  Fellow  of  Trinity  College,  in 
'Cambridge,  the  first  book  of  which  was  printed 
in  1691,  and  the  rest  in  manuscript  is*in  the  libra- 
ry of  that*  College.  The  learned  Dr.  Trap  has 
also  published  a  translation  into  Latin  verse ;  and 
the  world  is  in  expectation  of  another,  that  will 
surpass  all  the  rest,  by  Mr.  William  Dobson,  of 
New  College,  in  Oxford.  So  that  by  one  means 
or  other  Milton  is  now  considered  as  an  English 
classic;  and  the  Paradise  Lost  is  generally  esteem- 
ed the  noblest  and  most  sublime  of  modern  poems, 
and  equal  at  least  to  the  best  of  the  ancient ;  the 
honour  of  this  country,  and  the  envy  and  admira- 
tion of  all  others ! 

In  1670  he  published  his  History  of  Britain,  that 
part  especially  now  called  England.  He  began  it 
above  twenty  years  before,  but  was  frequently  in- 
terrupted by  other  avocations;  and  he  designed  to 
have  brought  it  down  to  his  own  times,  but  stopped 
at  the  Norman  conquest ;  for  indeed  he  was  not 
well  able  to  pursue  it  any  farther  by  reason  of  his 
blindness,  and  he  was  engaged  in  other  more  de- 
lightful studies;  having  a  genius  turned  for  poetry 
rather  than  history.  When  his  History  was  print- 
ed, it  was  not  printed  perfect  and  entire ;  for  the 
licenser  expunged  several  passages,  which  reflect- 
ing upon  the  pride  and  superstition  of  the  Monks 
in  the  Saxon  times,  were  understood  as  a  con- 
cealed satire  upon  the  Bishops  in  Charles  the  se- 
cond's reign.  But  the  author  himself  gave  a  copy 
of  his  unlicensed  papers  to  the  Earl  of  Anglesea, 
who,  as  well  as  several  of  the  nobility  and  gentry, 
constantly  visited  him :  and  in  1681  a  considera- 
ble passage,  which  had  been  suppressed  at  the  be- 


ginning of  the  third  book,  was  published,  con- 
taining a  character  of  the  Long  Parliament  and 
Assembly  of  Divines  in  1641,  which  was  inserted 
in  its  proper  place  in  the  last  edition  of  1738. 
Bishop  Kennet  bogins  his  Complete  History  of 
England  with  this  work  of  Milton,  as  being  the 
best  draught,  the  clearest  and  most  authentic  ac- 
count of  those  early  times :  and  his  style  is  freer 
and  easier  than  in  most  of  his  other  works,  more 
plain  and  simple,  less  figurative  and  metaphorical, 
and  better  suited  to  the  nature  of  history,  has 
enough  of  the  Latin  turn  and  idiom  to  give  it  an 
air  of  antiquity,  and  sometimes  rises  to  a  surprising 
dignity  and  majesty. 

In  1670  likewise  his  Paradise  Regained  and 
Samson  Agonistes  were  licensed  together,  but  were 
not  published  till  the  year  following.  It  is  some- 
what remarkable,  that  these  two  poems  were  not 
printed  by  Simmons,  the  same  who  printed  the 
Paradise  Lost,  but  by  J.  M.  for  one  Starkey,  in 
Fleet  street:  and  what  could  induce  Milton  to 
liave  recourse  to  another  printer1?  was  it  because 
the  former  was  not  enough  encouraged  by  the  sale 
of  Paradise  Lost  to  become  a  purchaser  of  the 
other  copies  1  The  first  thought  of  Paradise  Re- 
gained was  owing  to  Elwood  the  GLuaker,  as  he 
himself  relates  the  occasion  in  the  history  of  his 
life.  When  Milton  had  lent  him  the  manuscript 
of  Paradise  Lost  at  St.  Giles  Chalfont,  as  we  said 
before,  and  he  returned  it,  Milton  asked  him  how 
he  liked  it,  and  what  he  thought  of  it :  "  Which  I 
modestly,  but  freely  told  him,  says  Elwood;  and 
after  some  further,  discourse  about  it,  I  pleasantly 
said  to  him,  Thou  hast  said  much  of  Paradise 
Lost,  but  what  hast  thou  to  say  of  Paradise 
Found'?  He  made  me  no  answer,  but  sat  some 
time  in  a  muse;  then  broke  off  that  discourse,  and 
fell  upon  another  subject."  When  Elwood  after- 
wards waited  upon  him  in  London,  Milton  showed 
him  his  Paradise  Regained,  and  in  a  pleasant  tone 
said  to  him,  "  This  is  owing  to  you,  for  you  put  it 
in  my  head  by  the  question  you  put  me  at  Chal- 
font, which  before  I  had  not  thought  of." 

It  is  commonly  reported,  that  Milton  himself 
preferred  this  poem  to  the  Paradise  Lost ;  but  all 
that  we  can  assert  upon  good  authority  is,  that  he 
could  not  endure  to  hear  this  poem  cried  down  so 
much  as  it  was,  in  comparison  with  the  other. 
For  certainly  it  is  very  worthy  of  the  author,  and 
contrary  to  what  Mr.  Toland  relates,  Milton  may 
be  seen  in  Paradise  Regained  as  well  as  in  Para- 
dise Lost;  if  it  is  inferior  in  poetry,  I  know  not 
whether  it  is  not  superior  in  sentiment;  if  it  is  less 
descriptive,  it  is  more  argumentative;  if  it  does 
not  sometimes  rise  so  high,  neither  does  it  ever 
sink  so  low;  and  it  has  not  met  with  the  appro- 
bation it  deserves,  only  because  it  has  not  been 
more  read  and  considered.  His  subject  indeed  is 
confined,  and  he  has  a  narrow  foundation  to  build 


LIFE  OF  JOHN  MILTON. 


XXiu 


upon ;  but  he  has  raised  as  noble  a  superstructure 
as  such  little  room  and  such  scanty  materials 
would  allow.  The  great  beauty  of  it  is  the  con 
trast  between  the  two  characters  of  the  Temptei 
and  our  Saviour,  the  artful  sophistry  and  specious 
insinuations  of  the  one  refuted  by  the  strong  sense 
and  manly  eloquence  of  the  other.  This  poem 
has  also  been  translated  into  French,  together 
with  some  other  pieces  of  Milton,  Lycidas,  L'Al 
legro,  II  Penseroso,  and  the  Ode  on  Christ's  Na- 
tivity: and  in  1732,  was  printed  a  Critical  Dis- 
sertation, with  Notes  upon  Paradise  Regained 
pointing  out  the  beauties  of  it,  and  written  by 
Mr.  Meadawcourt,  Canon  of  Worcester:  and  the 
very  learned  and  ingenious  Mr.  Jortin  has  added 
some  observations  upon  this  work  at  the  end  of 
his  excellent  Remarks  upon  Spenser,  published  in 
1734;  and  indeed  this  poem  of  Milton,  to  be  more 
admired,  needs  only  to  be  better  known.  His 
Samson  Agonistes  is  the  only  tragedy  that  he  has 
finished,  though  he  has  sketched  out  the  plans  of 
several,  and  proposed  the  subjects  of  more,  in  his 
manuscript  preserved  in  Trinity  College  library : 
and  we  may  suppose  that  he  was  determined  to 
the  choice  of  this  particular  subject  by  the  simili- 
tude of  his  own  circumstances  to  those  of  Samson 
blind  and  among  the  Philistines.  This  I  conceive 
to  be  the  last  of  his  poetical  pieces ;  and  it  is  written 
in  the  very  spirit  of  the  ancients,  and  equals,  if  not 
exceeds,  any  of  the  most  perfect  tragedies,  which 
were  ever  exhibited  on  the  Athenian  stage,  when 
Greece  was  in  its  glory.  As  this  work  was  never  in- 
tended for  the  stage,  the  division  into  acts  and  scenes 
is  omitted.  Bishop  Atterbury  had  an  intention 
of  getting  Mr.  Pope  to  divide  it  into  acts  and 
scenes,  and  of  having  it  acted  by  the  king's  scho- 
lars at  Westminster:  but  his  commitment  to  the 
tower  put  an  end  to  that  design.  It  has  since 
been  brought  upon  the  stage  in  the  form  of  an 
oratorio;  and  Mr.  Handel's  music  is  never  em- 
ployed to  greater  advantage,  than  when  it  is 
adapted  to  Milton's  words.  The  great  artist  has 
done  equal  justice  to  our  author's  L' Allegro  and 
II  Penseroso,  as  if  the  same  spirit  possessed  both 
masters,  and  as  if  the  god  of  music  and  of  verse 
was  still  one  and  the  same. 

There  are  also  some  other  pieces  of  Milton,  for 
he  continued  publishing  to  the  last.  In  1672,  he 
published  Artis  Logicae  plenior  Institutio  ad  Petri 
Rami  methodum  concinnata,  an  Institution  of 
Logic  after  the  method  of  Petrus  Ramus ;  and 
the  year  following,  a  Treatise  of  True  Religion  and 
the  best  means  to  Prevent  the  Growth  of  Popery, 
which  had  greatly  increased  through  the  conni- 
vance of  the  King,  and  the  more  open  encourage- 


Epistolarum  Familiarium,  Lib.  I.,  et  Prolusionea 
qusedam  Oratorise  in  Collegio  Christi  habitse,  were 
printed  in  1671;  as  was  also  his  translation  out 
of  Latin  into  English  of  the  Poles  Declaration 
concerning  the  election  of  their  King  John  III., 
setting  forth  the  virtues  and  merits  of  that  prince. 
He  wrote  also  a  brief  History  of  Muscovy,  col- 
lected from  the  relations  of  several  travellers ;  but 
it  was  not  printed  till  after  his  death  in  1682.  He 
had  likewise  his  state-letters  transcribed  at  the 
request  of  the  Danish  resident,  but  neither  were 
they  printed  till  after  his  death  in  1676,  and  were 
translated  into  English  in  1694;  and  to  that  trans- 
lation a  life  of  Milton  was  prefixed  by  his  nephew 
Mr.  Edward  Philips,  and  at  the  end  of  that  life  his 
excellent  sonnets  to  Fairfax,  Cromwell,  Sir  Henry 
Vane,  and  Cyriac  Skinner,  on  his  blindness,  were 
first  printed.  Besides  these  works  which  were 
published,  he  wrote  his  System  of  Divinity,  which 
Mr.  Toland  says  was  in  the  hands  of  his  friend 
Jyriac  Skinner,  but  where  at  present  is  uncertain. 
And  Mr.  Philips  says,  that  he  had  prepared  for 
;he  press  an  answer  to  some  little  scribbling  quack 
n  London,  who  had  written  a  scurrilous  libel 
against  him;  but  whether  by  the  dissuasion  of 
friends,  as  thinking  him  a  fellow  not  worth  his 
notice,  or  for  what  other  cause,  Mr.  Philips  knew 
not,  this  answer  was  never  published.  And  in- 
deed the  best  vindicator  of  him  and  his  writings 
las  been  time ;  posterity  has  universally  paid  that 
icnour  to  his  merits,  which  was  denied  him  by 
great  part  of  his  contemporaries. 

After  a  life  thus  spent  in  study  and  labours  for 
he  public,  he  died  of  the  gout  at  his  house  in 
Bunhill  Row,  on  or  about  the  10th  of  November, 
1674,  when  he  had  within  a  month  completed  the 
sixty-sixth  year  of  his  age.  It  is  not  known  when 
le  was  first  attacked  by  the  gout,  but  he  was 
grievously  afflicted  with  it  several  of  the  last  years 
of  his  life,  and  was  weakened  to  such  a  degree, 
hat  he  died  without  a  groan,  and  those  in  the 
•oom  perceived  not  when  he  expired.  His  body 
vas  decently  interred  near  that  of  his  father,  (who 
lad  died  very  aged  about  the  year  1647,)  in  the 
hancel  of  the  church  of  St.  Giles's,  Cripplegate ; 
and  all  his  great  and  learned  friends  in  London, 
not  without  a  friendly  concourse  of  the  common 
>eople,  paid  their  last  respects  in  attending  it  to 
he  grave.  Mr.  Fenton,  in  his  short  but  elegant 
account  of  the  Life  of  Milton,  speaking  of  our 
author's  having  no  monument,  says  that  "  he  de- 
sired a  friend  to  inquire  at  St.  Giles's  church; 
where  the  sexton  showed  him  a  small  monument, 
which  he  said  was  supposed  to  be  Milton's;  but 
the  inscription  had  never  been  legible  since  he 


ment  of  the  Duke  of  York;  and  the  same  year  his ;  was  employed  in  that  office,  which  he  has  pos- 
poems,  which  had  been  printed  in  1645,  were  re-jsessed  about  forty  years.  This  sure  could  never 
printed  with  the  addition  of  several  others.  His :  have  happened  in  so  short  a  space  of  time,  unless 
Familiar  Epistles  and  some  Academical  Exercises,  J  the  epitaph  had  been  industriously  erased :  and 


XXIV 


LIFE  OF  JOHN  MILTON. 


that  supposition,  says  Mr.  Fenton,  carries  with  it 
so  much  inhumanity,  that  I  think  we  ought  to 
believe  it  was  not  erected  to  his  memory."  It  is 
evident  that  it  was  not  erected  to  his  memory, 
and  that  the  sexton  was  mistaken.  For  Mr.  To- 
land,  in  his  account  of  the  Life  of  Milton,  says, 
that  he  was  buried  in  the  chancel  of  St.  Giles's 
church,  "where  the  piety  of  his  admirers  will 
shortly  erect  a  monument  becoming  his  worth  and 
the  encouragement  of  letters  in  King  William's 
reign."  This  plainly  implies  that  no  monument 
was  erected  to  him  at  that  time,  and  this  was  writ- 
ten in  1698:  and  Mr.  Fenton's  account  was  first 
published.  I  think,  in  1725;  so  that  not  above 
twenty-seven  years  intervened  from  the  one  ac- 
count to  the  other;  and  consequently  the  sexton, 
who  it  is  said  had  been  possessed  of  his  office 
about  forty  years,  must  have  been  mistaken,  and 
the  monument  must  have  been  designed  for  some 
other  person,  and  not  for  Milton.  A  monument 
indeed  has  been  erected  to  his  memory  in  West- 
minster Abbey  by  Auditor  Benson,  in  the  year 
1737;  but  the  best  monument  of  him  is  his 
writings. 

In  his  youth  he  was  esteemed  extremely  hand- 
some, so  that  while  he  was  a  student  at  Cambridge, 
he  was  called  the  Lady  of  Christ's  College.  He 
had  a  very  fine  skin  and  fresh  complexion;  his 
hair  was  of  a  light  brown,  and  parted  on  the  fore- 
top  hung  down  hi  curls  waving  upon  his  shoulders ; 
his  features  were  exact  and  regular;  his  voice 
agreeable  and  musical;  his  habit  clean  and  neat; 
his  deportment  erect  and  manly.  He  was  middle- 
sized  and  well  proportioned,  neither  tall  nor  short, 
neither  too  lean  nor  too  corpulent,  strong  and  ac- 
tive in  his  younger  years,  and  though  afflicted  -with 
frequent  headachs,  blindness,  and  gout,  was  yet  a 
comely  and  well-looking  man  to  the  last.  His  eyes 
were  of  a  light  blue  colour,  and  from  the  first  are 
said  to  have  been  none  of  the  brightest;  but  after 
he  lost  the  sight  of  them  (which  happened  about 
the  43d  year  of  his  age)  they  still  appeared  with- 
out spot  or  blemish,  and  at  first  view  and  a  little 
distance  it  was  not  easy  to  know  that  he  was  blind. 
Mr.  Richardson  had  an  account  of  him  from  an 
ancient  clergyman  in  Dorsetshire,  Dr.  Wright, 
who  found  him  in  a  small  house,  which  had  (he 
thinks)  but  one  room  on  a  floor;  in  that,  up  one 
pair  of  stairs,  which  was  hung  with  a  rusty  green, 
he  saw  John  Milton  sitting  in  an  elbow  chair,  with 
black  clothes,  and  neat  enough,  pale  but  not  cada- 
verous, his  hands  and  fingers  gouty,  and  with 
chalk  stones;  among  other  discourse  he  expressed 
himself  to  this  purpose,  that  was  he  free  from  the 
pain  of  the  gout,  his  blindness  would  be  tolerable. 
But  there  is  the  less  need  to  be  particular  in  the 
description  of  his  person,  as  the  idea  of  his  face 
and  countenance  is  pretty  well  known  from  the 
numerous  prints,  pictures,  busts,  medals,  and  other 


representations  which  have  been  made  of  hinl. 
There  are  two  pictures  of  greater  value  than  the 
rest,  as  they  are  undoubted  originals,  and  were  in 
the  possession  of  Milton's  widow:  the  first  waa 
drawn  when  he  was  about  twenty-one,  and  is  at 
present  in  the  collection  of  the  Right  Honourable 
Arthur  Onslow,  Esq  ,  Speaker  of  the  House  of 
Commons;  the  other  in  crayons  was  drawn  when 
he  was  about  sixty-two,  and  was  in  the  collection 
of  Mr.  Richardson,  but  has  since  been  purchased 
by  Mr.  Tonson.  Several  prints  have  been  made 
from  both  these  pictures;  and  there  is  a  print,  done 
when  he  was  about  sixty-two  or  sixty-three,  after 
the  life  by  Faithorn,  which  though  not  so  hand- 
some,  may  yet  perhaps  be  as  true  a  resemblance 
as  any  of  them.  It  is  prefixed  to  some  of  our  au- 
thor's pieces,  and  to  the  folio  edition  of  his  prose 
works  hi  three  volumes,  printed  in  1698. 

In  his  way  of  living  he  was  an  example  of  so- 
briety and  temperance.  He  was  very  sparing  in 
the  use  of  wine  or  strong  liquors  of  any  kind.  Let 
meaner  poets  make  use  of  such  expedients  to  raise 
their  fancy  and  kindle  their  imagination ;  he  want- 
ed not  any  artificial  spirits ;  he  had  a  natural  fire, 
and  poetic  warmth  enough  of  his  own.  He  was 
likewise  very  abstemious  in  his  diet,  not  fastidious- 
ly nice  or  delicate  in  the  choice  of  his  dishes,  but 
content  with  any  thing  that  was  most  in  season, 
or  easiest  to  be  procured,  eating  and  drinking  (ac- 
cording to  the  distinction  of  the  philosopher)  that 
he  might  live,  and  not  living  that  he  might  eat  and 
drink.  So  that  probably  his  gout  descended  by 
inheritance  from  one  or  other  of  his  parents ;  or  if 
it  was  of  his  own  acquiring,  it  must  have  been 
owing  to  his  studious  and  sedentary  life.  And  yet 
he  delighted  sometimes  in  walking  and  using  ex- 
ercise, but  we  hear  nothing  of  his  riding  or  hunt- 
ing; and  having  early  learned  to  fence,  he  was 
such  a  master  of  his  sword,  that  he  was  not  afraid 
of  resenting  an  affront  from  any  man ;  and  before 
he  lost  his  sight,  his  principal  recreation  was  the 
exercise  of  his  arms;  but  after  he  was  confined  by 
age  and  blindness,  he  had  a  machine  to  swing  in 
for  the  preservation  of  his  health.  In  his  youth 
he  was  accustomed  to  sit  up  late  at  his  studies,  and 
seldom  went  to  bed  before  midnight;  but  afterwards, 
finding  it  to  be  the  ruin  of  his  eyes,  and  looking 
on  this  custom  as  very  pernicious  to  health  at  any 
time,  he  used  to  go  to  rest  early,  seldom  later  than 
nine,  and  would  be  stirring  in  the  summer  at  four, 
and  in  the  winter  at  five  in  the  morning;  but  if 
he  was  not  disposed  to  rise  at  his  usual  hours,  he 
still  did  not  lie  sleeping,  but  had  some  body  or 
other  by  his  bed  side  to  read  to  him.  At  his  first 
rising  he  had  usually  a  chapter  read  to  him  out  of 
the  Hebrew  Bible,  and  he  commonly  studied  all 
the  morning  till  twelve,  then  used  some  exercise 
for  an  hour,  afterwards  dined,  and  after  dinner 
played  on  the  organ,  and  either  sung  himself  or 


LIFE  OP  JOHN  MILTON. 


xxv 


.  who  (he  said)  had  a  good  voice 
but  no  oar ;  and  then  he  went  np  to  study  again 
till  six,  when  his  friends  came  to  visit  him  and  sat 
with  him  perhaps  till  eiijht ;  then  he  went  down  to 
supper,  which  was  usually  olives  or  some  light 
thinn;  and  after  supjter  he  smoked  hid  pipe,  and 
drank  a  j»Ia*s  of  water,  and  went  to  bed.  He  loved 
the  country:  and  commends  it.  as  poets  usually  do ; 
but  after  his  return  from  his  travels,  he  was  very 
little  there,  except  during  the  time  of  the  plague 
in  London.  The  civil  war  might  at  first  detain 
him  in  town;  and  the  pleasures  of  the  country 
were  in  a  great  measure  lost  to  him,  as  they  de- 
pend mostly  upon  sight,  whereas  a  blind  man 
wants  company  and  conversation,  which  is  to  be 
had  better  in  populous  cities.  But  he  was  led  out 
sometimes  for  the  benefit  of  the  fresh  air,  and  in 
warm  sunny  weather  he  used  to  sit  at  the  door 
of  his  house  near  Bunhill  Fields,  and  there  as  well 
as  in  the  house  received  the  visits  of  persons  of 
quality  and  distinction;  for  he  was  no  less  visited 
to  the  last  both  by  his  own  countrymen  and  fo- 
reigners, than  he  had*been  in  his  flourishing 
dition  before  the  Restoration. 

Some  objections,  indeed,  have  been  made  to  his 
temper ;  and  I  remember  there  was  a  tradition  in 
the  university  of  Cambridge,  that  he  and  Mr.  King 
(whose  death  he  laments  in  his  Lycidas)  were  com- 
petitors for  a  fellowship,  and  when  they  were  both 
equal  in  point  of  learning,  Mr.  King  was  prefer- 
red by  the  college  for  his  character  of  good  nature, 
which  was  wanting  in  the  other ;  and  this  was  by 
Milton  grievously  resented.  But  the  difference  of 
their  ages,  Milton  being  at  least  four  years  older, 
renders  this  story  not  very  probable ;  and  besides, 
Mr.  King  was  not  elected  by  the  college,  but  was 
made  fellow  by  a  royal  mandate,  so  that  there  can 
be  no  truth  in  the  tradition ;  but  if  there  was  any, 
it  is  no  sign  of  Milton's  resentment,  but  a  proof 
of  his  generosity,  that  he  could  live  in  such  friend- 
ship with  a  successful  rival,  and  afterwards  so  pas- 
sionately lament  his  decease.  His  method  of  writ- 
ing controversy  is  urged  as  another  argument  of 
his  want  of  temper :  but  some  allowance  must  be 
made  for  the  customs  and  manners  of  the  times. 
Controversy,  as  well  as  war,  was  rougher  and  more 
barbarous  in  those  days,  than  it  is  in  these.  And 
it  is  to  be  considered,  too,  that  his  adversaries  first 
began  the  attack;  they  loaded  him  with  much 
more  personal  abuse,  only  they  had  not  the  ad- 
vantage of  so  much  wit  to  season  it.  If  he  had 
engaged  with  more  candid  and  ingenuous  dispu- 
tants, he  would  have  preferred  civility  and  fair  ar- 
gument to  wit  and  satire :  "  to  do  so  was  my  choice, 
and  to  have  done  thus  was  my  chance,"  as  he  ex- 
presses himself  in  the  conclusion  of  one  of  his 
controversial  pieces.  All  who  have  written  any 
accounts  of  his  life  agree,  that  he  was  affable  and 
instructive  in  conversation;  of  an  equal  and  cheer- 


ful temper ;  and  yet  I  can  easily  believe,  that  he 
had  a  sufficient  sense  of  his  own  merits,  and  con- 
tempt enough  for  his  adversaries. 

His  merits  indeed  were  singular ;  for  he  was  a 
man  not  only  of  wonderful  genius,  but  of  immense 
learning  and  erudition ;  not  only  an  incomparable 
poet,  but  a  great  mathematician,  logician,  histori- 
an, and  divine.  He  was  a  master  not  only  of  the 
Greek  and  Latin,  but  likewise  of  the  Hebrew, 
Chaldee,  and  Syriac,  as  well  as  of  the  modern  lan- 
guages, Italian,  French,  and  Spanish.  He  was 
particularly  skilled  in  the  Italian,  which  he  always 
preferred  to  the  French  language,  as  all  the  men 
of  letters  did  at  that  time  in  England ;  and  he  not 
only  wrote  elegantly  in  it,  but  is  highly  commend- 
ed for  his  writings  by  the  most  learned  of  the  Ita- 
lians themselves,  and  especially  by  the  members  of 
that  celebrated  academy  called  dellaCrusca,  which 
was  established  at  Florence,  for  the  refining  and 
perfecting  of  the*Tuscan  language.  He  had  read 
almost  all  authors,  and  improved  by  all,  even  by 
romances,  of  which  he  had  been  fond  in  his  young- 
con-  er  years ;  and  as  the  bee  can  extract  honey  out  of 
weeds,  so  (to  use  his  own  words  in  his  Apology 
for  Smectymnuus)  "  those  books,  which  to  many 
others  have  been  the  fuel  of  wantonness  and  loose 
living,  proved  to  him  so  many  incitements  to  the 
love  and  observation  of  virtue."  His  favourite  au- 
thor after  the  Holy  Scriptures,  was  Homer.  Ho- 
mer he  could  repeat  almost  all  without  book ;  and 
he  was  advised  to  undertake  a  translation  of  his 
works,  which  no  doubt  he  would  have  executed  to 
admiration.  But  (as  he  says  of  himself  in  his 
postscript  to  the  Judgment  of  Martin  Bucer)  "  he 
never  could  delight  in  long  citations,  much  less  in 
whole  Inductions."  And  accordingly  there  are 
few  things,  and  those  of  no  great  length,  which  he 
has  ever  translated.  He  was  possessed  too  much 
of  an  original  genius  to  be  a  mere  copyer.  "  Whe- 
ther it  be  natural  disposition,"  says  he,  "  or  educa- 
tion in  me,  or  that  my  mother  bore  me  a  speaker 
of  what  God  made  my  own,  and  not  a  translator." 
And  it  is  somewhat  remarkable,  that  there  is  scarce 
any  author,  who  has  written  so  much,  and  upon 
such  various  subjects,  and  yet  quotes  so  little  from 
his  contemporary  authors,  or  so  seldom  mentions 
any  of  them.  He  praises  Selden,  indeed,  in  more 
places  than  one,  but  for  the  rest  he  appears  dispos- 
ed to  censure  rather  than  commend.  After  his 
severer  studies,  and  after  dinner,  as  we  observed 
before,  he  used  to  divert  and  unbend  his  mind  with 
playing  upon  the  organ  or  bass-viol,  which  was  & 
great  relief  to  him  after  he  had  lost  his  sight ;  for 
he  was  a  master  of  music,  as  was  his  father,  and 
he  could  perform  both  vocally  and  instrumentaJly, 
and  it  is  said  that  he  composed  very  well,  though 
nothing  of  this  kind  is  handed  down  to  us.  It  is 
also  said,  that  he  had  some  skill  in  painting  as  well 
as  in  music,  and  that  somewhere  or  other  there  Is 


XXVI 


LIFE  OP  JOHN  MILTON. 


a  head  of  Milton  drawn  by  himself:  but  he  was 
blessed  with  so  many  real  excellences,  that  there 
is  no  want  of  fictitious  ones  to  raise  and  adorn  his 
character.  He  had  a  quick  apprehension,  a  sub- 
lime imagination,  a  strong  memory,  a  piercing 
judgment,  a  wit  always  ready,  and  facetious  or 
grave  as  the  occasion  required :  and  I  know  not 
whether  the  loss  of  his  sight  did  not  add  vigour  to 
the  faculties  of  his  mind.  He  at  least  thought  so, 
and  often  comforted  himself  with  that  reflection. 

But  his  great  parts  and  learning  have  scarcely 
gained  him  more  admirers,  than  his  political  prin- 
ciples have  raised  him  enemies.  And  yet  the  dar- 
ling passion  of  his  soul  was  the  love  of  liberty ; 
this  was  his  constant  aim  and  end,  however  he 
might  be  mistaken  in  the  means.  He  was  indeed 
very  zealous  in  what  was  called  the  good  old  cause, 
and  with  his  spirit  and  his  resolution,  it  is  some- 
what wonderful,  that  he  never  ventured  his  person 
in  the  civil  war ;  but  though  he  vfas  not  in  arms, 
he  was  not  inactive,  and  thought,  I  suppose,  that 
he  could  be  of  more  service  to  the  cause  by  his  pen 
than  by  his  sword.  He  was  a  thorough  republi- 
can, and  in  this  he  thought  like  a  Greek  or  Ro- 
man, as  he  was  very  conversant  with  their  writ- 
ings. And  one  day  Sir  Robert  Howard,  who  was 
a  friend  to  Milton,  as  well  as  to  the  liberties  of  his 
country,  and  was  one  of  his  constant  visitors  to 
the  last,  inquired  of  him  how  he  came  to  side  with 
the  republicans.  Milton  answered,  among  other 
reasons,  because  their's  was  the  most  frugal  go- 
vernment, for  the  trappings  of  a  monarchy  might 
set  up  an  ordinary  commonwealth.  But  then  his 
attachment  to  Cromwell  must  be  condemned,  as 
being  neither  consistent  with  his  republican  prin- 
ciples, nor  with  his  love  of  liberty.  And  I  know 
no  other  way  of  accounting  for  his  conduct,  but 
by  presuming  (as  I  think  we  may  reasonably  pre- 
sume) that  he  was  far  from  entirely  approving  of 
Cromwell's  proceedings,  but  considered  him  as  the 
only  person  who  could  rescue  the  nation  from  the 
tyranny  of  the  Presbyterians,  who  he  saw  were 
erecting  a  worse  dominion  of  their  own  upon  the 
ruins  of  prelatical  episcopacy ;  and  of  all  things 
he  dreaded  spiritual  slavery,  and  therefore  closed 
with  Cromwell  and  the  Independents,  as  he  ex- 
pected under  them  greater  liberty  of  conscience. 
And  though  he  served  Cromwell,  yet  it  must  be 
said  for  him,  that  he  served  a  great  master,  and 
served  him  ably,  and  was  not  wanting  from  time 
to  time  in  giving  him  excellent  good  advice,  espe- 
cially in  his  second  Defence :  and  so  little  being 
said  of  him  in  all  Secretary  Thurloe's  state-papers, 
it  appears  that  he  had  no  great  share  in  the  secrets 
and  intrigues  of  government :  what  he  despatched 
was  little  more  than  matters  of  necessary  form, 
letters  and  answers  to  foreign  states ;  and  he  may 
be  justified  for  acting  in  such  a  station,  upon  the 
same  principle  as  Sir  Matthew  Hale,  for  holding 


a  judge's  commission  under  the  usurper :  and  in 
the  latter  part  of  his  life  he  frequently  expressed 
to  his  friends  his  entire  satisfaction  of  mind,  that 
he  had  constantly  employed  his  strength  and  fa- 
culties in  the  defence  of  liberty,  and  in  opposition 
to  slavery. 

In  matters  of  religion  too  he  has  given  as  great 
offence,  or  even  greater,  than  by  his  political  prin- 
ciples. But  still  let  not  the  infidel  glory:  no  such 
man  was  ever  of  that  party.  He  had  the  advan- 
tage of  a  pious  education,  and  ever  expressed  the 
profoundest  reverence  of  the  Deity  in  his  words 
and  actions,  was  both  a  Christian  and  a  Protestant, 
and  studied  and  admired  the  Holy  Scriptures  above 
all  other  books  whatsoever ;  and  in  all  his  writings 
plainly  shows  a  religious  turn  of  mind,  as 
well  in  verse  as  in  prose,  as  well  in  his  works  of  an 
earlier  date  as  in  those  of  later  composition.  When 
ic  wrote  the  Doctrine  and  Discipline  of  Divorce, 
ic  appears  to  have  been  a  Calvinist;  but  after- 
wards he  entertained  a  more  favourable  opinion 
of  Arminius.  Some  have  inclined  to  believe,  that 
le  was  an  Arian;  but  there  are  more  express  pas- 
sages in  his  works  to  overthrow  this  opinion,  than 
any  there  are  to  confirm  it.  For  in  the  conclusion 
)f  his  Treatise  of  Reformation  he  thus  solemnly 
nvokes  the  Trinity;  "  Thou  therefore  that  sittest 
n  light  and  glory  unapproachable,  parent  of  an- 
gels and  men!  next  thee  I  implore  Omnipotent 
King,  Redeemer  of  that  lost  remnant  whose  nature 
hou  didst  assume,  ineffable  and  everlasting  love ! 
And  thou  the  third  subsistence  of  divine  infinitude 
illumining  Spirit,  the  joy  and  solace  of  created 
hings !  one  tri-personal  Godhead !  look  upon  this 
hy  poor,  and  almost  spent  and  expiring  Church, 
&c."  And  in  his  tract  of  Prelatical  Episcopacy 
ic  endeavours  to  prove  the  spuriousness  of  some 
?pistles  attributed  to  Ignatius,  because  they  con- 
;ained  in  them  heresies,  one  of  which  heresies  is. 
that  "  he  condemns  them  for  ministers  of  Satan, 
who  say  that  Christ  is  God  above  all."  And  a 
ittle  after  in  the  same  tract  he  objects  to  the  au- 
hority  of  Tertullian,  because  he  went  about  to 
'  prove  an  imparity  between  God  the  Father,  and 
3rod  the  Son."  And  in  the  Paradise  Lost  we  shall 
hid  nothing  upon  this  head,  that  is  not  perfectly 
agreeable  to  Scripture.  The  learned  Dr.  Trap, 
who  was  as  likely  to  cry  out  upon  heresy  as  any 
man,  asserts  that  the  poem  is  orthodox  in  every 
jart  of  it;  or  otherwise  he  would  not  have  been  at 
he  pains  of  translating  it.  Neque  alienum  videtur 
a  studiis  viri  theologi  poema  magna  ex  parte  theo- 
'ogicum;  omni  ex  parte  (rideant,  per  me  licet,  atque 
ringantur  athei  et  infideles)  orthodoxum.  Milton 
was  indeed  a  dissenter  from  the  Church  of  Eng- 
and,  in  which  he  had  been  educated,  and  was  by 
lis  parents  designed  for  holy  orders,  as  we  related 
>efore;  but  he  was  led  away  by  early  prejudices 
against  the  doctrine  and  discipline  of  the  Church; 


LIFE  OF  JOHN  MILTON. 


XXVll 


and  in  his  younger  years  was  a  favourer  of  the 
Presbyterians;  in  his  middle  age  he  was  best 
pleased  with  the  Independents  and  Anabaptists,  as 
allowing  greater  liberty  of  conscience  than  others, 
and  coming  nearest  in  his  opinion  to  the  primitive 
practice ;  and  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life  he  was 
not  a  professed  member  of  any  particular  sect  of 
Christians,  he  frequented  no  public  worship,  nor 
used  any  religious  rite  in  his  family.  Whether  so 
many  different  forms  of  worship  as  he  had  seen, 
had  made  him  indifferent  to  all  forms;  or  whether 
he  thought  that  all  Christians  had  in  some  things 
corrupted  the  purity  and  simplicity  of  the  Gospel; 
or  whether  he  disliked  their  endless  and  uncharita- 
ble disputes,  and  that  love  of  dominion  and  inclina- 
tion to  persecution,  which  he  said  was  a  piece  of 
popery  inseparable  from  all  churches ;  or  whether 
he  believed,  that  a  man  might  be  a  good  Christian 
without  joining  in  any  communion ;  or  whether  he 
did  not  look  upon  himself  as  inspired,  as  wrapt  up 
in  God,  and  above  all  forms  and  ceremonies,  it  is 
not  easy  to  determine :  to  his  own  master  he  stand- 
ettt  orfalleth:  but  if  he  was  of  any  denomination, 
he  was  a  sort  of  a  Gluietist,  and  was  full  of  the  in- 
terior of  religion  though  he  so  little  regarded  the 
exterior;  and  it  is  certain  was  to  the  last  an  enthu- 
siast rather  than  an  infidel.  As  enthusiasm  made 
Norris  a  poet,  so  poetry  might  make  Milton  an 
enthusiast. 

His  circumstances  were  never  very  mean,  nor 
very  great;  for  he  lived  above  want,  and  was  not 
intent  upon  accumulating  wealth;  his  ambition 
was  more  to  enrich  and  adorn  his  mind.  His  fa- 
ther supported  him  in  his  travels,  and  for  some 
time  after.  Then  his  pupils  must  have  been  of 
some  advantage  to  him,  and  brought  him  either  a 
certain  stipend,  or  considerable  presents  at  least; 
and  he  had  scarcely  any  other  method  of  improv- 
ing his  fortune,  as  he  was  of  no  profession.  When 
his  father  died,  he  inherited  an  elder  son's  share  of 
his  estate,  the  principal  part  of  which,  I  believe, 
was  his  house  in  Bread-street :  And  not  long  after, 
he  was  appointed  Latin  Secretary,  with  a  salary 
of  two  hundred  pounds  a  year ;  so  that  he  was  now 
in  opulent  circumstances  for  a  man  who  had  al- 
ways led  a  frugal  and  temperate  life,  and  was  at 
little  unnecessary  expense  besides  buying  of  books. 
Though  he  was  of  the  victorious  party,  yet  he  was 
far  from  sharing  in  the  spoils  of  his  country.  On 
the  contrary,  (as  we  learn  from  his  second  De- 
fence) he  sustained  greater  losses  during  the  civil 
war,  and  was  not  at  all  favoured  in  the  imposition 
of  taxes,  but  sometimes  paid  beyond  his  due  pro- 
portion. And  upon  a  turn  of  affairs  he  was  not 
only  deprived  of  his  place,  but  also  lost  two  thou- 
sand pounds,  which  he  had,  for  security  and  im- 
provement, put  into  the  Excise  Office.  He  lost, 
likewise,  another  considerable  sum  for  want  of 
proper  care  and  management,  as  persons  of  Mil- 


ton's genius  are  seldom  expert  in  money  matters. 
And  in  the  fire  of  London  his  house  in  Bread- 
street  was  burnt,  before  which  accident,  foreigners 
have  gone,  out  of  devotion,  (says  Wood)  to  see  the 
bouse  and  chamber  where  he  was  born.  His  gains 
were  inconsiderable  in  proportion  to  his  losses ;  for 
excepting  the  thousand  pounds,  which  were  given 
him  by  the  government  for  writing  his  Defence  of 
the  people  against  Salmasius,  we  may  conclude 
that  he  got  very  little  by  the  copies  of  his  works, 
when  it  does  not  appear  that  he  received  any  more 
than  ten  pounds  for  Paradise  Lost.  Some  time 
before  he  died  he  sold  the  greatest  part  of  his  li- 
brary, as  his  heirs  were  not  qualified  to  make  a 
proper  use  of  it,  and  as  he  thought  that  he  could 
dispose  of  it  to  greater  advantage  than  they  could 
after  his  decease.  And  finally,  by  one  means  or 
other,  he  died  worth  one  thousand  five  hundred 
pounds,  besides  his  household  goods,  which  was 
no  incompetent  substance  for  him,  who  was  as 
great  a  philosopher  as  a  poet. 

To  this  account  of  Milton  it  may  be  proper  to 
add  something  concerning  his  family.  We  said 
before,  that  he  had  a  younger  brother  and  a  sister. 
His  brother,  Christopher  Milton,  was  a  man  of 
totally  opposite  principles ;  was  a  strong  royalist, 
and  after  the  civil  war  made  his  composition 
through  his  brother's  interest ;  had  been  entered 
young  a  student  in  the  Inner  Temple,  of  which 
house  he  lived  to  be  an  ancient  bencher ;  and  be- 
ing a  professed  papist,  was,  in  the  reign  of  James 
II,  made  a  judge,  and  knighted ;  but  soon  obtained 
his  quietus  by  reason  of  his  age  and  infirmities, 
and  retired  to  Ipswich,  where  he  lived  all  the  lat- 
ter part  of  his  life.  His  sister,  Anne  Milton,  had 
a  considerable  fortune  given  her  by  her  father  in 
marriage  with  Mr.  Edward  Philips,  (son  of  Mr. 
Edward  Philips,  of  Shrewsbury,)  who,  coming 
young  to  London,  was  bred  up  in  the  Crown  Of- 
fice in  Chancery,  and  at  length  became  secondary 
of  the  office  under  Mr.  Bembo.  By  him  she  had, 
besides  other  children  who  died  infants,  two  sons, 
Edward  and  John,  whom  we  have  had  frequent 
occasion  to  mention  before.  Among  our  author's 
juvenile  poems  there  is  a  copy  of  verses  on  the  death 
of  a  fair  infant,  a  nephew,  or  rather  niece  of  his, 
dying  of  a  cough ;  and  this  being  written  in  his 
seventeenth  year,  as  it  is  said  in  the  title,  it  may 
naturally  be  inferred  that  Mrs.  Philips  was  elder 
than  either  of  her  brothers.  She  had  likewise  two 
daughters,  Mary,  who  died  very  young,  and  Anne, 
who  was  living  in  1694,  by  a  second  husband,  Mr. 
Thomas  Agar,  who  succeeded  his  intimate  friend 
Mr.  Philips  in  his  place  in  the  Crown  Office,  which 
he  enjoyed  many  years,  and  left  to  Mr.  Thomas 
Milton,  son  of  Sir  Christopher  before  mentioned. 
As  for  Milton  himself  he  appears  to  have  been  no 
enemy  to  the  fair  sex  by  having  had  three  wives. 
What  fortune  he  had  with  any  of  them  is  no  where 


XXV111 


LIFE  OF  JOHN  MILTON. 


said,  but  they  were  gentlemen's  daughters ;  and  it 
is  remarkable  that  he  married  them  all  maidens, 
for  (as  he  says  in  his  Apology  for  Smectymnuus, 
which  was  written  before  he  married  at  all)  he 
"  thought  with  them,  who  both  in  prudence  and 
elegance  of  spirit  would  choose  a  virgin  of  mean 
fortunes,  honestly  bred,  before  the  wealthiest 
widow."  But  yet  he  seemeth  not  to  have  been 
very  happy  in  any  of  his  marriages ;  for  his  first 
wife  had  justly  offended  him  by  her  long  absence 
and  separation  from  him;  the  second,  whose  love, 
sweetness,  and  goodness  he  commends,  lived  not  a 
twelvemonth  with  him ;  and  his  third  wife  is  said 
to  have  been  a  woman  of  a  most  violent  spirit,  and 
a  hard  mother-in-law  to  his  children.  She  died 
very  old,  at  Nantwich,  in  Cheshire :  and  from  the 
accounts  of  those  who  had  seen  her,  I  have  learn- 
ed, that  she  confirmed  several  things  which  have 
been  related  before ;  and  particularly  that  her  hus- 
band used  to  compose  poetry  chiefly  in  winter,  and 
on  his  waking  in  a  morning  would  make  her  write 
down  sometimes  twenty  or  thirty  verses ;  and  be- 
ing asked  whether  he  did  not  often  read  Homer 
and  Virgil,  she  understood  it  as  an  imputation 
upon  him  for  stealing  from  those  authors,  and  an- 
swered with  eagerness,  that  he  stole  from  no  body 
but  the  Muse  who  inspired  him ;  and  being  asked 
by  a  lady  present  who  the  Muse  was,  replied,  it 
was  God's  grace,  and  the  Holy  Spirit  that  visited 
him  nightly.  She  was  likewise  asked  whom  he 
approved  most  of  our  English  poets,  and  answered, 
Spenser,  Shakspeare,  and  Cowley:  and  being 
asked  what  he  thought  of  Dryden,  she  said  Dry- 
den  used  sometimes  to  visit  him,  but  he  thought 
him  no  poet,  but  a  good  rhymist :  but  this  was  be- 
fore Dryden  had  composed  his  best  poems,  which 
made  his  name  so  famous  afterwards.  She  was 
wont,  moreover,  to  say,  that  her  husband  was  ap- 
plied to  by  message  from  the  King,  and  invited  to 
write  for  the  Court,  but  his  answer  was,  that  such 
a  behaviour  would  be  very  inconsistent  with  his 
former  conduct;  for  he  had  never  yet  employed  his 
pen  against  his  conscience.  By  his  first  wife  he 
had  four  children,  a  son,  who  died  an  infant,  and 
three  daughters,  who  survived  him;  by  his  second 
wife  he  had  only  one  daughter,  who  died  soon  after 
her  mother,  who  died  in  childbed  ;  and  by  his  last 
wife  he  had  no  children  at  all.  His  daughters  were 
not  sent  to  school,  but  were  instructed  by  a  mis- 
tress kept  at  home  for  that  purpose :  and  he  him- 
self, excusing  the  eldest  on  account  of  an  impedi- 
ment in  her  speech,  taught  the  two  others  to  read 
and  pronounce  Greek  and  Latin,  and  several  other 
languages,  without  understanding  any  but  Eng- 
lish, for  he  used  to  say  that  one  tongue  was  enough 
for  a  woman :  but  this  employment  was  very  irk- 
some to  them,  and  this,  together  with  the  sharp- 
ness and  severity  of  their  mother-in-law,  made  them 
very  uneasy  at  home ;  and  therefore  they  were  all 


sent  abroad  to  learn  things  more  proper  for  them, 
and  particularly  embroidery  in  gold  and  silver. 
As  Milton  at  his  death  left  his  affairs  very  much 
in  the  power  of  his  widow,  though  she  acknow- 
ledged that  he  died  worth  one  thousand  five  hun- 
dred pounds,  yet  she  allowed  but  one  hundred 
pounds  to  each  of  his  three  daughters.  Anne, 
the  eldest,  was  decrepit  and  deformed,  but  had  a 
very  handsome  face;  she  married  a  master-builder, 
and  died  in  childbed  of  her  first  child,  who  died 
with  her.  Mary,  the  second,  lived  and  died  single. 
Deborah,  the  youngest,  in  her  father's  life  time 
went  over  to  Ireland  with  a  lady,  and  afterwards 
was  married  to  Mr.  Abraham  Clarke,  a  weaver  in 
Spittle  Fields,  and  died  in  August,  1727,  in  the 
seventy  sixth  year  of  her  age.  She  is  said  to  have 
been  a  woman  of  good  understanding,  and  genteel 
behaviour,  though  in  low  circumstances.  As  she 
had  been  often  called  upon  to  read  Homer  and 
Ovid's  Metamorphoses  to  her  father,  she  could 
have  repeated  a  considerable  number  of  verses  from 
the  beginning  of  both  those  poets,  as  Mr.  Ward, 
Professor  of  Rhetoric  in  Gresham  College,  relates 
upon  his  own  knowledge ;  and  another  gentleman 
has  informed  me,  that  he  has  heard  her  repeat  se- 
veral verses  likewise  out  of  Euripides.  Mr.  Ad- 
dison,  and  the  other  gentlemen,  who  had  oppor- 
tunities of  seeing  her,  knew  her  immediately  to  be 
Milton's  daughter,  by  the  similitude  of  her  coun- 
tenance to  her  father's  picture :  and  Mr.  Addison 
made  her  a  handsome  present  of  a  purse  of  guineas 
with  a  promise  of  procuring  for  her  some  annual 
provision  for  her  life;  but  his  death  happening 
soon  after,  she  lost  the  benefit  of  this  generous  de- 
sign. She  received  presents  likewise  from  several 
other  gentlemen,  and  ducen  Caroline  sent  her 
fifty  pounds  by  the  hands  of  Dr.  Friend,  the  phy- 
sician. She  had  ten  children,  seven  sons  and  three 
daughters ;  but  none  of  them  had  any  children, 
except  one  of  her  sons  named  Caleb,  and  one  of 
her  daughters  named  Elizabeth.  Caleb  went  to 
Fort  St.  George,  in  the  East  Indies,  where  he  mar- 
ried, and  had  two  sons,  Abraham  and  Isaac ;  the 
elder  of  whom  came  to  England  with  the  late  gov- 
ernor Harrison,  but  returned  upon  advice  of  his 
father's  death,  and  whether  he  or  his  brother  be 
now  living  is  uncertain.  Elizabeth,  the  youngest 
child  of  Mrs.  Clarke,  was  married  to  Mr.  Thomas 
Foster,  a  weaver  in  Spittle  Fields,  and  had  seven 
children  who  are  all  dead  ;  and  she  herself  is  aged 
about  sixty,  and  weak  and  infirm.  She  seems  to 
be  a  good,  plain,  sensible  woman,  and  has  con- 
firmed several  particulars  related  above,  and  in- 
formed me  of  some  others,  which  she  had  often 
heard  from  her  mother :  and  her  granfather  lost 
two  thousand  pounds  by  a  money-scrivener,  whom 
he  had  intrusted  with  that  sum,  and  likewise 
an  estate  at  Westminster  of  sixty  pounds  a  year, 
which  belonged  to  the  Dean  and  Chapter,  and 


LIFE  OP  JOHN  MILTON. 


XXIX 


was  restored  to  them  at  the  Restoration  :  that  he 
was  very  temperate  in  his  eating  and  drinking,  but 
what  he  had  he  always  loved  to  have  of  the  best 
that  he  seldom  wont  abroad  in  the  latter  part  of  his 
life,  bir  even  then  by  persons  of  distinc- 

tion, both  I',.-  -t  he  kept  his 

daughters  at  'fice,  and  would  not  allow 

them  to  learn  to  write,  which  he  thought  unnecessary 
for  a  woman  :  that  her  mother  was  his  greatest  fa- 
vourite, and  could  read  in  seven  or  eight  languages, 
though  she  understood  none  but  English :  that  her 
mother  inherited  his  headachs  and  disorders,  and 
had  such  a  a  her  eyes,  that  she  was 

forced  to  make  use  of  spectacles  from  the  age  of 
eighteen ;  and  she  herself,  she  says,  has  not  been 
able  to  read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible  these  twenty 
years:  that  she  was  mistaken  in  informing  Mr. 
Birch,  which  he  had  printed  upon  her  authority, 
that  Milton's  fatlxer  was  born  in  France ;  and  a 
brother  of  hers  who  was^feen  living  was  very  angry 
with  her  for  it,  and,  like  a  true  born  Englishman, 
resented  it  highly ,  that  the  family  should  be  thought 
to  bear  any  relation  to  France :  that  Milton's  se- 
cond wife  did  not  die  in  childbed,  as  Mr.  Philips 
and  Toland  relate,  but  above  three  months  after 
of  a  consumption ;  and  this  too  Mr.  Birch  relates 
upon  her  authority;  but  in  this  particular  she 
must  be  mistaken,  as  well  as  in  the  other,  for  our 
author's  sonnet  on  his  deceased  wife  plainly  implies 
that  she  did  die  in  childbed.  She  knows  nothing 
of  her  aunt  Philips  or  Agar's  descendants,  but  be- 
lieves that  they  are  all  extinct :  as  is  likewise  Sir 
Christopher  Milton's  family,  the  last  of  which,  she 
says,  were  two  maiden  sisters,  Mrs.  Mary  and  Mrs. 
Catharine  Milton,  who  lived  and  died  at  Highgate ; 
but  unknown  to  her  there  is  a  Mrs.  Milton  living 
in  Grosvenor-street,  the  grand-daughter  of  Sir 
Christopher,  and  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Thomas 
Milton  before  mentioned :  and  she  herself  is  the 
only  survivor  of  Milton's  own  family,  unless  there 
be  some  in  the  East  Indies,  which  she  very  much 
questions,  for  she  used  to  hear  from  them  some- 
times, but  has  heard  nothing  now  for  several  years; 
so  that,  in  all  probability,  Milton's  whole  family 
will  be  extinct  with  her,  and  he  can  live  only  in 
his  writings.  And  such  is  the  caprice  of  fortune, 
this  grand-daughter  of  a  man,  who  will  be  an  ever- 
lasting glory  to  the  nation,  has  now  for  some  years 
with  her  husband  kept  a  little  chandler's  or  gro- 
cer's shop  for  their  subsistence,  lately  at  the  lower 
Holloway,  in  the  road  between  Highgate  and 
London,  and  at  present  in  Cock  Lane,  not  far! 
from  Shoreditch  Church.  Another  thing  let  me 
mention,  that  is  equally  to  the  honour  of  the  pre- 
sent age.  Though  Milton  received  not  above  ten 
pounds,  at  two  different  payments,  for  the  copy  of 
Paradise  Lost,  yet  Mr.  Hoyle,  author  of  the  trea- 


tise on  the  Game  of  Whist,  after  having  disposed 
of  all  the  first  impression,  sold  the  copy  to  the 
bookseller,  as  I  have  been  informed,  for  two  hun- 
dred guineas. 

As  we  have  had  occasion  to  mention  more  than 
once  Milton's  manuscripts  preserved  in  the  library 
of  Trinity  College  in  Cambridge,  it  may  not  be 
ungrateful  to  the  reader,  if  we  give  a  more  parti- 
cular account  of  them,  before  we  conclude.  There 
are,  as  we  said,  two  draughts  of  a  letter  to  a  friend 
who  had  importuned  him  to  take  orders,  together 
with  a  sonnet  on  his  being  arrived  to  the  age  of 
twenty-three;  and  by  there  being  two  draughts  of 
this  letter  with  several  alterations  and  additions, 
it  appears  to  have  been  written  with  great  care 
and  deliberation;  and  both  the  draughts  have  been 
published  by  Mr.  Birch  in  his  Historical  and  Cri- 
tical Account  of  the  life  and  writings  of  Milton. 
There  are  also  several  of  his  poems,  Arcades,  At 
a  solemn  music,  On  time,  Upon  the  circumcision, 
the  Mask,  Lycidas,  with  five  or  six  of  his  sonnets, 
all  in  his  own  hand  writing :  and  there  are  some 
others  of  his  sonnets  written  by  different  hands, 
being  most  of  them  composed  after  he  had  lost  his 
sight.  It  is  curious  to  see  the  first  thoughts  and 
subsequent  corrections  of  so  great  a  poet  as  Mil- 
ton :  but  it  is  remarkable  in  these  manuscript  poems, 
that  he  does  not  often  make  his  stops,  or  begin 
his  lines  with  great  letters.  There  are  likewise 
in  his  own  hand-writing  different  plans  of  Para- 
dise Lost  in  the  form  of  a  tragedy:  and  it  is  an 
agreeable  amusement  to  trace  the  gradual  progress 
and  improvement  of  such  a  work  from  its  first 
dawnings  in  the  plan  of  a  tragedy  to  its  full  lustre 
in  an  epic  poem.  And  together  with  the  plans 
of  Paradise  Lost  there  are  the  plans  or  subjects  of 
several  other  intended  tragedies,  some  taken  from 
the  Scripture,  others  from  the  British  or  Scottish 
liistories:  and  of  the  latter  the  last  mentioned  is 
Macbeth,  as  if  is  he  had  an  inclination  to  try  his 
strength  with  Shakspeare;  and  to  reduce  the  play 
more  to  the  unities  he  proposes,  "  beginning  at  the 
arrival  of  Malcolm  at  Macduff;  the  matter  of 
Duncan  may  be  expressed  by  the  appearing  of  his 
ghost."  These  manuscripts  of  Milton  were  found 
by  the  learned  Mr.  Professor  Mason  among  some 
other  old  papers,  which,  he  says,  belonged  to  Sir 
Henry  Newton  Puckering,  who  was  a  considera- 
ble benefactor  to  the  library :  and  for  the  better 
preservation  of  such  truly  valuable  relics,  they  were 
collected  together,  and  handsomely  bound  in  a  thin 
folio  by  the  care  and  at  the  charge  of  a  person, 
who  is  now  very  eminent  in  his  profession,  and 
was  always  a  lover  of  the  Muses,  and  at  that  time 
a  fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Mr.  Clarke,  one  of  his 
Majesty's  council. 


XXX 


ENCOMIUMS  UPON  MILTON. 


23ncomiums  UJMW  Jttilton. 


IN  PARADISUM  AMISSAM  SUMMI 
POET^E  JOHANNIS  MILTONI. 

SAMUELE  BARROW,  M.  D.  AUCTORE. 

Clui  legis  Araissam  Paradisum,  grandia  magni 

Carmina  MILTONI,  quid  nisicuncta  legist 
Res  cunctas,  et  cunctarum  primordia  rerum, 

Et  fata,  et  fines,  continet  iste  liber. 
Intima  panduntur  magni  penetralia  mundi, 

Scribitur  et  toto  quicquid  in  orbe  latet: 
Terraeque,  tractusque  maris,  ccelumque  profun- 
dum, 

Sulphureumque  Erebi,  flammivomumque  spe- 

cus: 

Gluseque  colunt  terras,  pontumque,  et  Tartara 
caeca, 

duaeque  colunt  summi  lucida  regna  poll : 
Et  quodcunque  ullis  conclusum  est  finibus  usquam, 

Et  sine  fine  Chaos,  et  sine  fine  Deus; 
Et  sine  fine  magis,  si  quid  magis  est  sine  fine, 

In  Christo  erga  homines  conciliatus  amor. 
Haec  quisperaret  quis  crederet  esse  futurum'? 

Et  tamen  haec  hodie  terra  Britanna  legit. 
O  quantos  in  bella  duces!  quae  protulit  arma! 

Gluaecanit,  et  quanta  praeliadira  tubat 
Ccelestes  acies !  atque  in  certamine  ccelum ! 

Et  quae  coelestes  pugna  deceret  agros! 
Ctuantus  in  sethereis  tollit  se  Lucifer  armis ! 

Atque  ipso  graditur  vix  Michaele  minor ! 
Cluantis,  et  quam  funestis  concurritur  iris, 

Dum  ferus  hie  stellas  protegit,  ille  rapit! 
Dum  vulsos  montes  ceu  tela  reciproca  torquent, 

Et  non  mortali  desuper  igne  pluunt: 
Stat  dubius  cui  se  parti  concedat  Olympus, 

Et  metuit  pugnss  non  superesse  suse. 
At  simul  in  ccelis  Messiae  insignia  fulgent, 

Et  currus  animes,  armaque  digna  Deo, 
Horrendumque  rotse  strident,  et  saevarotarum 

Erumpunt  torvis  fulgura  luminibus, 
Et  flammse  vibrant,  et  vera  tonitrua  rauco 

Admistis  flammis  insonuere  polo: 
Excidit  attonitis  mens  omnis,  et  impetus  omnis, 

Et  cassis  dextris  irrita  tela  cadunt; 
Ad  pcenas  fugiunt ;  et,  ceu  foret  Orcus  asylum, 

Infernis  certant  condere  se  tenebris. 
Cedite,  Romani  Scriptores;  cedite,  Graii; 
Et  quos  fama  recens  vel  celebravit  anus. 
Hsec  quicunque  leget  tantum  cecinisse  putabit 
Mssonidem  ranas,  Virgilium  culices. 


ON  PARADISE  LOST. 

BY  ANDREW  MARVELL. 

WHEN  I  beheld  the  Poet  blind,  yet  bold, 
In  slender  book  his  vast  design  unfold, 


Vtessiah  crowned,  God's  reconciled  decree, 
lebelling  angels,  the  forbidden  tree, 
leaven,  Hell,  Earth,  Chaos,  all;  the  argument 
leld  me  awhile  misdoubting  his  intent, 
That  he  would  ruin  (for  I  saw  him  strong) 
Phe  sacred  truths  to  fable  and  old  song; 
So  Samson  groped  the  temple's  post  in  spight,)- 
The  world  o'erwhelming,  to  revenge  his  sight. 

Yet,  as  I  read,  still  growing  less  severe, 
liked  his  project,  the  success  did  fear ; 
Through  that  wide  field  how  he  his  way  should 

find, 

O'er  which  lame  Faith  leads  Understanding  blind; 
^est  he'd  perplex  the  things  he  would  explain, 
And  what  was  easy  he  should  render  vain. 

Or  if  a  work  so  infinite  he  spann'd, 
'ealous  I  was,  that  some  less  skilful  hand 
Such  as  disquiet  always  what  is  well, 
And,  by  ill  imitating  would  excel) 
Might  hence  presume  the  whole  creation's  day 
To  change  in  scenes,  and  show  it  in  a  play. 

Pardon  me,  mighty  poet,  nor  despise 
Vly  causeless,  yet  not  impious  surmise: 
But  I  am  now  convinced;  and  none  will  dare 
Within  thy  labours  to  pretend  a  share. 
Thou  hast  not  missed  one  thought  that  could  be  fit. 
And  all  that  was  improper  dost  omit : 
So  that  no  room  is  here  for  writers  left, 
But  to  detect  their  ignorance  or  theft. 

That  majesty,  which  through  thy  work  doth 

reign, 

Draws  the  devout,  deterring  the  profane: 
And  things  divine  thou  treat'st  of  in  such  state 
As  them  preserves,  and  thee,  inviolate. 
At  once  delight  and  horror  on  us  seize, 
Thou  sing'st  with  so  much  gravity  and  ease; 
And  above  human  flight  dost  soar  aloft 
With  plume  so  strong,  so  equal,  and  so  soft: 
The  bird,  named  from  that  Paradise  you  sing, 
So  never  flags,  but  always  keeps  on  wing. 

Where  could'st  thou  words  of  such  a  compass- 

find? 

Whence  furnish  such  a  vast  expense  of  mindl 
Just  Heaven  thee,  like  Tiresias,  to  requite, 
Rewards  with  prophecy  thy  loss  of  sight. 
Well  might'st  thou  scorn  thy  readers  to  allure 
With  tinkling  rhyme,  of  thy  own  sense  secure; 
While  the  Town-Bays  writes  all  the  while  and 

spells, 

And,  like  a  pack-horse,  tires  without  his  bells: 
Their  fancies  like  our  bushy  points  appear; 
The  poets  tag  them,  we  for  fashion  wear. 
I  too,  transported  by  the  mode,  offend, 
And,  while  I  meant  to  praise  thee,  must  com- 
mend: 


ENCOMIUMS  UPON  MILTON. 


xxxi 


Thy  verse  created,  like  thy  theme,  sublime, 

In  number,  weight,  and  measure,  needs  not  rhyme. 


EPIGRAM  ON  MILTON. 

BY  DRYDEN. 

THREE  Poets,  in  three  distant  ages  bom, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England,  did  adorn: 
The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed; 
The  next,  in  majesty;  in  both  the  last. 
The  force  of  Nature  could  no  farther  go: 
To  make  a  third  she  joined  the  former  two. 


FROM  AN  ACCOUNT  OP 

THE  GREATEST  ENGLISH  POETS. 

BY  ADDISON. 

BUT  MILTON*  next,  with  high  and  haughty  stalks, 

Unfetter'd,  in  majestic  numbers,  walks: 

No  vulgar  hero  can  his  Muse  engage, 

Nor  earth's  wide  scene  confine  his  hallowed  rage. 

See!  see!  he  upward  springs,  and,  towering  high, 

Spurns  the  dull  province  of  mortality; 

Shakes  Heaven's  eternal  throne  with  dire  alarms, 

And  sets  th'  Almighty  Thunderer  in  arms! 

Whate'er  his  pen  describes  I  more  than  see, 

Whilst  every  verse  array'd  in  majesty, 

Bold  and  sublime,  my  whole  attention  draws, 

And  seems  above  the  critic's  nicer  laws. 

How  are  you  struck  with  terror  and  delight, 

When  angel  with  archangel  copes  in  fight ! 

When  great  Messiah's  outspread  banner  shines, 

How  does  the  chariot  rattle  in  his  lines! 

What  sound  of  brazen  wheels,  with  thunder,  scare 

And  stun  the  reader  with  the  din  of  war! 

With  fear  my  spirits  and  my  blood  retire, 

To  see  the  seraphs  sunk  in  clouds  of  fire : 

But  when,  with  eager  steps,  from  hence  I  rise, 

And  view  the  first  gay  scene  of  Paradise; 

What  tongue,  what  words  of  rapture,  can  express 

A  vision  so  profuse  of  pleasantness ! 


ADDRESS  TO  GREAT  BRITAIN. 

FROM  THOMSON'S  SUMMER. 


-For  lofty  sense, 


Creative  fancy,  and  inspection  keen 

Through  the  deep  windings  of  the  human  heart, 

Is  not  wild  Shakspeare  thine  and  Nature's  boast? 

Is  not  each  great,  each  amiable,  Muse 

Of  classic  ages  in  thy  MILTON  met! 

A  genius  universal  as  his  theme ; 

Astonishing  as  chaos ;  as  the  bloom 

Of  blowing  Eden  fair;  as  Heaven  sublime ! 


DR.  JOHNSON'S  PROLOGUE 

TO  THE 
MASK  OF  COMUS. 

Acted  at  the  Drury-Lane  Theatre,  April  5,  1750, 
for  the  benefit  of  Mil ton 's  grand-daughter. 

YE  patriot  crowds,  who  burn  for  England's  fame, 
Ye  nymphs,  whose  bosoms  beat  at  MILTON'S  name, 
Whose  generous  zeal,  unbought  by  flattering 

rhymes, 

Shames  the  mean  pensions  of  Augustan  times; 
Immortal  patrons  of  succeeding  days, 
Attend  this  prelude  of  perpetual  praise ! 
Let  Wit,  condemn'd  the  feeble  war  to  wage 
With  close  malevolence,  or  public  rage; 
Let  Study,  worn  with  virtue's  fruitless  lore, 
Behold  this  Theatre,  and  grieve  no  more. 
This  night,  distinguished  by  your  smiles,  shall  tell, 
That  never  Britain  can  in  vain  excel ; 
The  slighted  arts  futurity  shall  trust, 
And  rising  ages  hasten  to  be  just. 

At  length  our  mighty  Bard's  victorious  lays 
Fill  the  loud  voice  of  universal  praise; 
And  baffled  Spite,  with  hopeless  anguish  dumb, 
Yields  to  renown  the  centuries  to  come ; 
With  ardent  haste  each  candidate  of  fame, 
Ambitious,  catches  at  his  towering  name: 
He  sees,  and  pitying  sees,  vain  wealth  bestow 
Those  pageant  honours  which  he  scorned  below, 
While  crowds  aloft  the  laureat  bust  behold, 
Or  trace  his  form  on  circulating  gold. 
Unknown, — unheeded,  long  his  offspring  lay, 
And  want  hung  threatening  o'er  her  slow  decay. 
What  though  she  shine  with  no  Miltonian  fire, 
No  favouring  Muse  her  morning-dreams  inspire ; 
Yet  softer  claims  the  melting  heart  engage, 
Her  youth  laborious,  and  her  blameless  age ; 
Hers  the  mild  merits  of  domestic  life, 
The  patient  sufferer,  and  the  faithful  wife. 
Thus  graced  with  humble  Virtue's  native  charms, 
Her  grandsire  leaves  her  in  Britannia's  arms; 
Secure  with  peace,  with  competence,  to  dwell, 
While  tutelary  nations  guard  her  cell. 
Yours  is  the  charge,  ye  fair,  ye  wise,  ye  brave! 
'Tis  yours  to  crown  desert — beyond  the  grave. 


FROM 

GRAY'S  PROGRESS  OF  POESY. 

NOR  second  HE  that  rode  sublime 

Upon  the  seraph-wings  of  ecstasy; 

The  secrets  of  th:  abyss  to  spy, 

He  pass'd  the  flaming  bounds  of  place  and  time : 

The  living  throne,  the  sapphire  blaze, 

Where  angels  tremble  while  they  gaze, 

He  saw;  but,  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 

Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 


XXX11 


ENCOMIUMS  UPON  MILTON. 


FROM 

COLLINS'S  ODE  ON  THE  POETICAL 
CHARACTER. 

HIGH  on  some  cliff,  to  Heaven  up-piled, 

Of  rude  access,  of  prospect  wild, 

Where,  tangled  round  the  jealous  steep, 

Strange  shades  o'erbrow  the  vallies  deep, 

And  holy  Genii  guard  the  rock, 

Its  glooms  embrown,  its  springs  unlock, 

While  on  its  rich  ambitious  head 

An  Eden,  like  his  own,  lies  spread; 

I  view  that  oak  the  fancied  glades  among, 

By  which  as  MILTON  lay,  his  evening  ear, 

From  many  a  cloud  that  dropp'd  ethereal  dew, 

Nigh  sphered  in  Heaven,  its  native  strains  could 

hear, 
On  which  that  ancient  trump  he  reached  was 

hung; 

Thither  oft  his  glory  greeting, 
From  Waller's  myrtle-shades  retreating, 
With  many  a  vow  from  Hope's  aspiring  tongue, 
My  trembling  feet  his  guiding  steps  pursue; 

In  vain: Such  bliss  to  one  alone 

Of  all  the  sons  of  Soul  was  known ; 
And  Heaven  and  Fancy,  kindred  powers, 
Have  now  o'erturn'd  th'  inspiring  bowers, 
Or  curtain'd  close  such  scene  from  every  future 

view. 


FROM 

MASON'S  ODE  TO  MEMORY. 

RISE,  hallow'd  MILTON!  rise,  and  say, 

How,  at  thy  gloomy  close  of  day; 
How,  when  '  depress'd  by  age,  beset  with  wrongs;' 
When  '  fall'n  on  evil  days  and  evil  tongues :' 

When  Darkness,  brooding  on  thy  sight, 

Exil'd  the  sovereign  lamp  of  light: 
Say,  what  could  then  one  cheering  hope  diffuse1? 
What  friends  were  thine,  save  Memory  and  the 
Muse  1 

Hence  the  rich  spoils  thy  studious  youth 

Caught  from  the  stores  of  ancient  Truth; 
Hence  all  thy  busy  eye  could  pleas'd  explore, 
When  Rapture  led  thee  to  the  Latian  shore; 

Each  scene  that  Tiber's  bank  supplied; 

Each  grace,  that  play'd  on  Arno's  side; 
The  tepid  gales,  through  Tuscan  glades  that  fly; 
The  blue  serene,  that  spreads  Hesperia's  sky; 

Were  still  thine  own:  thy  ample  mind 

Each  charm  receiv'd,  retain'd,  combin'd. 
And  thence  the  nighrfy  visitant  that  came 
To  touch  thy  bosom  with  her  sacred  flame, 

RecalFd  the  long-lost  beams  of  grace ; 

That  whilom  shot  from  Nature's  face, 


When  God  in  Eden,  o'er  her  youthful  breast 
Spread  with  his  own  right  hand  Perfection's  gor- 
geous vest. 


FROM 

DR.  ROBERTS'  EPISTLE  ON  THE 
ENGLISH  POETS. 

ADDRESSED  TO  CHRISTOPHER  ANSTEY,  ESQ.. 

POET  of  other  times !  to  thee  I  bow 

With  lowliest  reverence.   Oft  thou  tak'st  my  soul, 

And  waft'st  it  by  thy  potent  harmony 

To  that  empyreal  mansion,  where  thine  ear 

Caught  the  soft  warblings  of  a  seraph's  harp, 

What  time  the  nightly  visitant  unlock'd 

The  gates  of  Heaven,  and  to  thy  mental  sight 

Display'd  celestial  scenes.     She  from  thy  lyre 

With  indignation  tore  the  tinkling  bells, 

And  turn'd  it  to  sublimest  argument. 


FROM 

COWPER'S  TABLE  TALK. 

AGES  elaps'd  ere  Homer's  lamp  appear'd, 
And  ages  ere  the  Mantuan  swan  was  heard: 
To  carry  Nature  lengths  unknown  before, 
And  give  a  MILTON  birth,  ask'd  ages  more. 
Thus  Genius  rose  and  set  at  order'd  times, 
And  shot  a  day-spring  into  distant  climes, 
Ennobling  every  region  that  he  chose; 
He  sunk  in  Greece,  in  Italy  he  rose; 
And  tedious  years  of  gothic  darkness  pass'd, 
Emerg'd  all  splendour  in  our  isle  at  last. 
Thus  lovely  halcyons  dive  into  the  main, 
Then  show  far  off  their  shining  plumes  again. 


FROM 
THE  SAME  AUTHOR'S  TASK,  B.  III. 


-PHILOSOPHY,  baptized 


In  the  pure  fountain  of  eternal  love, 

Has  eyes  indeed;  and,  viewing  all  she  sees 

As  meant  to  indicate  a  GOD  to  man, 

Gives  Him  his  praise,  and  forfeits  not  her  own. 

Learning  has  borne  such  fruit  in  other  days 

On  all  her  branches:  Piety  has  found 

Friends  in  the  friends  of  science,  and  true  prayer 

Has  flow'd  from  lips  wet  with  Castalian  dews. 

Such  was  thy  wisdom,  Newton,  child-like  sage 

Sagacious  reader  of  the  works  of  God, 

And  in  his  word  sagacious.    Such  too,  thine, 

MILTON,  whose  genius  had  angelic  wings, 

And  fed  on  manna. — = 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


BOOK  I. 

THE  ARGUMENT. 

This  first  book  proposes,  first  in  brief;  the  whole  subject, 
man's  disobedience,  and  the  loss  thereupon  of  Paradise  where- 
in he  was  placed :  then  touches  the  prime  cause  of  his  fall,  the 
serpent,  or  rather  Satan  in  the  serpent;  who,  revolting  from 
God,  and  drawing  to  his  side  many  legions  of  Angels,  was,  by 
the  command  of  God,  driven  out  of  Heaven,  with  all  his  crew, 
into  the  great  deep.  Which  action  passed  over,  the  poem 
hastens  into  the  midst  of  things,  presenting  Satan  with  his 
angels  now  fallen  into  Hell,  described  here,  not  in  the  centre, 
(for  heaven  and  earth  may  be  supposed  as  yet  not  made,  cer- 
tainly not  yet  accursed,)  but  in  a  place  of  utter  darkness,  fit- 
liest  called  Chaos.  Here  Satan,  with  his  angels,  lying  on  the 
burning  lake,  thunderstruck  and  astonished,  after  a  certain 
space  recovers,  as  from  confusion,  calls  up  him  who  next  in 
order  and  dignity  lay  by  him :  they  confer  of  their  miserable 
fall.  Satan  awakens  all  his  legions,  who  lay  till  then  in  the 
same  manner  confounded.  They  rise ;  their  numbers ;  array 
of  battle ;  their  chief  leaders  named,  according  to  the  idols 
known  afterwards  in  Canaan  and  the  countries  adjoining.  To 
these  Satan  directs  his  speech,  comforts  them  with  hope  yet 
of  regaining  heaven ;  but  tells  them  lastly  of  a  new  world  and 
a  new  kind  of  creature  to  be  created,  according  to  an  ancient 
prophecy  or  report  in  heaven ;  for  that  angels  were  long  before 
this  visible  creation,  was  the  opinion  of  many  ancient  fathew. 
To  find  out  the  truth  of  this  prophecy,  and  what  to  determine 
thereon,  he  refers  to  a  full  council.  What  his  associates 
thence  attempt  Pandemonium,  the  palace  of  Satan,  rises, 
suddenly  built  out  of  the  deep :  the  infernal  peers  there  sit 
in  council 

OF  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all  our  wo, 
With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  greater  Man 
Restore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful  seat, 
Sing,  heav'nly  Muse,  that  on  the  secret  top 
Of  Oreb,  or  of  Sinai,  didst  inspire 
That  shepherd,  who  first  taught  the  chosen  seed, 
In  the  beginning  how  the  Heav'ns  and  Earth 
Rose  out  of  Chaos:  or  if  Sion  hill 
Delight  thee  more,  and  Siloa's  brook,  that  flowed 
^Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God;  I  thence 
Invoke  thy  aid  to  my  advent'rous  song, 
That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar 
Above  the  Aonian  mount,  while  it  pursues 
9 


Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme. 
And  chiefly  Thou,  O  Spirit,  that  dost  prefer 
Before  all  temples  the  upright  heart  and  pure, 
Instruct  me,  for  thou  knowest;  Thou  from  the  first 
Wast  present,  and  with  mighty  wings  outspread, 
Dove-like,  sat'st  brooding  on  the  vast  abyss, 
And  mad'st  it  pregnant :  what  in  me  is  dark 
Illumine;  what  is  low  raise  and  support; 
That  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument 
I  may  assert  eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 

Say  first,  for  Heav'n  hides  nothing  from  thy  view, 
Nor  the  deep  tract  of  Hell ;  say  first,  what  cause 
Moved  our  grand  parents,  in  that  happy  state, 
Favoured  of  Heaven  so  highly,  to  fall  off 
From  their  Creator,  and  transgress  his  will 
For  one  restraint,  lords  of  the  world  besides? 
Who  first  seduced  them  to  that  foul  revolt  1 
Th'  infernal  serpent;  he  it  was,  whose  guile 
Stirr'd  up  with  envy  and  revenge,  deceived 
The  mother  of  mankind,  what  time  his  pride 
Had  cast  him  out  from  Heaven,  with  all  his  host 
Of  rebel  angels;  by  whose  aid  aspiring 
To  set  himself  in  glory  above  his  peers, 
He  trusted  to  have  equall'd  the  Most  High 
If  he  opposed ;  and,  with  ambitious  aim 
Against  the  throne  and  monarchy  of  God, 
Raised  impious  war  in  Heav'n,  and  battle  proud, 
With  vain  attempt.     Him  the  almighty  power 
Hurled  headlong  flaming  from  the  ethereal  sky, 
With  hideous  ruin  and  combustion,  down 
To  bottomless  perdition,  there  to  dwell 
In  adamantine  chains  and  penal  fire, 
Who  durst  defy  th'  Omnipotent  to  arms. 
Nine  times  the  space  that  measures  day  and  night 
To  mortal  men,  he  with  his  horrid  crew 
Lay  vanquished,  rolling  in  the  fiery  gulf, 
Confounded,  though  immortal:  but  his  doom 
Reserved  him  to  more  wrath;  for  now  the  thought 
Both  of  lost  happiness,  and  lasting  pain, 
Torments  him;  round  he  throws  his  baleful  eyes, 
That  witnessed  huge  affliction  and  dismay, 
Mixed  with  obdurate  pride  and  steadfast  hate: 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  i. 


At  once,  ashlar  as  angels -ken.;  he  "views 

The  dismal -skufxti^n  \taftt^  an<«:  wild; 

A  dungeon  horrible  on  all  sides  round, 

As  one  great  furnace  flamed;  yet  from  those  flames 

No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible 

Served  only  to  discover  sights  of  wo, 

Regions  of  sorrow,  doleful  shades,  where  peace 

And  rest  can  never  dwell,  hope  never  comes 

That  comes  to  all;  but  torture  without  end 

Still  urges,  and  a  fiery  deluge,  fed 

With  ever-burning  sulphur  unconsumed; 

Such  place  eternal  Justice  had  prepared 

I' or  those  rebellious ;  here  their  prison  ordained 

In  utter  darkness,  and  their  portion  set 

As  far  removed  from  God  and  light  of  heav'n, 

As  from  the  centre  thrice  to  th'  utmost  pole. 

O  how  unlike  the  place  from  whence  they  fell ! 

There  the  companions  of  his  fall,  o'erwhelmed 

With  floods  and  whirlwinds  of  tempestuous  fire, 

He  soon  discerns;  and  welt'ring  by  his  side 

One  next  himself  in  power,  and  next  in  crime, 

Long  after  known  in  Palestine,  and  named 

Beelzebub.     To  whom  th'  arch  enemy, 

And  thence  in  Heav'n  called  Satan,  with  bold  words 

Breaking  the  horrid  silence  thus  began. 

"  If  thou  beest  he;    but   O  how  fall'n!   how 

changed 

From  him,  who,  in  the  happy  realms  of  light, 
Clothed  with  transcendent  brightness,  didst  out- 
shine 

Myriads  though  bright !  If  he  whom  mutual  league, 
United  thoughts  and  counsels,  equal  hope 
And  hazard  in  the  glorious  enterprise, 
Joined  with  me  once,  now  misery  hath  joined 
In  equal  ruin !  into  what  pit  thou  seest, 
From  what  height  fall'n;  so  much  the  stronger 

proved 

He  with  his  thunder :  and  till  then  who  knew 
The  force  of  those  dire  arms  1  yet  not  for  those, 
Nor  what  the  potent  victor  in  his  rage 
Can  else  inflict,  do  I  repent  or  change, 
Though  changed  in  outward  lustre,  that  fixed 

mind, 

And  high  disdain  from  sense  of  injured  merit, 
That  with  the  mightiest  raised  me  to  contend, 
And  to  the  fierce  contention  brought  along 
Innumerable  force  of  spirits  armed, 
That  durst  dislike  IMS  reign,  and,  me  preferring, 
His  utmost  power  with  adverse  power  opposed 
In  dubious  battle  on  the  plains  of  Heaven, 
And  shook  his  throne.  What  tho'  the  field  be  lost? 
All  is  not  lost ;  th'  unconquerable  will, 
And  study  of  revenge,  immortal  hate, 
And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield, 
And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome ; 
That  glory  never  shall  his  wrath  or  might 
Extort  from  me.     To  bow  and  sue  for  grace 
With  suppliant  knee,  and  deify  his  power. 
Who  from  the  terror  of  this  arm  so  late 


Doubted  his  empire ;  that  were  low  indeed, 
That  were  an  ignominy,  and  shame  beneath 
This  downfall;  since,  by  fate,  the  strength  of  gods 
And  this  empyreal  substance  can  not  fail; 
Since,  through  experience  of  this  great  event, 
In  arms  not  worse,  in  foresight  much  advanced, 
We  may  with  more  successful  hope  resolve 
To  wage,  by  force  or  guile,  eternal  war, 
Irreconcileable  to  our  grand  foe, 
Who  now  triumphs,  send,  in  th'  excess  of  joy 
Sole  reigning,  holds  the  tyranny  of  Heaven." 

So  spake  th'  apostate  angel,  though  in  pain, 
Vaunting  aloud,  but  racked  with  deep  despair : 
And  him  thus  answered  soon  his  bold  compeer. 

"  O  prince,  O  chief  of  many  throned  powers, 
That  led  th'  embattled  seraphim  to  war 
Under  thy  conduct,  and,  in  dreadful  deeds 
Fearless,  endangered  Heav'n's  perpetual  King, 
And  put  to  proof  his  high  supremacy, 
Whether  upheld  by  strength,  or  chance,  or  fate; 
Too  well  I  see  and  rue  the  dire  event, 
That  with  sad  overthrow  and  foul  defeat 
Hath  lost  us  Heaven,  and  all  this  mighty  host 
In  horrible  destruction  laid  thus  low, 
As  far  as  the  gods  and  heavenly  essences 
Can  perish:  for  the  mind  and  spirit  remains 
Invincible,  and  vigour  soon  returns, 
Though  all  our  glory,  extinct,  and  happy  state 
Here  swallowed  up  in  endless  misery. 
But  what  if  he  our  Conqueror  (whom  I  now 
Of  force  believe  almighty,  since  no  less 
Than  such  could  have  o'erpowered  such  force  as 

ours) 

Have  left  us  in  this  our  spirit  and  strength  entire 
Strongly  to  suffer  and  support  our  pains, 
That  we  may  so  suffice  his  vengeful  ire, 
Or  do  him  mightier  service  as  his  thralls 
By  right  of  war,  whate'er  his  business  be, 
Here  in  the  heart  of  hell  to  work  in  fire, 
Or  do  his  errands  in  the  gloomy  deep; 
What  can  it  then  avail,  though  yet  we  feel 
Strength  undiminished,  or  eternal  being, 
To  undergo  eternal  punishment?" 
Whereto  with  speedy  words  th'  arch  fiend  replied. 

"  Fall'n  Cherub!  to  be  weak  is  miserable 
Doing  or  suffering;  but  of  this  be  sure, 
To  do  aught  good  never  will  be  our  task, 
But  ever  to  do  ill  our  sole  delight, 
As  being  the  contrary  to  his  high  will 
Whom  we  resist.    If  then  his  providence 
Out  of  our  evil  seek  to  bring  forth  good, 
Our  labour  must  be  to  pervert  that  end, 
And  out  of  good  still  to  find  means  of  evil; 
Which  ofttimes  may  succeed,  so  as  perhaps 
Shall  grieve  him,  if  I  fail  not,  and  disturb 
His  inmost  counsels  from  their  destined  aim. 
But  see !  the  angry  victor  hath  recalled 
His  ministers  of  vengeance  and  pursuit 
Back  to  the  gates  of  Heaven :  the  sulphurous  hail, 


BOOK  i. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


Shot  after  us  in  storm,  o'erblown,  hath  laid 

The  fiery  sumo,  that  from  the  precipice 

Of  Heaven  received  us  falling ;  and  the  thunder, 

Wintr'd  with  red  lightning  and  impetuous  rage, 

Perhaps  hath  spent  his  shafts,  and  ceases  now 

To  bellow  through  the  vast  and  boundless  deep. 

Let  us  not  slip  th'  occasion,  whether  scorn, 

Or  satiate  fury,  yield  it  from  our  foe. 

Seest  thou  yon  dreary  plain,  forlorn  and  wild, 

The  seat  of  desolation,  void  of  light, 

Save  what  the  i:limmering  of  these  livid  flames 

Casts  pale  and  dreadful  1  Thither  let  us  tent 

From  off  the  tossing  of  these  fiery  waves ; 

There  rest,  if  any  rest  can  harbour  there  : 

And,  reassembling  our  afflicted  powers, 

:aay  henceforth  most  offend 
Our  enemy;  our  own  loss  how  repair; 
How  overcome  this  dire  calamity  ; 
What  reinforcement  we  may  gain  from  hope; 
If  not.  what  resolution  from  despair." 

Thus  Satan  talking  to  his  nearest  mate 
With  head  uplift  above  the  wave,  and  eyes 
That  sparkling  blazed,  his  other  parts  beside 
Prone  on  the  flood,  extending  long  and  large, 
Lay  floating  many  a  rood ;  in  bulk  as  huge 
As  whom  the  fables  name  of  monstrous  size, 
Titanian.  or  Earth-born,  that  warred  on  Jove, 
Briareos  or  Typhon,  whom  the  den 
By  ancient  Tarsus  held ;  or  that  sea  beast 
Leviathan,  which  God  of  ah"  his  works 
Created  hugest  that  swim  th'  ocean  stream: 
Him,  haply,  slumb'ring  on  the  Norway  foam, 
The  pilot  of  some  small  night-foundered  skiff 
Deeming  some  island,  oft,  as  seamen  tell, 
With  fixed  anchor  in  his  scaly  rind 
Moors  by  the  side  under  the  lee,  while  night 
Invests  the  sea,  and  wished  morn  delays : 
So  stretched  out  huge  in  length  the  arch  fiend  lay, 
Chained  on  the  burning  lake:  nor  ever  thence 
Had  risen  or  heaved  his  head,  but  that  the  will 
And  hi^h  permission  of  all-ruling  Heaven 
Left  him  at  large  to  his  own  dark  designs ; 
That  with  reiterated  crime  she  might 
Heap  on  himself  damnation,  while  he  sought 
Evil  toothers;  and,  enraged,  might  see 
How  all  liis  malice  served  but  to  bring  forth 
Infinite  goodness,  grace,  and  mercy,  shown 
On  man  by  him  seduced,  but  on  himself 
Treble  confusion,  wrath,  and  vengeance  poured. 
Forthwith  upright  he  rears  from  off  the  pool 
His  mighty  stature ;  on  each  hand  the  flames, 
Driven  backward,  slope  their  pointing  spires,  and 

rolled 

In  billows,  leave  i:  th'  midst  a  horrid  vale. 
Then  with  expanded  wings  he  steers  his  flight 
Aloft,  incumbent  on  the  dusky  air 

It  unusual  weight;  till  on  dry  land 
'«.  if  it  \\t-re  land  that  ever  burned 
With  solid,  as  the  lake  with  liquid  fire ; 


And  such  appeared  in  hue,  as  when  the  force 
Of  subterranean  wind  transports  a  hill 
Tom  from  Pelorus,  or  the  shattered  side 
Of  thundering  jEtna,  whose  combustible 
And  fuelled  entrails  thence  conceiving  fire, 
Sublimed  with  mineral  fury,  aid  the  winds, 
And  leave  a  singed  bottom  all  involved 
With  stench  and  smoke :  such  resting  found  the 

sole 

Of  unblest  feet.     Him  followed  his  next  mate, 
Both  glorying  to  have  'scaped  the  Stygian  flood 
As  gods,  and  by  their  own  recovered  strength, 
Not  by  the  sufferance  of  supernal  power. 

"  Is  this  the  region,  this  the  soil,  the  clime," 
Said  then  the  lost  archangel,  "  this  the  seat 
That  we  must  change  for  Heaven ;  this  mournful 

gloom 

For  that  celestial  light  1  Be  it  so!  since  he 
Who  now  is  sovereign  can  dispose  and  bid 
What  shall  be  right :  farthest  from  him  is  best, 
Whom  reason  hath  equalled,  force  hath  made  su- 
preme 

Above  his  equalsj  Farewell,  happy  fields, 
Where  joy  for  ever  dwells.     Hail,  horrors!  hail, 
Infernal  world!  and  thou,  profoundest  hell, 
Receive  thy  new  possessor !  one  who  brings 
A  mind  not  to  be  changed  by  place  or  time : 
The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a  Heaven  of  hell,  a  hell  of  Heaven. 
What  matter  where  if  I  be  still  the  same, 
And  what  I  should  be,  all  but  less  than  he 
Whom  thunder  hath  made  greater  7  Here  at  least 
We  shall  be  free  :  the  Almighty  hath  not  built 
Here  for  his  envy ;  will  not  drive  us  hence  : 
Here  we  may  reign  secure,  and,  in  -my  choice 
To  reign  is  worth  ambition,  though  in  hell : 
Better  to  reign  in  hell,  than  serve  in  Heaven ! 
But  wherefore  let  we  then  our  faithful  friends, 
Th'  associates  and  copartners  of  our  loss, 
Lie  thus  astonished  on  th'  oblivious  pool 
And  call  them  not  to  share  with  us  their  part 
[n  this  unhappy  mansion ;  or  once  more 
With  rallied  arms  to  try  what  may  be  yet 
Regained  in  Heaven,  or  what  more  lost  in  hell  ?" 

So  Satan  spake,  and  him  Bcelezebub 
Thus  answered.     "  Leader  of  those  armies  bright, 
Which  but  th'  Omnipotent  none  could  have  foiled! 
[f  once  they  hear  that  voice,  their  liveliest  pledge 
Of  hope  in  fears  and  dangers,  heard  so  oft 
[n  worst  extremes,  and  on  the  perilous  edge 
Of  battle  when  it  raged,  in  all  assaults 
Their  surest  signal,  they  will  soon  resume 
Mew  courage  and  revive,  though  now  they  lie 

reveling  and  prostrate  on  yon  lake  of  fire, 
As  we  erewhile,  astounded  and  amazed ; 
NTo  wonder,  fallen  such  a  pernicious  height." 

He  scarce  had  ceased,  when  the  superior  fiend 
Was  moving  toward  the  shore:   his  pond'rous 
shield, 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  i. 


Ethereal  temper,  massy,  large,  and  round, 
Behind  him  cast ;  the  broad  circumference 
Hung  on  his  shoulders  like  the  moon,  whose  orb 
Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artist  views 
At  evening  from  the  top  of  Fesole, 
Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands, 
Rivers  or  mountains  in  her  spotty  globe. 
His  spear,  to  equal  which  the  tallest  pine 
Hewn  in  Norwegian  hills  to  be  the  mast 
Of  some  great  admiral,  were  but  a  wand, 
He  walked  with,  to  support  uneasy  steps 
Over  the  burning  marie,  not  like  those  steps 
On  Heaven's  azure ;  and  the  torrid  clime 
Smote  on  him  sore  beside,  vaulted  with  fire : 
Nathless  he  so  endured,  till  on  the  beach, 
Of  that  inflamed  sea  he  stood,  and  called 
His  legions,  angel  forms,  who  lay  entranced 
Thick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strew  the  brooks 
In  Vallombrosa,  where  th'  Etrurian  shades, 
High  over-arch'd,  embower ;  or  scattered  sedge 
Afloat,  when  with  fierce  winds  Orion  armed 
Hath  vexed  the  Red   Sea  coast,  whose  waves 

o'erthrew 

Busiris  and  his  Memphian  chivalry, 
While  with  perfidious  hatred  they  pursued 
The  sojourners  of  Goshen,  who  beheld 
From  the  safe  shore  their  floating  carcasses 
And  broken  chariot  wheels :  so  thick  bestrown, 
Abject  and  lost  lay  these,  covering  the  flood, 
Under  amazement  of  their  hideous  change. 
He  called  so  loud,  that  all  the  hollow  deep 
Of  hell  resounded.    "  Princes,  potentates, 
Warriors,  the  flower  of  Heaven !  once  yours,  now 

lost! 

If  such  astonishment  as  this  can  seize 
Eternal  spirits;  or  have  ye  chosen  this  place 
After  the  toil  of  battle  to  repose 
Your  wearied  virtue,  for  the  ease  you  find 
To  slumber  here,  as  in  the  vales  of  heaven  1 
Or  in  this  abject  posture  have  ye  sworn 
T'  adore  the  conqueror'?  who  now  beholds 
Cherub  and  seraph  rolling  in  the  flood, 
With  scatter'd  arms  and  ensigns,  till  anon 
His  swift  pursuers  from  heaven  gates  discern 
Th'  advantage,  and  descending,  tread  us  down 
Thus  drooping,  or  with  linked  thunderbolts 
Transfix  us  to  the  bottom  of  this  gulf. 
Awake,  arise,  or  be  for  ever  fallen !" 

They  heard,  and  were  abashed,  and  up  they 

sprung 

Upon  the  wing;  as  when  men  wont  to  watch 
On  duty,  sleeping  found,  by  whom  they  dread, 
Rouse,  and  bestir  themselves  ere  well  awake. 
Nor  did  they  not  perceive  the  evil  plight 
In  which  they  were,  or  the  fierce  pains  not  feel ; 
Yet  to  their  general's  voice  they  soon  obeyed, 
Innumerable.    As  when  the  potent  rod 
Of  Amram's  son,  in  Egypt's  evil  day, 
Waved  round  the  coast,  up  called  a  pitchy  cloud 


Of  locusts,  warping  on  the  eastern  wind, 
That  o'er  the  realm  of  impious  Pharaoh  hung 
Like  night,  and  darkened  all  the  land  of  Nile: 
So  numberless  were  those  bad  angels  seen, 
Hovering  on  whig  under  the  cope  of  hell, 
Twixt  upper,  nether,  and  surrounding  fires; 
Till,  as  a  signal  given,  th'  uplifted  spear 
Of  their  great  sultan  waving  to  direct 
Their  course,  in  even  balance  down  they  light 
On  the  firm  brimstone,  and  fill  all  the  plain ; 
A  multitude,  like  which  the  populous  north 
Poured  never  from  her  frozen  loins,  to  pass 
Elhene  or  the  Danaw,  when  her  barb'rous  sons 

ame  like  a  deluge  on  the  south,  and  spread 
Beneath  Gibraltar  to  the  Lybian  sands. 
Forthwith  from  every  squadron  and  each  band 
The  heads  and  leaders  thither  haste  where  stood 
Their  great  commander ;  godlike  shapes,  and  forms 
Excelling  human ;  princely  dignities, 
And  powers  that  erst  in  Heaven  sat  on  thrones ; 
Though  of  their  names  in  heavenly  records  now 
Be  no  memorial,  blotted  out  and  razed 
By  their  rebellion  from  the  books  of  life. 
Nor  had  they  yet  among  the  sons  of  Eve 
Got  them  new  names,  till,  wand'ring  o'er  the  earth, 
Through  God's  high  suff  'ranee  for  the  trial  of  man, 
By  falsities  and  lies  the  greatest  part 
Of  mankind  they  corrupted  to  forsake 
God  their  Creator,  and  th'  invisible 
Glory  of  him  that  made  them  to  transform 
Oft  to  the  image  of  a  brute,  adorned 
With  gay  religions  full  of  pomp  and  gold, 
And  devils  to  adore  for  deities : 
Then  were  they  known  to  men  by  various  names. 
And  various  idols  through  the  heathen  world. 
Say,  Muse,  their  names  then  known ;  who  first, 

who  last, 

Roused  from  the  slumber,  on  that  fiery  couch, 
At  their  great  emperor's  call,  as  next  in  worth 
Came  singly  where  he  stood  on  the  bare  strand, 
While  the  promiscuous  crowd  stood  yet  aloof. 
The  chief  were  those,  who,  from  the  pit  of  hell 
Roaming  to  seek  their  prey  on  earth,  durst  fix 
Their  seats  long  after  next  the  seat  of  God, 
Their  altars  by  his  altars;  gods  adored 
Among  the  nations  round ;  and  durst  abide 
Jehovah  thund'ring  out  of  Sion,  throned 
Between  the  Cherubim,  yea,  often  placed 
Within  his  sanctuary  itself  their  shrines, 
Abominations ;  and  with  cursed  things 
His  holy  rites  and  solemn  feasts  profaned, 
And  with  their  darkness  durst  affront  his  light. 
First,  Moloch,  horrid  king,  besmeared  with  blood 
Of  human  sacrifice,  and  parents'  tears, 
Though  for  the  noise  of  drums  andtimbrels  loud 
Their  children's  cries  unheard,  that  passed  through 

fire 

To  his  grim  idol.    Him  the  Ammonite 
Worshipped  in  Rabba  and  her  watery  plain, 


BOOK  i. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


in  Argob  and  in  Basan,  to  the  stream 

Of  utmost  Arnon ;  nor  content  with  such 

Audacious  neighbourhood,  the  wisest  heart 

Of  Solomon  he  led  by  fraud  to  build 

His  temple  right  against  the  temple  of  God 

On  that  opprobrious  hill ;  and  made  his  grove 

The  pleasant  valley  of  Hinnom,  Tophet  thence 

And  black  Gehenna  called,  the  type  of  hell. 

Next,  Chemos,  the  obscene  dread  of  Moab's  sons 

From  Aroer  to  Nebo,  and  the  wild 

Of  southmost  Abarim:  in  Hesebon 

And  Horonaim,  Seon's  realm,  beyond 

The  flowery  dale  of  Sibma  clad  with  vines, 

And  Eleale  to  th'  Asphaltic  pool. 

Peor  his  other  name,  when  he  enticed 

Israel  in  Sittim,  on  their  march  from  Nile, 

To  do  him  wanton  rites,  which  cost  them  wo. 

Yet  thence  his  lustful  orgies  he  enlarged 

E'en  to  that  hill  of  scandal,  by  the  grove 

Of  Moloch  homicide;  lust  hard  by  hate; 

Till  good  Josiah  drove  them  thence  to  hell. 

With  these  came  they,  who,  from  the  bord'ring 

flood 

Of  old  Euphrates  to  the  brook  that  parts 
Egypt  from  Syrian  ground,  had  general  names 
Of  Baalim  and  Ashtaroth,  those  male, 
These  feminine :  for  spirits,  when  they  please, 
Can  either  sex  assume,  or  both ;  so  soft 
And  uncompounded  is  their  essence  pure, 
Not  tied  or  manacled  with  joint  or  limb, 
Nor  founded  on  the  brittle  strength  of  bones, 
Like  cumbrous  flesh;  but,  in  what  shape  they 

choose, 

Dilated  or  condensed,  bright  or  obscure, 
Can  execute  their  airy  purposes, 
And  works  of  love  or  enmity  fulfil. 
For  those  the  race  of  Israel  oft  forsook 
Their  living  strength,  and  unfrequented  left 
His  righteous  altar,  bowing  lowly  down 
To  bestial  gods ;  for  which  their  heads  as  low 
Bowed  down  in  battle,  sunk  before  the  spear 
Of  despicable  foes.    With  these  in  troop 
Came  Astoreth,  whom  the  Phoenicians  called 
Astarte,  queen  of  Heav'n,  with  crescent  horns : 
To  whose  bright  image  nightly  by  the  moon 
Sidonian  virgins  paid  their  vows  and  songs ; 
In  Sion  also  not  unsung,  where  stood 
Her  temple  on  the  offensive  mountain,  built 
By  that  uxorious  king,  whose  heart,  though  large, 
Beguiled  by  fair  idolatresses,  fell 
To  idols  foul.     Thammuz  came  next  behind, 
Whose  annual  wound  in  Lebanon  allured 
The  Syrian  damsels  to  lament  his  fate 
In  amorous  ditties  all  a  summer's  day, 
While  smooth  Adonis  from  his  native  rock 
Ran  purple  to  the  sea,  supposed  with  blood 
Of  Thammuz  yearly  wounded :  the  love-tale 
Infected  Sion's  daughters  with  like  heat, 
Whose  wanton  passions  in  the  sacred  porch 


Ezekiel  saw,  when,  by  the  vision  led, 

His  eye  surveyed  the  dark  idolatries 

Of  alienated  Judah.    Next  came  one 

Who  mourned  in  earnest,  when  the  captive  ark 

Maimed  his  brute  image,  head  and  hands  lopt  off 

In  his  own  temple,  on  the  grunsel  edge, 

Where  he  fell  flat,  and  shamed  his  worshippers. 

Dagon  his  name,  sea  monster,  upward  man 

And  downward  fish :  yet  had  his  temple  high 

Reared  in  Azotus,  dreaded  through  the  coast 

Of  Palestine,  in  Gath  and  Ascalon, 

And  Accaron,  and  Gaza's  frontier  bounds. 

Him  followed  Rimmon,  whose  delightful  seat 

Was  fair  Damascus,  on  the  fertile  banks 

Of  Abbana  and  Pharphar,  lucid  streams. 

He  also  against  the  house  of  God  was  bold : 

A  leper  once  he  lost,  and  gained  a  king, 

Ahaz,  his  sottish  conqu'ror,  whom  he  drew 

God's  altar  to  disparage,  and  displace 

For  one  of  Syrian  mode,  whereon  to  bum 

His  odious  offerings,  and  adore  the  gods 

Whom  he  had  vanquished.    After  these  appeared 

A  crew,  who,  under  names  of  old  renown, 

Osiris,  Isis,  Orus,  and  their  train, 

With  monstrous  shapes  and  sorceries  abused 

Fanatic  Egypt  and  her  priests,  to  seek 

Their  wandering  gods  disguised  in  brutish  forms 

Rather  than  human.    Nor  did  Israel  'scape 

Th'  infection,  when  their  borrowed  gold  composed 

The  calf  in  Oreb;  and  the  rebel  king 

Doubled  that  sin  in  Bethel  and  in  Dan, 

Likening  his  Maker  to  the  grazed  ox, 

Jehovah,  who  in  one  night,  when  he  passed 

From  Egypt  marching,  equalled  with  one  stroke 

Both  her  first-born  and  all  her  bleating  gods. 

Belial  came  last,  than  whom  a  Spirit  more  lewd 

Fell  not  from  Heaven,  or  more  gross  to  love 

Vice  for  itself;  to  him  no  temple  stood, 

Or  altar  smoked :  yet  who  more  oft  than  he 

In  temples  and  at  altars,  when  the  priest 

Turns  atheist,  as  did  Eli's  sons,  who  filled 

With  lust  and  violence  the  house  of  God] 

In  courts  and  palaces  he  also  reigns, 

And  in  luxurious  cities,  where  the  noise 

Of  riot  ascends  above  their  loftiest  towers, 

And  injury,  and  outrage :  and  when  night 

Darkens  the  streets,  then  wander  forth  the  sons 

Of  Belial,  flown  with  insolence  and  wine. 

Witness  the  streets  of  Sodom,  and  that  night 

[n  Gibeah,  when  the  hospitable  door 

Exposed  a  matron  to  avoid  worse  rape. 

These  were  the  prime  in  order  and  in  might; 
The  rest  were  long  to  tell,  though  far  renowned, 
Th'  Ionian  Gods,  of  Javan's  issue;  held 
Sods,  yet  confessed  later  than  Heaven  and  Earth, 
Their  boasted  parents:  Titan,  Heaven's  first-born, 
With  his  enormous  brood,  and  birthright  seized 
3y  younger  Saturn ;  he  from  mightier  Jove, 
3is  own  and  Rhea's  son,  like  measure  found ; 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  i. 


So  Jove  usurping  reigned :  these  first  in  Crete 
And  Ida  known,  thence  oh  the  snowy  top 
Of  cold  Olympus,  ruled  the  middle  air, 
Their  highest  Heaven ;  or  on  the  Delphian  cliff, 
Or  in  Dodona,  and  through  all  the  bounds 
Of  Doric  land ;  or  who  with  Saturn  old 
Fled  over  Adra  to  th'  Hesperian  fields, 
And  o'er  the  Celtic  roamed  the  utmost  isles. 
All  these  and  more  came  flocking;  but  with 

looks 

Downcast  and  damp ;  yet  such  wherein  appeared 
Obscure  some  glimpse  of  joy,  to  have  found  their 

chief 

Not  in  despair,  to  have  found  themselves  not  lost 
In  loss  itself;  which  on  his  count'nance  cast 
Like  doubtful  hue  :  but  he,  his  wonted  pride 
Soon  recollecting,  with  high  words,  that  bore 
Semblance  of  worth,  not  substance,  gently  raised 
Their  fainting  courage,  and  dispelled  their  fears. 
Then  straight  commands  that  at  the  warlike  sound 
Of  trumpets  loud  and  clarions  be  upreared 
His  mighty  standard :  that  proud  honour  claimed 
Azazel  as  his  right,  a  cherub  tall ; 
Who  forthwith  from  the  glittering  staff  unfurled 
Th'  imperial  ensign,  which,  full  high  advanced, 
Shone  like  a  meteor  streaming  to  the  wind, 
With  gems  and  golden  lustre  rich  emblazed, 
Seraphic  arms  and  trophies ;  all  the  while 
Sonorous  metal  blowing  martial  sounds : 
At  which  the  universal  host  upsent 
A  shout,  that  tore  hell's  concave,  and  beyond 
Frighted  the  reign  of  Chaos  and  old  Night. 
All  in  a  moment  through  the  gloom  were  seen 
Ten  thousand  banners  rise  into  the  air, 
With  orient  colours  waving:  with  them  rose  • 
A  forest  huge  of  spears ;  and  thronging  helms 
Appeared,  and  serried  shields  in  thick  array, 
Of  depth  immeasurable :  anon  they  move 
In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Dorian  mood 
Of  flutes  and  soft  recorders;  such  as  raised 
To  height  of  noblest  temper  heroes  old 
Arming  to  battle ;  and,  instead  of  rage, 
Deliberate  valour  breathed,  firm  and  unmoved 
With  dread  of  death  to  flight  or  foul  retreat; 
Nor  wanting  power  to  mitigate  and  'swage 
With  solemn  touches  troubled  thoughts,  and  chase 
Anguish,  and  doubt,  and  fear,  and  sorrow,  and 

pain, 

From  mortal  or  immortal  minds.     Thus  they, 
Breathing  united  force,  with  fixed  thought, 
Moved  on  in  silence  to  soft  pipes,  that  charmed 
Their  painful  steps  o'er  the  burnt  soil :  and  now 
Advanced  in  view  they  stand,  a  horrid  front 
Of  dreadful  length  and  dazzling  arms,  in  guise 
Of  warriors  old  with  ordered  spear  and  shield, 
Awaiting  what  command  their  mighty  chief 
Had  to  impose :  he  through  the  armed  files 
Darts  his  experienced  eye,  and  soon  traverse 
The  whole  battalion  views,  their  order  due, 


Their  visages  and  stature  as  of  gods; 

Their  number  last  he  sums.     And  now  his  heart 

Distends    with    pride,    and,    hard'ning,   in    his 

strength 

Glories:  for  never  since  created  man, 
Met  such  embodied  force,  as,  named  with  these, 
Could  merit  more  than  that  small  infantry 
Warred  on  by  cranes;  though  all  the  giant  brood 
Of  Phlegra  with  th'  heroic  race  were  joined 
That  fought  at  Thebes  and  Ilium,  on  each  side 
Mix'd  with  auxiliar  gods;  and  what  resounds 
In  fable  or  romance  of  Uther's  son. 
Begirt  with  British  and  Armoric  knights; 
And  all  who  since,  baptized  or  infidel, 
Jousted  in  Aspramont,  or  Montalban, 
Damasco,  or  Morocco,  or  Trebisond, 
Or  whom  Biserta  sent  from  Afric  shore, 
When  Charlemagne  with  all  his  peerage  fell 
By  Fontarabia.    Thus  far  these  beyond 
Compare  of  mortal  prowess,  yet  observed 
Their  dread  commander:  he,  above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent, 
Stood  like  a  tower:  his  form  had  not  yet  lost 
All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appeared 
Less  than  archangel  ruined,  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscured:  as  when  the  sun,  new  risen, 
Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air 
Shorn  of  his  beams;  or  from  behind  the  moon, 
In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous  twilight  sheds 
On  half  the  nations,  and  with  fear  of  change 
Perplexes  monarch.     Darkened  so,  yet  shone  • 
Above  them  all  th'  archangel:  but  his  face 
Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrenched,  and  care 
Sat  on  his  faded  chocks,  but  under  brows 
Of  dauntless  courage,  and  considerate  pride 
Waiting  revenge :  cruel  his  eye,  but  cast 
Signs  of  remorse  and  passion  to  behold 
The  fellows  of  his  crime,  the  followers  rather, 
(Far  other  once  beheld  in  bliss,)  condemned 
For  ever  now  to  have  their  lot  in  pain, 
Millions  of  spirits  for  his  fault  amerced 
Of  Heaven,  and  from  eternal  splendours  flung 
For  his  revolt,  yet  faithful  how  they  stood, 
Their  glory  withered :  as  when  Heaven's  fire 
Hath  scathed  the  forest  oaks,  or  mountain  pines, 
With  singed  top  their  stately  growth,  though  bare, 
Stands  on  the  blasted  heath.     He  now  prepared 
To  speak ;  whereat  their  doubled  ranks  they  bend 
From  wing  to  wing,  and  half  enclose  him  round 
With  all  his  peers:  attention  held  them  mute. 
Thrice  he  assayed,  and  thrice,  in  spite  of  scorn, 
Tears,  such  as  angels  weep,  burst  forth !  at  last 
Words,  interwove  with  sighs,  found  out.  their  way 

"  O  myriads  of  immortal  spirits!  O  powers 
Matchless,  but  with  th'  Almighty !  and  that  strife 
Was  not  inglorious,  though  th'  event  was  dire, 
As  this  place  testifies,  and  this  dire  change, 
Hateful  to  utter!  but  what  power  of  mind, 
Foreseeing  or  presaging,  from  the  depth 


BOOK 


PARADISE  LOST. 


Of  knowledge  past  or  present,  could  have  feared 

How  such  united  force  of  gods,  how  such 

As  stood  like  these,  could  ever  know  repulse? 

For  who  can  yet  believe,  though  after  loss, 

That  all  these  puissant  legions,  whose  exile 

Hath  emptied  heaven,  shall  fail  toreascend, 

Self-raised,  and  repossess  their  native  seat1? 

For  me,  be  witness  all  the  host  of  heaven, 

If  counsels  different,  or  dangers  shunned 

By  me,  have  lost  our  hopes.     But  he,  who  reigns 

Monarch  in  heaven,  till  then  as  one  secure 

Sat  on  hii?  throne,  upheld  by  old  repute, 

Consent  or  custom,  and  his  regal  state 

Put  forth  at  full,  but  still  his  strength  concealed, 

Which  tempted  our  attempt,  and  wrought  our 

fall. 
Henceforth  his  might  we  know,  and  know  our 

own, 

So  as  not  either  to  provoke,  or  dread 
New  war,  provoked  !  our  better  part  remains 
To  work  in  close  design,  by  fraud  or  guile, 
What  force  effected  not !  that  he  no  less 
At  length  from  us  may  find,  who  overcomes 
By  force,  hath  overcome  but  half  his  foe. 
Space  may  produce  new  worlds;  whereof  so  rife 
There  went  a  fame  in  heaven  that  he  ere  long 
Intended  to  create,  and  therein  plant 
A  generation,  whom  his  choice  regard 
Should  favour  equal  to  the  sons  of  Heaven; 
Thither,  if  but  to  pry,  shall  be  perhaps 
Our  first  eruption,  thither  or  elsewhere : 
For  this  infernal  pit  shall  never  hold 

;  tl  spirits  in  bondage,  nor  th'  abvss 
Long  under  darkness  cover.     But  these  thoughts 
Full  counsel  must  mature:  peace  is  despaired; 
For  who  can  think  submission  1     War  then,  war 
Open  or  understood,  must  be  resolved." 

I  If  spake:  and,  to  confirm  his  words,  out  flew 
Millions  of  flaming  swords,  drawn  from  the  tliighs 
Of  mighty  cherubim ;  the  sudden  blaze 
Far  round  illumined  hell :  highly  they  raged 
Against  the  Highest,  and  fierce  with  grasped  arms 
Clashed  on  their  sounding  shields  the  din  of  war, 
Hurling  defiance  toward  the  vaults  of  heaven. 
There  stood  a  hill  not  far,  whose  grisly  top 
Belched  fire  and  rolling  smoke ;  the  rest  entire 
Shone  with  a  glossy  scurf,  undoubted  sign 
That  in  his  womb  was  hid  metallic  ore, 
The  work  of  sulphur.  Thither,  winged  with  speed, 
A  num'rous  brigade  hastened :  as  when  bands 
Of  pioneers,  with  spade  and  pick-axe  armed 
Forerun  the  royal  camp,  to  trench  a  field, 
Or  cast  a  rampart.     Mammon  led  them; 
Mammon,  tin-  least  erected  spirit  that  fell 
From  heaven;  for  e'en  in  heaven  his  looks  and 

thoughts 

Were  always  downward  bent,  admiring  more 
The  riches  of  heaven's  pavement,  trodden  gold, 
Than  ought  divine  or  holy  else  enjoyed 


In  vision  beatific ;  by  him  first 
Men  also,  and  by  his  suggestion  taught, 
Ransacked  the  centre,  and  with  impious  hands 
Rifled  the  bowels  of  their  mother  earth 
For  treasures  better  hid.     Soon  had  his  crew 
Opened  into  the  hill  a  spacious  wound, 
And  digged  out  ribs  of  gold.     Let  none  admire 
That  riches  grow  in  hell ;  that  soil  may  best 
Deserve  the  precious  bane.     And  here  let  those, 
Who  boast  in  mortal  things,  and,  wond'ring,  tell 
Of  Babel,  and  the  works  of  Memphian  kings, 
Learn  how  their  greatest  monuments  of  fame, 
And  strength,  and  art,  are  easily  outdone 
By  spirits  reprobate,  and  in  an  hour 
What  in  an  age  they,  with  incessant  toil 
And  hands  innumerable,  scarce  perform. 
Nigh  on  the  plain,  in  many  cells  prepared, 
That  underneath  had  veins  of  liquid  fire 
Sluiced  from  the  lake,  a  second  multitude 
With  wondrous  art  founded  the  massy  ore, 
Severing  each  kind,  and    scummed   the  bullion 

dross: 

A  third  as  soon  had  formed  within  the  ground 
A  various  mould,  and  from  the  boiling  cells 
By  strange  conveyance  filled  each  hollow  nook : 
As  in  an  organ,  from  one  blast  of  wind, 
To  many  a  row  of  pipes  the  soundboard  breathes. 
Anon  out  of  the  earth  a  fabric  huge 
Rose  like  an  exhalation,  with  the  sound 
Of  dulcet  symphonies  and  voices  sweet, 
Built  like  a  temple,  where  pilasters  round 
Were  set,  and  Doric  pillars  overlaid 
With  golden  architrave;  nor  did  they  want 
Cornice  or  frieze,  with  bossy  sculptures  graven ; 
The  roof  was  fretted  gold.     Not  Babylon, 
Nor  great  Alcairo,  such  magnificence 
Equalled  in  all  their  glories,  to  enshrine 
Belus  or  Serapis,  their  gods,  or  seat 
Their  kings,,  when  Egypt  with  Assyria  strove 
fn  wealth  and  luxury.     Th'  ascending  pile 
Stood  fixed  her  stately  height;  and  straight  the 

doors, 

Opening  their  brazen  folds,  discover  wide 
Within,  her  ample  spaces,  o'er  the  smooth 
And  level  pavement;  from  the  arched  roof, 
Pendent  by  subtle  magic,  many  a  row 
Of  starry  lamps  and  blazing  cressets,  fed 
With  naphtha  and  asphalfus,  yielded  light 
As  from  a  sky.     The  hasty  multitude 
Admiring  entered ;  and  the  work  some  praise, 
And  some  the  architect :  his  hand  was  known 
In  Heaven  by  many  a  towered  structure  high, 
Where  sceptered  angels  held  their  residence, 
And  sat  as  princes,  whom  the  supreme  King 
Exalted  to  such  power,  and  gave  to  rule, 
Each  in  his  hierarchy,  the  orders  bright. 
Nor  was  his  name  unheard  or  unadored 
In  ancient  Greece ;  and  in  Ausonian  land 
Men  called  him  Mulciber;  and  how  he  fell 


8 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOR  it. 


From  Heaven,  they  fabled,  thrown  by  angry  Jove 
Sheer  o'er  the  crystal  battlements:  from  morn 
To  noon  he  fell,  from  noon  to  dewy  eve, 
A  summer's  day;  and  with  the  setting  sun 
Dropt  from  the  zenith  like  a  falling  star, 
On  Lemnos  th'  ^Egean  isle:  thus  they  relate, 
Erring;  for  he  with  this  rebellious  rout 
Fell  long  before;  nor  aught  availed  him  now 
T'  have  built  in  heaven  high  towers;  nor  did  he 

'scape 

By  all  his  engines,  but  was  headlong  sent 
With  his  industious  crew  to  build  in  hell. 

Meanwhile  the  winged  heralds,  by  command 
Of  sovereign  power,  with  awful  ceremony 
And  tumpet's  sound,  throughout  the  host  proclaim 
A  solemn  council,  forthwith  to  be  held 
At  Pandemonium,  the  high  capital 
Of  Satan  and  his  peers:  their  summons  called 
From  every  band  and  squared  regiment 
By  place  or  choice  the  worthiest;  they  anon 
With  hundreds  and  with  thousands  trooping  came 
Attended:  all  access  was  thronged;  the  gates 
And  porches  wide,  but  chief  the  spacious  hall 
(Though  like  a  covered  field,  where  champions 

bold 

Wont  ride  in  armed,  and  at  the  soldan's  chair 
Defied  the  best  of  Panim  chivalry 
To  mortal  combat,  or  career  with  lance) 
Thick  swarmed,  both  on  the  ground  and  in  the 

air, 

Brushed  with  the  hiss  of  rustling  wings.  As  bees 
In  spring  time,  when  the  sun  with  Taurus  rides, 
Pour  forth  their  populous  youth  about  the  hive 
In  clusters ;  they  among  fresh  dews  and  flowers 
Fly  to  and  fro,  or  on  the  smoothed  plank, 
The  suburb  of  their  straw-built  citadel 
New  rubbed  with  balm,  expatiate  and  confer 
Their  state  affairs.     So  thick  the  airy  crowd 
Swarmed  and  were  straitened;  till  the  signal  given, 
Behold  a  wonder!  They  but  now  who  seemed 
In  bigness  to  surpass  earth's  giant  sons, 
Now  less  than  smallest  dwarfs,  in  narrow  room 
Thronged  numberless ;  like  that  pygmean  race 
Beyond  the  Indian  mount;  or  fairy  elves, 
Whose  midnight  revels,  by  a  forest  side 
Or  fountain,  some  belated  peasant  sees, 
Or  dreams  he  sees,  while  over-head  the  moon 
Sits  arbitress,  and  nearer  to  the  earth 
Wheels  her  pale  course ;  they,  on  their  mirth  and 

dance 

Intent,  with  jocund  music  charm  his  ear; 
At  once  with  joy  and  fear  his  heart  rebounds. 
Thus  incorporeal  spirits  to  smallest  forms 
Reduced  their  shapes  immense,  and  were  at  large, 
Though  without  number  still,  amidst  the  hall 
Of  that  infernal  court.     But  far  within, 
And  in  their  own  dimensions,  like  themselves, 
The  great  seraphic  lords  and  cherubim 
In  diose  recess  and  secret  conclave  sat; 


BOOK  II. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

The  consultation  begun,  Satan  debates  whether  another 
battle  be  to  be  hazarded  for  the  recovery  of  heaven ;  some  ad- 
vise  it,  others  dissuade ;  a  third  proposal  is  preferred,  inch- 
ioned  before  by  Satan,  to  search  the  truth  of  that  prophecy  or 
radition  in  heaven  concerning  another  world,  and  another 
kind  of  creature,  equal,  or  not  much  inferior  to  themselves, 
about  this  time  to  be  created ;  their  doubt  who  shall  be  sent 
on  this  difficult  search ;  Satan  their  chief  undertakes  alone  the 
•oyage,  is  honoured  and  applauded.  The  council  thus  ended, 
the  rest  betake  them  several  ways,  and  to  several  employ- 
ments, as  their  inclinations  lead  them,  to  entertain  the  time 
ill  Satan  return.  He  passes  on  his  journey  to  hell  gates,  finds 
;hem  shut,  and  who  sat  there  to  guard  them ;  by  whom  at 
ength  they  are  opened,  and  discover  to  him  the  great  gulf  be- 
.ween  hell  and  Heaven ;  with  what  difficulty  he  passes  tiirough, 
directed  by  Chaos,  the  power  of  that  place,  to  the  sight  of  this 
new  world  which  he  sought. 


A  thousand  demi-gods  on  golden  seats, 
Frequent  and  full.     After  short  silence  then, 
And  summons  read,  the  great  consult  began. 


HIGH  on  a  throne  of  royal  state,  which  far 

Outshone  the  wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind, 

Or  where  the  gorgeous  east  with  richest  hand 

Showers  on  her  kings  barbaric  pearl  and  gold, 

Satan  exalted  sat,  by  merit  raised 

To  that  bad  eminence :  and,  from  despair 

Thus  high  uplifted  beyond  hope,  aspires 

Beyond  thus  high,  insatiate  to  pursue 

Vain  war  with  Heaven ;  and,  by  success  untaught, 

His  proud  imaginations  thus  displayed. 

"  Powers  and  dominions,  deities  of  Heaven! 
For  since  no  deep  within  her  gulf  can  hold 
Immortal  vigour,  though  oppressed  and  fallen, 
I  give  not  Heaven  for  lost.     From  this  descent 
Celestial  virtues  rising,  will  appear 
More  glorious  and  more  dread  than  from  no  fall, 
And  trust  themselves  to  fear  no  second  fate. 
Me,  tho'  just  right,  and  the  fixed  laws  of  Heaven, 
Did  first  create  your  leader,  next,  free  choice, 
With  what  besides,  in  counsel  or  in  fight, 
Hath  been  achieved  of  merit ;  yet  this  loss, 
Thus  far  at  least  recovered,  hath  much  more 
Established  in  a  safe  unenvied  throne, 
Yielded  with  full  consent.     The  happier  state 
In  Heaven,  which  follows  dignity,  might  draw 
Envy  from  each  inferior;  but  who  here 
Will  envy  whom  the  highest  place  exposes 
Foremost  to  stand  against  the  Thunderer's  aim 
Your  bulwark,  and  condemns  to  greatest  share 
Of  endless  pain  1  Where  there  is  then  no  good 
For  which  to  strive,  no  strife  can  grow  up  there 
From  faction;  for  none  sure  will  claim  in  hell 
Precedence ;  none,  whose  portion  is  so  small 
Of  present  pain,  that  with  ambitious  mind 
Will  covet  more.    With  this  advantage  then 


BOOK  ii. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


To  union,  and  firm  faith,  and  firm  accord, 
More  than  can  be  in  Heaven,  we  now  return 
To  claim  our  just  inheritance  of  old, 
Surer  to  prosper  than  prosperity 
Could  have  assured  us ;  and  by  what  best  way, 
Whether  of  open  war  or  covert  guile, 
We  now  debate :  who  can  advise,  may  speak." 
He  ceased;  and  next  him  Moloch,  sceptered 

king, 

Stood  up,  the  strongest  and  the  fiercest  spirit 
That  fought  in  Heaven,  now  fiercer  by  despair  : 
His  trust  was  with  the  Eternal  to  be  deem'd 
Equal  in  strength,  and  rather  than  be  less 
Cared  not  to  be  at  all :  with  that  care  lost 
Went  all  his  fear:  of  God,  or  hell,  or  worse, 
He  recked  not,  and  these  words  thereafter  spake. 

"  My  sentence  is  for  open  war :  of  wiles, 
More  unexpert,  I  boast  not :  them  let  those 
Contrive  who  need,  or  when  they  need,  not  now, 
For,  while  they  sit  contriving,  shall  the  rest, 
Millions  that  stand  in  arms,  and,  longing,  wait 
The  signal  to  ascend,  sit  lingering  here 
Heaven's  fugitives,  and  for  their  dwelling-place 
Accept  this  dark  opprobrious  den  of  shame, 
The  prison  of  his  tyrrany  who  reigns 
By  our  delay  7  No!  let  us  rather  choose, 
Armed  with  hell-flames  and  fury,  all  at  once 
O'er  Heaven's  high  towers  to  force  resistless  way, 
Turning  our  tortures  into  horrid  arms 
Against  the  Torturer ;  when  to  meet  the  noise 
Of  his  almighty  engine  he  shall  hear 
Infernal  thunder,  and  for  lightning  see 
Black  fire  and  horror  shot  with  equal  rage 
Among  his  angels,  and  his  throne  itself 
Mixed  with  Tartarean  sulphur,  and  strange  fire, 
His  own  invented  torments.     But  perhaps 
The  way  seems  difficult  and  steep  to  scale 
With  upright  wing  against  a  higher  foe. 
Let  such  bethink  them,  if  the  sleepy  drench 
Of  that  forgetful  lake  benumb  not  still, 
That  in  our  proper  motion  we  ascend 
Up  to  our  native  seat:  descent  and  fall 
To  us  is  adverse.    Who  but  felt  of  late, 
When  the  fierce  foe  hung  on  our  broken  rear 
Insulting,  and  pursued  us  through  the  deep, 
With  what  compulsion  and  laborious  flight 
We  sunk  thus  low  7  The  ascent  is  easy  then ; 
The  event  is  feared ;  should  we  again  provoke 
Our  stronger,  some  worse  way  his  wrath  my  find 
To  our  destruction;  if  there  be  in  hell 
Fear  to  be  worse  destroyed :  what  can  be  worse 
Than  to  dwell  here,  driven  out  from  bliss,  con- 
demned 

In  this  abhorred  deep  to  utter  wo, 
Where  pain  of  unextinguishable  fire 
Must  exercise  us  without  hope  of  end, 
The  vassals  of  his  anger,  when  the  scourge 
Inexorably,  and  the  torturing  hour 
Calls  us  to  penance  1  More  destroyed  than  thus, 


We  should  be  quite  abolished,  and  expire. 
What  fear  we  then  1  what  doubt  we  to  incense 
His  utmost  ire  1  which  to  the  height  enraged, 
Will  either  quite  consume  us,  and  reduce 
To  nothing  this  essential,  happier  far 
Than,  miserable,  to  have  eternal  being ; 
Or,  if  our  substance  be  indeed  divine, 
And  can  not  cease  to  be,  we  are  at  worst 
On  this  side  nothing;  and  by  proof  we  feel 
Our  power  sufficient  to  disturb  his  Heaven, 
And  with  perpetual  inroads  to  alarm, 
Though  inaccessible,  his  fatal  throne : 
Which,  if  not  victory,  is  yet  revenge." 

He  ended,  frowning,  and  his  look  denounced 
Desperate  revenge,  and  battle  dangerous 
To  less  than  gods.     On  the  other  side  up  rose 
Belial,  in  act  more  graceful  and  humane; 
A  fairer  person  lost  not  Heaven ;  he  seemed 
For  dignity  composed  and  high  exploit: 
But  all  was  false  and  hollow ;  though  his  tongne 
Dropt  manna,  and  could  make  the  worse  appear 
The  better  reason,  to  perplex  and  dash 
Maturest  counsels:  for  his  thoughts  were  low; 
To  vice  industrious,  but  to  nobler  deeds 
Timorous  and  slothful :  yet  he  pleased  the  ear, 
And  with  persuasive  accent  thus  began. 

"  I  should  be  much  for  open  war,  O  peers 
As  not  behind  in  hate ;  if  what  was  urged 
Main  reason  to  persuade  immediate  war, 
Did  not  dissuade  me  most,  and  seem  to  cast 
Ominous  conjecture  on  the  whole  success : 
When  he,  who  most  excels  in  fact  of  arms, 
In  what  he  counsels  and  in  what  excels 
Mistrustful,  grounds  his  courage  on  despair, 
And  utter  dissolution,  as  the  scope 
Of  all  his  aim,  after  some  dire  revenge. 
First,  what  revenge  7   The  towers  of  Heaven  are 

filled 

With  armed  watch,  that  render  all  access 
Impregnable :  oft  on  the  bordering  deep 
Encamp  their  legions ;  or,  with  obscure  wing, 
Scout  far  and  wide  into  the  realm  of  night, 
Scorning  surprise.     Or,  could  we  break  our  way, 
By  force,  and  at  our  heels  all  hell  should  rise 
With  blackest  insurrection,  to  confound 
Heaven's  purest  light :  yet  our  great  Enemy, 
All  incorruptible,  would  on  his  throne 
Sit  unpolluted,  and  the  ethereal  mould, 
Incapable  of  stain,  would  soon  expel 
Her  mischief,  and  purge  off  the  baser  fire, 
Victorious.     Thus  repulsed,  our  final  hope 
Is  flat  despair :  we  must  exasperate 
The  almighty  Victor  to  spend  all  his  rage, 
And  that  must  end  us ;  that  must  be  our  cure, 
To  be  no  more :  sad  cure !  for  who  would  lose, 
Though  full  of  pain,  this  intellectual  being, 
Those  thoughts  that  wander  through  eternity, 
To  perish  rather,  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  the  wide  womb  of  uncreated  night, 


10 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  ii. 


Devoid  of  sense  and  motion  7  and  who  knows, 
Let  this  be  good,  whether  our  angry  Foe 
Can  give  it,  or  will  ever  1  how  he  can, 
Is  doubtful;  that  he  never  will,  is  sure. 
Will  he,  so  wise,  let  loose  at  once  his  ire, 
Belike  through  impotence,  or  unaware, 
To  give  his  enemies  their  wish,  and  end 
Them  in  his  anger,  whom  his  anger  saves 
To  punish  endless  ?  Wherefore  cease  we  then  ? 
Say  they  who  counsel  war,  we  are  decreed, 
Reserved,  and  destined  to  eternal  wo ; 
Whatever  doing,  what  can  We  suffer  more, 
What  can  we  suffer  worse  7  Is  this  then  worst, 
Thus  sitting,  thus  consulting,  thus  in  arms  1 
What!  when  we  fled  amain,  pursued  and  struck 
With  Heaven's  afflicting  thunder,  and  besought 
The  deep  to  shelter  us  7  -this  hell  then  seemed 
A  refuge  from  those  wounds :  or  when  we  lay 
Chained  on  the  burning  lake'?   that  sure  was 

worse. 

What  if  the  breath,  that  kindled  those  grim  fires, 
Awaked,  should  blow  them  into  sevenfold  rage, 
And  plunge  us  in  the  flames  1  or  from  above 
Should  intermitted  vengeance  arm  again 
His  red  right  hand  to  plague  us  1  what  if  all 
Her  stores  were  opened,  and  this  firmament 
Of  hell  should  spout  her  cataracts  of  fire, 
Impending  horrors,  threatening  hideous  fall 
One  day  upon  our  heads ;  while  we  perhaps, 
Designing  or  exhorting  glorious  war, 
Caught  in  a  fiery  tempest,  shall  be  hurled, 
Each  on  his  rock  transfixed,  the  sport  and  prey 
Of  wracking  whirlwinds;  or  for  ever  sunk 
Under  yon  boiling  ocean,  wrapt  in  chains; 
There  to  converse  with  everlasting  groans, 
Unrespited,  unpitied,  unreprieved,  • 
Ages  of  hopeless  end  7  This  would  be  worse. 
War,  therefore,  open  or  concealed,  alike 
My  voice  dissuades ;  for  what  can  force  or  guile 
With  him,  or  who  deceive  his  mind,  whose  eye 
Views  all  tilings  at  one  view  1  He  from  Heaven's 

height 

All  these  our  motions  vain  sees  and  derides; 
Not  more  almighty  to  resist  our  might 
Than  wise  to  frustrate  all  our  plots  and  wiles. 
Shall  we  then  live  thus  vile,  the  race  of  Heaven 
Thus  trampled,  thus  expelled  to  suffer  here 
Chains  and  these  torments'?  tetter  these  than 

worse, 

By  my  advice;  since  fate  inevitable 
Subdues  us,  and  omnipotent  decree 
The  victor's  will.     To  suffer,  as  to  do, 
Our  strength  is  equal,  nor  the  law  unjust 
That  so  ordains:  this  was  at  first  resolved, 
If  we  were  wise,  against  so  great  a  foe 
Contending,  and  so  doubtful  what  might  fall. 
I  laugh,  when  those  who  at  the  spear  are  bold 
And  vent'rous,  if  that  fail  them,  shrink  and  fear 
What  yet  they  know  must  follow,  to  endure 


Exile,  or  ignominy,  or  bonds,  or  pain, 

The  sentence  of  their  Conqueror:  this  is  now 

Our  doom;  which  if  we  can  sustain  and  bear, 

Our  supreme  foe  in  time  may  much  remit 

His  anger,  and  perhaps,  thus  far  removed, 

Not  mind  us,  not  offending,  satisfied 

With  what  is  punished;  whence  these  raging  fires 

Will  slacken,  if  his  breath  stir  not  their  flames. 

Our  purer  essence  then  will  overcome 

Their  noxious  vapour,  or,  inured,  not  feel ; 

Or,  changed  at  length,  and  to  the  placed  conformed 

In  temper  and  in  nature,  will  receive 

Familiar  the  fierce  heat,  and  void  of  pain ; 

This  horror  will  grow  mild,  this  darkness  light; 

Besides  what  hope  the  never-ending  flight 

Of  future  days  may  bring,  what  chance,  what 

change 

Worth  waiting,  since  our  present  lot  appears 
For  happy  though  but  ill,  for  ill  not  worst, 
If  we  procure  not  to  ourselves  more  wo." 

Thus  Belial,  with  words  clothed  in  reason's 

garb, 

Counselled  ignoble  ease,  and  peaceful  sloth, 
Not  peace:  and  after  him  thus  Mammon  spake. 
"  Either  to  disenthrone  the  King  of  Heaven 
We  war,  if  war  be  best,  or  to  regain 
Our  own  right  lost:  him  to  unthrone  we  then 
May  hope,  -when  everlasting  Fate  shall  yield 
To  fickle  Chance,  and  Chaos  judge  the  strife: 
The  former,  vain  to  hope,  argues  as  vain 
The  latter:  for  what  place  can  be  for  us 
Within  heaven's  bound,  unless  heaven's  Lord  su- 
preme 

We  overpower  1    Suppose  he  should  relent, 
And  publish  grace  to  all,  on  promise  made 
Of  new  subjection :  with  what  eyes  could  we 
Stand  in  his  presence  humble,  and  receive 
Strict  laws  imposed,  to  celebrate  his  throne 
With  warbled  hymns,  and  to  his  Godhead  sing 
Forced  hallelujahs,  while  he  lordly  sits 
Our  envied  Sovereign,  and  his  altar  breathes 
Ambrosial  odours  and  ambrosial  flowers, 
Our  servile  offerings  1     This  must  be  our  task 
In  Heaven,  this  our  delight;  how  wearisome 
Eternity  so  spent,  in  worship  paid 
To  whom  we  hate !     Let  us  not  then  pursue, 
By  force  impossible,  by  leave  obtained 
Unacceptable,  though  in  Heaven,  our  state 
Of  splendid  vassalage,  but  rather  seek 
Our  own  good  from  ourselves,  and  from  our  own 
Live  to  ourselves,  though  in  this  vast  recess, 
Free,  and  to  none  accountable,  preferring 
Hard  liberty  before  the  easy  yoke 
Of  servile  pomp.     Our  greatness  will  appear 
Then  most  conspicuous,  when  great  things  of 

small, 

Useful  of  hurtful,  prosperous  of  adverse, 
We  can  create,  and  in  what  place  soe'er 
Thrive  under  evil  and  work  ease  out  of  pain 


BOOK  i. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


11 


Through  labour  and  endurance.    This  deep  work 
Of  darkness  do  we  dread  ?    How  oft  amidst 
Thick  clouds  and  dark  doth  Heaven's  all-ruling 

Sire 

Choose  to  reside,  his  glory  unobscured, 
And  with  the  majesty  of  darkness  round 
Covers  his  throne;  from  whence  deep  thunders 

roar 

Mustering  their  rage,  and  Heaven  resembles  hell1 
As  he  our  darkness,  can  not  we  his  light 
Imitate  when  we  please  1     This  desert  soil 
Wants  not  her  hidden  lustre,  gems  and  gold ; 
Nor  want  we  skill  or  art,  from  whence  to  raise 
Magnificence ;  and  what  can  Heaven  show  more 
Our  torments  also  may  in  length  of  time 
Become  our  elements ;  these  piercing  fires 
As  soft  as  now  severe,  our  temper  changed 
Into  their  temper ;  which  must  needs  remove 
The  sensible  of  pain.     All  things  invite 
To  peaceful  counsels,  and  the  settled  state 
Of  order,  how  in  safety  best  we  may 
Compose  our  present  evils,  with  regard 
Of  what  we  are  and  were,  dismissing  quite 
All  thoughts  of  war:  ye  have  what  I  advise." 
He  scarce  had  finished,  when  such  murmur 

filled 

Th'  assembly,  as  when  hollow  rocks  retain 
The  sound  of  blustering  winds,  which  all  night 

long 
Had  roused  the  sea,  now  with  hoarse  cadence 

lull 

Seafaring  men  o'erwatched,  whose  bark  by  chance, 
Or  pinnace,  anchors  in  a  craggy  bay 
After  the  tempest :  such  applause  was  heard 
As  Mammon  ended ;  and  his  sentence  pleased, 
Advising  peace :  for  such  another  field 
They  dreaded  worse  than  hell :  so  much  the  fear 
Of  thunder  and  the  sword  of  Michael 
Wrought  still  within  them ;  and  no  less  desire 
To  found  this  nether  empire,  which  might  rise 
By  policy,  and  long  process  of  time, 
In  emulation  opposite  to  Heaven. 
Which  when  Beelzebub  perceived,  than  whom 
Satan  except,  none  higher  sat,  with  grave 
Aspect  he  rose,  and  in  his  rising  seemed 
A  pillar  of  state ;  deep  on  his  front  engraven 
Deliberation  sat,  and  public  care; 
And  princely  counsel  in  his  face  yet  shone, 

ic  though  in  ruin:  sage  he  stood, 
With  Atlantean  shoulders  fit  to  bear 
The  weight  of  mightiest  monarchies;  his  look 
Drew  audience  and  attention  still  as  night 
Or  summer's  noontide  air,  while  thus  he  spake. 
"  Thrones  and  imperial  powers,  offspring  of 

Heaven, 

Ethereal  virtues!  or  these  titles  now 
Must  we  renounce,  and,  changing  style,  be  called 
Princes  of  hell !  for  so  the  popular  vote 
Inclines,  here  to  continue,  and  build  up  here 


A  growing  empire;  doubtless;  while  we  dream, 
And  know  not  that  the  King  of  Heaven  hath 

doomed 

This  place  our  dungeon,  not  our  safe  retreat 
Beyond  his  potent  arm,  to  live  exempt 
From  Heaven's  high  jurisdiction,  in  new  league 
Banded  against  his  throne,  but  to  remain 
In  strictest  bondage,  though  thus  far  removed, 
Under  the  inevitable  curb,  reserved 
His  captive  multitude :  for  he,  be  sure, 
In  height  or  depth,  still  first  and  last  will  reign 
Sole  king,  and  of  his  kingdom  lose  no  part 
By  our  revolt;  but  over  hell  extend 
His  empire,  and  with  iron  sceptre  rule 
Us  here,  as  with  his  golden  those  in  Heaven. 
What  sit  we  then  projecting  peace  and  war ! 
War  hath  determined  us,  and  foiled  with  loss 
Irreparable ;  terms  of  peace  yet  none 
Vouchsafed  or  sought;  for  what  peace  will  be  given 
To  us  enslaved,  but  custody  severe, 
And  stripes,  and  arbitrary  punishment 
Inflicted?  and  what  peace  can  we  return, 
But  to  our  power  hostility  and  hate, 
Untamed  reluctance,  and  revenge,  though  slow, 
Yet  ever  plotting  how  the  conqueror  least 
May  reap  his  conquest,  and  may  least  rejoice 
[n  doing  what  we  most  in  suffering  feel  1 
N"or  will  occasion  want,  nor  shall  we  need 
With  dangerous  expedition  to  invade 
Heaven,  whose  high  walls  fear  no  assault  or  siege, 
Or  ambush  from  the  deep.     What  if  we  find 
Some  easier  enterprise'?     There  is  a  place, 
If  ancient  and  prophetic  fame  in  Heaven 
5rr  not,)  another  world,  the  happy  seat 

some  new  race  called  Man,  about  this  time 
To  be  created  like  to  us,  though  less 
n  power  and  excellence,  but  favoured  more 
Df  him  who  rules  above;  so  was  his  will 
'renounced  among  the  Gods,  and  by  an  oath, 
That  shook  Heavens  whole  circumference,  con- 

firm'd. 

Thither  let  us  bend  all  our  thoughts  to  learn 
WTiat  creatures  there  inhabit,  of  what  mould, 
Dr  substance,  how  endued,  and  what  their  power, 
And  where  their  weakness,  how  attempted  best, 
By  force  or  subtlety.     Though  Heaven  be  shut, 
And  Heaven's  high  Arbitrator  sit  secure 
n  his  own  strength,  this  place  may  lie  exposed, 
The  utmost  border  of  his  kingdom,  left 
To  their  defence  who  hold  it :  here  perhaps 
Some  advantageous  act  may  be  achieved 
?y  sudden  onset,  either  with  hell  fire 
To  waste  his  whole  creation,  or  possess 
All  as  our  own,  and  drive,  as  we  were  driven, 
The  puny  habitants,  or,  if  not  drive, 
Seduce  them  to  our  party,  that  their  God 
May  prove  their  foe,  and  with  repenting  hand 
Abolish  his  own  works.     This  would  surpass 
Common  revenge,  and  interrupt  his  joy 


12 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  n. 


In  our  confusion,  and  our  joy  upraise 
In  his  disturbance;  when  his  darling  sons, 
Hurled  headlong  to  partake  with  us,  shall  curse 
Their  frail  original,  and  faded  bibs, 
Faded  so  soon.    Advise  if  this  be  worth 
Attempting,  or  to  sit  in  darkness  here 
Hatching  vain  empires."     Thus  "Beelzebub 
Pleaded  his  devilish  counsel,  first  devised 
By  Satan,  and  in  part  proposed:  for  whence, 
But  from  the  author  of  all  ill  could  spring 
So  deep  a  malice,  to  confound  the  race 
Of  mankind  in  one  root,  and  earth  with  hell 
To  mingle  and  involve,  done  all  to  spite 
The  great  Creator1?    But  their  spite  still  serves 
His  glory  to  augment.     The  bold  design 
Pleased  highly  those  infernal  states,  and  joy 
Sparkled  in  all  their  eyes;  with  full  assent 
They  vote:  whereat  his  speech  he  thus  renews: 

"  Well  have  ye  judged,  well  ended  long  debate, 
Synod  of  gods!  and  like  to  what  ye  are, 
Great  things  resolved,  which  from  the  lowest  deep, 
Will  once  more  lift  us  up,  in  spite  of  fate, 
Nearer  our  ancient  seat;  perhaps  in  view 
Of  those  bright  confines,  whence,  with  neighbour- 
ing arms 

And  opportune  excursion,  we  may  chance 
Re-enter  Heaven ,  or  else  in  some  mild  zone 
Dwell,  not  unvisited  of  Heaven's  fair  light, 
Secure,  and  at  the  bright'ning  orient  beam 
Purge  off  this  gloom:  the  soft  delicious  air, 
To  heal  the  scar  of  these  corrosive  fires, 
Shall  breathe  her  balm.    But,  first,  whom  shall 

we  send 

In  search  of  this  new  world?  whom  shall  we  find 
Sufficient?  who  shall  tempt  with  wandering  feet 
The  dark  unbottomed  infinite  abyss, 
And  through  the  palpable  obscure  find  out 
His  uncouth  way,  or  spread  his  airy  flight, 
Upborne  with  indefatigable  wings, 
Over  the  vast  abrupt,  ere  he  arrive 
The  happy  isle  ?  what  strength,  what  art  can  then 
Suffice,  or  what  evasion  bear  him  safe 
Through  the  strict  sentries  and  stations  thick 
Of  angels  watching  round?    Here  he  had  need 
All  circumspection,  and  we  now  no  less 
Choice  in  our  suffrage ;  for,  on  whom  we  send, 
The  weight  of  all,  and  our  last  hope  relies." 

This  said,  he  sat;  and  expectation  held 
His  look  suspense,  awaiting  who  appeared 
To  second,  or  oppose,  or  undertake 
The  perilous  attempt:  but  all  sat  mute, 
Pondering  the  danger  with  deep  thoughts:  and  each 
In  other's  countenance  read  his  own  dismay, 
Astonished:  none  among  the  choice  and  prime 
Of  those  Heaven-warring  champions  could  be 

found 

So  hardy  as  to  proffer  or  accept 
Alone  the  dreadful  voyage;  till  at  last 
Satan,  whom  now  transcendant  glory  raised 


Above  his  fellows,  with  monarchal  pride, 
Conscious  of  highest  worth,  unmoved,  thus  spake. 

"O  progeny  of  Heaven,  empyreal  thrones! 
With  reason  hath  deep  silence  and  demur 
Seized  us,  though  undismayed:  long  is  the  way, 
And  hard,  that  out  of  hell  leads  up  to  light; 
Our  prison  strong;  this  huge  convex  of  fire, 
Outrageous  to  devour,  immures  us  round 
Ninefold ;  and  gates  of  burning  adamant, 
Barred  over  us,  prohibit  all  egress. 
These  passed,  if  any  pass,  the  void  profound 
Of  unessential  Night  receives  him  next, 
Wide  gaping,  and  with  utter  loss  of  being 
Threatens  him,  plunged  in  that  abortive  gulf. 
If  thence  he  'scape  into  whatever  world, 
Or  unknown  region,  what  remains  him  less 
Than  unknown  dangers,  and  as  hard  escape ; 
But  I  should  ill  become  this  throne,  O  peers! 
And  this  imperial  sovereignty,  adorned 
With  splendour,  arm'd  with  power,  if  aught  pro- 

pos'd 

And  judged  of  public  moment,  in  the  shape 
Of  difficulty  or  danger  could  deter 
Me  from  attempting.    Wherefore  do  I  assume 
These  royalties  and  not  refuse  to  reign, 
Refusing  to  accept  as  great  a  share 
Of  hazard  as  of  honour,  due  alike 
To  him  who  reigns,  and  so  much  to  him  due 
Of  hazard  more,  as  he  above  the  rest 
High  honoured  sits?  Go,  therefore,  mighty  powers, 
Terror  of  Heaven,  though  fallen !  intend  at  home, 
While  here  shall  be  our  home,  what  best  may  ease 
The  present  misery,  and  render  hell 
More  tolerable ;  if  there  be  cure  or  charm 
To  respite,  or  deceive,  or  slack  the  pain 
Of  this  ill  mansion:  intermit  no  watch 
Against  a  wakeful  foe,  while  I  abroad, 
Through  all  the  coasts  of  dark  destruction,  seek 
Deliverance  for  us  all:  this  enterprise 
None  shall  partake  with  me."  Thus  saying,  rose 
The  monarch,  and  prevented  all  reply; 
Prudent,  lest,  from  this  resolution  raised. 
Others  among  the  chief  might  offer  now 
(Certain  to  be  refused)  what  erst  they  feared; 
And,  so  refused,  might  in  opinion  stand 
His  rivals,  winning  cheap  the  high  repute 
Which  he  through  hazard  huge  must  earn.    But 

they 

Dreaded  not  more  th'  adventure  than  his  voice 
Forbidding ;  and  at  once  with  him  they  rose : 
Their  rising  all  at  once  was  as  the  sound 
Of  thunder  heard  remote.    Towards  him  they 

bend, 

With  awful  reverence  prone :  and  as  a  God 
Extol  him  equal  to  the  highest  in  heaven  : 
Nor  failed  they  to  express  how  much  they  praised, 
That  for  the  general  safety  he  despised 
His  own:  for  neither  do  the  spirits  damned 
Lose  all  their  virtue-  lest  bad  men  should  boast 


BOOK  ii. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


13 


Their  specious  deeds  on  earth,  which  glory  excites, 
Or  close  ambition,  varnished  o'er  with  zeal. 
Thus  they  their  doubtful  consultations  dark 
Ended,  rejoicing  in  their  matchless  chief: 
As  when  from  mountain  tops  the  dusky  clouds 
Ascending,  while  the  northwind  sleeps,  o'erspread 
Heaven's  cheerful  face,  the  lowering  element 
Scowls  o'er  the  darkened  landscape  snow,  or 

shower ; 

If  chance  the  radiant  sun  with  farewell  sweet 
Extend  his  evening  beam,  the  fields  revive, 
The  birds  their  notes  renew,  and  bleating  herds 
Attest  their  joy,  that  hill  and  valley  rings. 
O  shame  to  men!  devil  with  devil  damned 
Firm  concord  holds;  men  only  disagree 
Of  creatures  rational,  though  under  hope 
Of  heavenly  grace:  and,  God  proclaiming  peace, 
Yet  live  in  hatred,  enmity,  and  strife 
Among  themselves,  and  level  cruel  wars, 
Wasting  the  earth,  each  other  to  destroy: 
£   As  if  (which  might  induce  us  to  accord) 
ii   Man  had  not  hellish  foes  enow  besides, 
i  That  day  and  night  for  his  destruction  wait. 

The  Stygian  council  thus  dissolved ;  and  forth 
I  In  order  came  the  grand  infernal  peers: 
!    Midst  came  their  mighty  Paramount,  and  seemed 
K  Alone  the  antagonist  of  heaven,  nor  less 

Than  hell's  dread  emperor,  with  pomp  supreme, 
I   And  godlike  imitated  state :  him  round, 
(i  A  globe  of  fiery  seraphim  enclosed 

With  bright  emblazonry,  and  horrent  arms. 
Then  of  their  session  ended  they  bid  cry 
With  trumpets  regal  sound  the  great  result : 
'  Towards  the  four  winds  four  speedy  cherubim 
fl  Put  to  their  mouths  the  sounding  alchemy, 
;    By  herald's  voice  explained ;  the  hollow  abyss 
)!  Heard  far  and  wide,  and  all  the  host  of  hell 

With  deafening  shout  returned  them  loud  acclaim. 
)    Thence  more  at  ease  their  minds,  and  somewhat 

raised 

fi  By  false  presumptuous  hope,  the  ranged  powers 
fc  Disband,  and,  wandering  each  his  several  way 
'  Pursues,  as  inclination  or  sad  choice 
1  Leads  him  perplexed,  where  he  may  likeliest  find 
<  Truce  to  his  restless  thoughts,  and  entertain 
The  irksome  hours,  till  his  great  chief  return. 
^  Part  on  the  plain,  or  in  the  air  sublime, 
I  Upon  the  wing,  or  in  swift  race  contend, 

*  As  at  the  Olympian  games  or  Pythian  fields: 
I  Part  curb  their  fiery  steeds,  or  shun  the  goal 

•  With  rapid  wheels,  or  fronted  brigades  form, 
t  As  when,  to  warn  proud  cities,  war  appears 

Waged  in  the  troubled  sky,  and  armies  rush 

To  battle  in  the  clouds,  before  each  van 

Prick  forth  the  airy  knights,  and  couch  their 

spears 

•  Till  thickest  legions  close ;  with  feats  of  arms 
4  From  either  end  of  heaven  the  welkin  burns. 
•  Others,  with  vast  Typhoean  rage  more  fell, 


Rend  up  both  rocks  and  hills,  and  ride  the  air 

In  whirlwind,  hell  scarce  holds  the  wild  uproar. 

As  when  Alcides,  from  (Echalia  crowned 

With  conquest,  felt  th'  envenomed  robe,  and  tore 

Through  pain  up  by  the  roots  Thessalian  pines, 

And  Lichas  from  the  top  of  QEta  threw 

Into  th'  Euobic  sea.     Others,  more  mild. 

Retreated  in  a  silent  valley,  sing 

With  notes  angelical  to  many  a  harp 

Their  own  heroic  deed  and  hapless  fall 

By  doom  of  battle ;  and  complain  that  fate 

Free  virtue  should  inthral  to  force  or  chance. 

Their  song  was  partial,  but  the  harmony 

(What  could  it  less  when  spirits  immortal  sing !) 

Suspended  hell,  and  took  with  ravishment 

The  thronging  audience.   In  discourse  more  sweet 

(For  eloquence  the  soul,  song  charms  the  sense) 

Others  apart  sat  on  a  hill  retired, 

In  thoughts  more  elevate,  and  reasoned  high 

Of  providence,  foreknowledge,  will,  and  fate; 

Fixed  fate,  free  will,  foreknowledge  absolute ; 

And  found  no  end,  in  wandering  mazes  lost. 

Of  good  and  evil  much  they  argued  then, 

Of  happiness  and  final  misery, 

Passion  and  apathy,  and  glory  and  shame; 

Vain  wisdom  all,  and  false  -philosophy ! 

Yet  with  a  pleasing  sorcery  could  charm 

Pain  for  a  while  or  anguish,  and  excite 

Fallacious  hope,  or  arm  the  obdured  breast 

With  stubborn  patience  as  with  triple  steel. 

Another  part  in  squadrons  and  gross  bands, 

On  bold  adventure  to  discover  wide 

That  dismal  world,  if  any  clime  perhaps 

Might  yield  them  easier  habitation,  bend 

Four  ways  their  flying  march,  along  the  banks 

Of  four  infernal  rivers,  that  disgorge 

Into  the  burning  lake  their  baleful  streams : 

Abhorred  Styx,  the  flood  of  deadly  hate; 

Sad  Acheron,  of  sorrow,  black  and  deep; 

Cocytus,  named  of  lamentation  loud 

Heard  on  the  rueful  stream;  fierce  Phlegethon, 

Whose  waves  of  torrent  fire  inflame  with  rage. 

Far  off  from  these,  a  slow  and  silent  stream, 

Lethe,  the  river  of  oblivion,  rolls 

Her  watery  labyrinth,  whereof  who  drinks, 

Forthwith  his  former  state  and  being  forgets^ 

Forgets  both  joy  and  grief,  pleasure  and  pain. 

Beyond  this  flood  a  frozen  continent 

Lies  dark  and  wild,  beat  with  perpetual  storms 

Of  whirlwind,  and  dire  hail,  which  on  firm  lam? 

Thaws  not,  but  gathers  heap,  and  ruin  seems 

Of  ancient  pile ;  all  else  deep  snow  and  ice, 

A  gulf  profound,  as  that  Serbonian  bog 

Betwixt  Damiata  and  mount  Casius  old, 

Where  armies  whole  have  sunk :  the  parching  air 

Burns  frore,  and  cold  performs  the  effect  of  fire. 

Thither,  by  harpy-footed  furies  haled, 

At  certain  revolutions,  all  the  damned 

Are  brought ;  and  feel  by  turns  the  bitter  change 


14 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  ii. 


Of  fierce  extremes,  extremes  by  change  more  fierce, 
From  beds  of  raging  fire,  to  starve  in  ice 
Their  soft  ethereal  warmth,  and  there  to  pine 
Immoveable,  infixed,  and  frozen  round, 
Periods  of  tune,  thence  hurried  back  to  fire. 
They  ferry  over  this  Lethean  sound 
Both  to  and  fro,  their  sorrow  to  augment, 
And  wish  and  struggle,  as  they  pass,  to  reach 
The  tempting  stream,  with  one  small  drop  to  lose 
In  sweet  forgetfulness  all  pain  and  wo, 
All  in  one  moment,  and  so  near  the  brink; 
But  Fate  withstands,  and  to  oppose  the  attempt 
Medusa  with  Gorgonian  terror  guards 
The  ford,  and  of  itself  the  water  flies 
All  taste  of  living  wight,  as  once  it  fled 
The  lip  of  Tantalus.     Thus  roving  on 
In  confused  march  forlorn,  the  advent'rous  bands, 
With  shuddering  horror  pale,  and  eyes  aghast, 
Viewed  first  their  lamentable  lot,  and  found 
No  rest :  through  many  a  dark  and  dreary  vale 
They  passed,  and  many  a  region  dolorous, 
O'er  many  a  frozen,  many  a  fiery  Alp, 
Rocks,  caves,  lakes,  fens,  bogs,  dens,  and  shades 

of  death, 

A  universe  of  death,  which  God  by  curse 
Created  evil,  for  evil  only  good, 
Where  all  life  dies,  death  lives,  and  nature  breeds, 
Perverse,  all  monstrous,  all  prodigious  things, 
Abominable,  inutterable,  and  worse 
Than  fables  yet  have  feigned,  or  fear  conceived, 
Gorgons,  and  Hydras,  and  Chimeras  dire. 

Meanwhile  the  adversary  of  God  and  man, 
Satan,  with  thoughts  inflamed  of  highest  design, 
Puts  on  swift  wings,  and  towards  the  gates  of  hell 
Explores  his  solitary  flight :  sometimes 
He  scours  the  right  hand  coast,  sometimes  the  left. 
Now  shaves  with  level  wing  the  deep,  then  soars 
Up  to  the  fiery  concave  towering  high. 
As  when  far  off  at  sea  a  fleet  descried 
Hangs  in  the  clouds  by  equinoctial  winds 
Close  sailing  from  Bengala,  or  the  isles 
Of  Ternate  and  Tidore,  whence  merchants  bring 
Their  spicy  drugs ;  they,  on  the  trading  flood, 
Through  the  wide  Ethiopian  to  the  Cape, 
Ply  stemming  nightly  towards  the  pole :  so  seemed 
Far  off  the  flying  fiend.     At  last  appear 
Hell  bounds,  high  reaching  to  the  horrid  roof, 
And  thrice  threefold  the  gates :  three  folds  were 

brass, 

Three  iron,  three  of  adamantine  rock 
Impenetrable,  impaled  with  circling  fire, 
Yet  unconsumed.     Before  the  gates  there  sat 
On  either  side  a  formidable  shape; 
The  one  seemed  woman  to  the  waist,  and  fair, 
But  ended  foul  in  many  a  scaly  fold 
Voluminous  and  vast,  a  serpent  armed 
With  mortal  sting ;  about  her  middle  round 
A  cry  of  hell-hounds,  never  ceasing,  barked 
With  wide  Cerberean  mouths  full  loud,  and  rung 


A  hideous  peal ;  yet,  when  they  list,  would  creep, 
If  aught  disturbed  their  noise,  into  her  womb, 
And  kennel  there;   yet  there  still  barked  and 

howled, 

Within  unseen.     Far  less  abhorred  than  these 
Vexed  Scylla,  bathing  in  the  sea  that  parts 
Calabria  from  the  hoarse  Trinacrian  shore: 
Nor  uglier  follow  the  nighthag,  when,  called 
In  secret,  riding  through  the  air  she  comes, 
Lured  with  the  smell  of  infant  blood,  to  dance 
With  Lapland  witches,  while  the  lab 'ring  moon 
Eclipses  at  their  charms.     The  other  shape, 
If  shape  it  might  be  called  that  shape  had  none 
Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb ; 
Or  substance  might  be  called  that  shadow  seemed ; 
For  each  seemed  either ;  black  it  stood  as  night, 
Fierce  as  ten  furies,  terrible  as  Hell, 
And  shook  a  dreadful  dart ;  what  seemed  his  head 
The  likeness  of  a  kingly  crown  had  on. 
Satan  was  now  at  hand ;  and  from  his  seat 
The  monster,  moving  onward,  came  as  fast 
With  horrid  strides;  hell  trembled  as  he  strode. 
The  undaunted  fiend  what  this  might  be  admired, 
Admired,  not  feared :  God  and  his  Son  except, 
Created  thing  naught  valued  he,  nor  shunned ; 
And  with  disdainful  look  thus  first  began. 

"  Whence  and  what  art  thou,  execrable  shape! 
That  dares,  though  grim  and  terrible,  advance 
Thy  miscreated  front  athwart  my  way 
To  yonder  gates?  through  them  I  mean  to  pass, 
That  be  assured,  without  leave  asked  of  thee: 
Retire,  or  taste  thy  folly;  and  learn  by  proof, 
Hell-born!  not  to  contend  with  spirits  of  Heaven." 

To  whom  the  goblin,  full  of  wrath,  replied, 
"  Art  thou  that  traitor  angel,  art  thou  he, 
Who  first  broke  peace  in  heaven,  and  faith,  till 
Unbroken,  and  in  proud  rebellious  arms 
Drew  after  him  the  third  part  of  Heaven's  sons 
Conjured  against  the  Highest,  for  which  both  thou 
And  they,  outcast  from  God,  are  here  condemned 
To  waste  eternal  days,  in  wo  and  pain? 
And  reckonest  thou  thyself  with  spirits  of  heaven, 
Hell-doomed!  and  breathest  defiance  here  and 

scorn, 

Where  I  reign  king,  and,  to  enrage  thee  more, 
Thy  king  and  lord?  Back  to  thy  punishment, 
False  fugitive !  and  to  thy  speed  add  wings, 
Lest  with  a  whip  of  scorpions  I  pursue 
Thy  lingering,  or  with  one  stroke  of  this  dart 
Strange  horror  seize  thee,  and  pangs  unfelt  before. ' 

So  spake  the  grisly  terror,  and  in  shape, 
So  speaking  and  so  threatening,  grew  tenfold 
More  dreadful  and  deformed:  on  the  other  side, 
Incensed  with  indignation,  Satan  stood 
Unterrified,  and  like  a  comet  burned, 
That  fires  the  length  of  Ophiuchus  huge 
In  the  arctic  sky,  and  from  his  horrid  hair 
Shakes  pestilence  and  war.     Each  at  the  head 
Levelled  his  deadly  aim;  their  fatal  hands 


BOOK  n. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


13 


No  second  stroke  intend ;  and  such  a  frown 
Each  cast  at  the  other,  as  when  two  black  clouds, 
With  heaven's  anil  lory  fraught,  come  rattling  on 
Over  the  Caspian,  then  stand  front  to  front 
Hovering  a  space,  till  winds  the  signal  blow 
To  join  then-  dark  encounter  in  mid  air : 
So  frowned  the  mighty  combatants,  that  hell 
Grew  darker  at  their  frown;  so  matched  they  stood; 
For  never  but  once  more  was  either  like 
To  meet  so  great  a  foe :  and  now  great  deeds 
Had  been  achieved,  whereof  all  hell  had  rung, 
Had  not  the  snaky  sorceress  that  sat 
Fast  by  hell  gate,  and  kept  the  fatal  key, 
Risen,  and  with  hideous  outcry  rushed  between. 

"  O  father!  what  intends  thy  hand,"  she  cried, 
"  Against  thy  only  son!  What  fury,  O  son! 
Possesses  thee  to  bend  that  mortal  dart 
Against  thy  father's  head !  and  knowest  for  whom*? 
For  him  who  sits  above  and  laughs  the  while 
At  thee  ordained  his  drudge,  to  execute 
Whate'er  his  wrath,  which  he  calls  justice,  bids ; 
His  wrath  which  will  one  day  destroy  ye  both." 

She  spake,  and  at  her  words  the  hellish  pest 
Forebore;  then  these  to  her  Satan  returned. 

"So  strange  thy  outcry,  and  thy  words  so 

strange 

Thou  interposest,  that  my  sudden  hand, 
Prevented,  spares  to  tell  thee  yet  by  deeds 
What  it  intends!  till  first  I  know  of  thee, 
What  thing  thou  art,  thus  double-formed,  and  why, 
In  this  infernal  vale  first  met,  thou  call'st 
Me  father,  and  that  phantasm  call'st  my  son; 
I  know  thee  not,  nor  ever  saw  till  now 
Sight  more  detestable  than  him  and  thee.' 

To  whom  thus  the  portress  of  hell-gate  replied: 
"  Hast  thou  forgotten  me  then,  and  do  I  seem 
Now  in  thine  eyes  so  foull  once  deemed  so  fair 
In  Heaven,  when  at  the  assembly,  and  in  sight 
Of  all  the  seraphim  with  thee  combined 
In  bold  conspiracy  against  Heaven's  King, 
All  on  a  sudden  miserable  pain 
Surprised  thee,  dim  thine  eyes,  and  dizzy  swam 
In  darkness,  while  thy  head  flames  thick  and  fast 
Threw  forth,  till  on  the  left  side  opening  wide, 
Likest  to  thee  in  shape  and  countenance  bright, 
Then  shining  heavenly  fair,  a  goddess  armed, 
Out  of  thy  head  I  sprung:  amazement  seized 
All  the  host  of  Heaven;  back  they  recoiled,  afraid 
At  first,  and  called  me  Sin,  and  for  a  sign 
Portentous  held  me;  but,  familiar  grown, 
I  pleased,  and  with  attractive  graces  won 
The  most  averse,  thee  chiefly,  who  full  oft, 
Thyself  in  me  thy  perfect  image  viewing, 
Becam'st  enamoured,  and  such  joy  thou  took'st 
With  me  in  secret,  that  my  womb  conceived 
A  growing  burden.    Meanwhile  war  arose, 
And  fields  were  fought  in  Heaven;  wherein  re- 
mained 
(For  what  could  else  ?)  to  our  Almighty  Foe 


Clear  victory,  to  our  part  loss  and  rout 
Through  all  the  empyrean:  down  they  fell, 
Driven  headlong  from  the  pitch  of  Heaven,  down 
Into  this  deep,  and  in  the  general  fall 
I  also ;  at  which  time  this  powerful  key 
Into  my  hand  was  given,  with  charge  to  keep 
These  gates  for  ever  shut,  which  none  can  pass 
Without  my  opening.    Pensive  here  I  sat 
Alone:  but  long  I  sat  not,  till  my  womb, 
Pregnant  by  thee,  and  now  excessive  grown 
Prodigious  motion  felt,  and  rueful  throes, 
At  last  this  odious  offspring  whom  thou  seest, 
Thine  own  begotten,  breaking  violent  way, 
Tore  through  my  entrails,  that  with  fear  and  pain 
Distorted,  all  my  nether  shape  thus  grew 
Transformed ;  but  he  my  inbred  enemy 
Forth  issued,  brandishing  his  fatal  dart, 
Made  to  destroy :  I  fled,  and  cried  out  Death ! 
Hell  trembled  at  the  hideous  name,  and  sighed 
From  all  her  caves,  and  back  resounded  Death ! 
I  fled;  but  he  pursued,  (though  more  it  seems, 
Inflamed  with  lust  than  rage,)  and  swifter  far, 
Me  overtook,  his  mother,  all  dismayed, 
And,  in  embraces  forcible  and  foul 
Engendering  with  me,  of  that  rape  begot 
These  yelling  monsters,  that  with  ceaseless  cry 
Surrounded  me,  as  thou  sawest,  hourly  conceived 
And  hourly  born,  with  sorrow  infinite 
To  me;  for  when  they  list,  into  the  womb 
That  bred  them  they  return,  and  howl  and  gnaw 
My  bowels,  their  repast ;  then,  bursting  forth 
Afresh,  with  conscious  terrors  vex  me  round. 
That  rest  or  intermission  none  I  find. 
Before  mine  eyes  in  opposition  sits 
Grim  Death,  my  son  and  foe,  who  sets  them  on, 
And  me  his  parent  would  full  soon  devour 
For  want  of  other  prey,  but  that  he  knows 
His  end  with  mine  involved ;  and  knows  that  I 
Should  prove  a  bitter  morsel,  and  his  bane, 
Whenever  that  shall  be ;  so  fate  pronounced. 
But  thou,  O  father!  I  forewarn  thee,  shun 
His  deadly  arrow;  neither  vainly  hope 
To  be  invulnerable  in  those  bright  arms, 
Though  tempered  heavenly;  for  that  mortal  dint, 
Save  he  who  reigns  above,  none  can  resist." 
She  finished,  and  the  subtle  fiend  his  lore 
Soon  learn'd,  now   milder,  and  thus   answered 

smooth. 
"  Dear  daughter !  since  thou  claim'st  me  for  thy 

sire, 

And  my  fair  son  here  show'st  me,  the  dear  pledge 
Of  dalliance,  had  with  thee  in  Heaven,  and  joys 
Then  sweet,  now  sad  to  mention,  through  dire 

change 

Befallen  us,  unforeseen,  unthought  of;  know, 
I  come  no  enemy,  but  to  set  free 
From  out  this  dark  and  dismal  house  of  pain 
Both  him  and  thee,  and  all  the  heavenly  host 
Of  spirits,  that,  in  our  just  pretences  armed 


16 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  ir. 


Fell  with  us  from  on  high :  from  them  I  go 
This  uncouth  errand  sole,  and  one  for  all 
Myself  expose,  with  lonely  steps  to  tread 
Th'  unfounded  deep,  and  through  the  void  im- 
mense 

To  search  with  wandering  quest  a  place  foretold 
Should  be,  and,  by  concurring  signs,  ere  now 
Created  vast  and  round,  a  place  of  bliss 
In  the  purlieus  of  Heaven,  and  therein  placed 
A  race  of  upstart  creatures,  to  supply 
Perhaps  our  vacant  room,  though  more  removed, 
Lest  Heaven,  surcharged  with  potent  multitude, 
Might  hap  to  move  new  broils :  be  this  or  aught 
Than  this  more  secret  now  designed,  I  haste 
To  know,  and  this  once  known,  shall  soon  return, 
And  bring  ye  to  the  place  where  thou  and  Death 
Shall  dwell  at  ease,  and  up  and  down  unseen 
Wing  silently  the  buxom  air,  embalmed 
With  odours;  there  ye  shall  be  fed  and  filled 
Immeasurably,  all  things  shall  be  your  prey." 
He  ceased,  for  both  seemed  highly  pleased,  and 

Death 

Grinned  horribly  a  ghastly  smile,  to  hear 
His  famine  should  be  filled,  and  blest  his  maw 
Destined  to  that  good  hour :  no  less  rejoiced 
His  mother  bad,  and  thus  bespake  her  sire. 

"  The  key  of  this  infernal  pit  by  due, 
And  by  command  of  Heaven's  all  powerful  King, 
I  keep,  by  him  forbidden  to  unlock 
These  adamantine  gates;  against  all  force 
Death  ready  stands  to  interpose  his  dart, 
Fearless  to  be  o'ermatched  by  living  might. 
But  what  owe  I  to  his  commands  above 
Who  hates  me,  and  hath  hither  thrust  me  down 
Into  the  gloom  of  Tartarus  profound, 
To  sit  in  hateful  office  here  confined, 
Inhabitant  of  heaven,  and  heavenly  born, 
Here  in  perpetual  agony  and  pain, 
With  terrors  and  with  clamours  compassed  round 
Of  mine  own  brood,  that  on  my  bowels  feed  1 
Thou  art  my  father,  thou  my  author,  thou 
My  being  gavest  me ;  whom  should  I  obey 
But  thee,  whom  follow?  thou  wilt  bring  me  soon 
To  that  new  world  of  light  and  bliss,  among 
The  gods  who  live  at  ease,  where  I  shall  reign 
At  thy  right  hand  voluptuous,  as  beseems 
Thy  daughter  and  thy  darling,  without  end." 

Thus  saying,  from  her  side  the  fatal  key, 
Sad  instrument  of  all  our  wo,  she  took; 
And,  towards  the  gate  rolling  her  bestial  train, 
Forthwith  the  huge  portcullis  high  up  drew, 
Which,  but  herself,  not  all  the  Stygian  powers 
Could  once  have  moved:    then  in  the  keyhole 

turns 

Th'  intricate  wards,  and  every  bolt  and  bar 
Of  massy  iron  or  solid  rock  with  ease 
Unfastens :  on  a  sudden  open  fly, 
With  impetuous  recoil  and  jarring  sound, 
Th'  infernal  doors,  and  on  their  lunges  grate 


Harsh  thunder;  that  the  lowest  bottom  shook 
Of  Erebus.     She  opened,  but  to  shut 
Excelled  her  power;  the  gates  wide  open  stood, 
That  with  extended  wings  a  bannered  host, 
Under  spread   ensigns    marching,    might    pass 

through 

With  horse  and  chariots  ranked  hi  loose  array; 
So  wide  they  stood,  and  like  a  furnace  mouth 
Cast  forth  redounding  smoke  and  ruddy  flame. 
Before  their  eyes  in  sudden  view  appear 
The  secrets  of  the  hoary  deep,  a  dark 
Illimitable  ocean,  without  bound, 
Without  dimension;  where  length,  breadth,  and 

heighth, 

And  time,  and  place  are  lost ;  where  eldest  Night 
And  Chaos,  ancestors  of  Nature,  hold 
Eternal  anarchy,  amidst  the  noise 
Of  endless  wars,  and  by  confusion  stand. 
For  hot,  cold,  moist,  and  dry,  four  champions 

fierce, 

Strive  here  for  mastery,  and  to  battle  bring 
Their  embryon  atoms;  they  around  the  flag 
Of  each  his  faction,  in  their  several  clans, 
Light  armed  or  heavy,  sharp,  smooth,  swift,  or 

slow, 

Swarm  populous,  unnumbered  as  the  sands 
Of  Barca  or  Gyrene's  torrid  soil, 
Levied  to  side  with  warring  winds,  and  poise 
Their  lighter  wings.    To  whom  these  most  adhere, 
He  rules  a  moment:  Chaos  umpire  sits, 
And  by  decision  more  embroils  the  fray, 
By  which  he  reigns;  next  him  high  arbiter 
Chance  governs  all.     Into  this  wild  abyss, 
The  womb  of  nature,  and  perhaps  her  grave, 
Of  neither  sea,  nor  shore,  nor  air,  nor  fire, 
But  all  these  in  their  pregnant  causes  mixed 
Confusedly,  and  which  thus  must  ever  fight, 
Unless  the  almighty  Maker  them  ordain 
His  dark  materials  to  create  more  worlds; 
Into  this  wild  abyss  the  wary  fiend 
Stood  on  the  brink  of  hell,  and  looked  a  while, 
Pondering  his  voyage ;  for  no  narrow  frith 
He  had  to  cross.    Nor  was  his  ear  less  pealed 
With  noises  loud  and  ruinous  (to  compare 
Great  things  with  small)    than  when   Bellona 

storms, 

With  all  her  battering  engines  bent  to  raze 
Some  capital  city;  or  less  than  if  this  frame 
Of  Heaven  were  falling,  and  these  elements 
In  mutiny  had  from  her  axle  torn 
The  steadfast  earth.    At  last  his  sail-broad  vans 
He  spreads  for  flight,  and  in  the  surging  smoke 
Uplifted  spurns  the  ground ;  thence  many  a  league, 
As  in  a  cloudy  chair,  ascending  rides 
Audacious ;  but,  that  seat  soon  falling,  meets 
A  vast  vacuity:  all  unawares, 
Fluttering  his  pennons  vain,  plump  down  he  drops 
Ten  thousand  fathom  deep ;  and  to  this  hour 
Down  had  been  falling,  had  not  by  ill  chance 


BOOK  ii. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


17 


The  strong  rebuff  of  some  tumultuous  cloud, 

Instinct  with  fire  and  nitre,  hurried  him 

As  many  miles  aloft  :  that  fury  stayed, 

Quenched  in  a  bojjrry  S yrtis,  neither  sea 

Nor  good  dry  land :  nigh  foundered,  x>n  he  fares, 

Treading  the  crud^  consistence,  half  on  foot, 

Half  flying ;  behooves  him  now  both  oar  and  sail 

As  when  a  gryphon,  through  the  wilderness 

With  winged  course,  o'er  hill  or  moory  dale, 

Pursues  the  Arimaspian,  who  by  stealth 

Had  from  his  wakeful  custody  purloined 

The  guarded  gold :  so  eagerly  the  fiend 

O'er  bog,  or  steep,  through  strait,  rough,  dense,  or 

rare, 

With  head,  hands,  wings,  or  feet  pursues  his  way, 
And  swims,  or  sinks,  or  wades,  or  creeps,  or  flies : 
At  length  a  universal  hubbub  wild 
Of  stunning  sounds,  and  voices  all  confused, 
Borne  through  the  hollow  dark,  assaults  his  ear 
With  loudest  vehemence :  thither  he  plies, 
Undaunted  to  meet  there  whatever  power 
Or  spirit  of  the  nethermost  abyss 
Mirrht  in  that  noise  reside,  of  whom  to  ask 
Which  way  the  nearest  coast  of  darkness  lies 
Bordering  on  light ;  when  straight  behold  the 

throne 

Of  Chaos,  and  his  dark  pavilion  spread 
Wide  on  the  wasteful  deep ;  with  him  enthroned 

Vight,  eldest  of  things, 

The  consort  of  his  reign ;  and  by  them  stood 
Orcus  and  Ades,  and  the  dreaded  name 
Of  Demogorgon;  Rumour  next,  and  Chance, 
And  Tumult,  and  Confusion,  all  embroiled, 
And  Discord  with  a  thousand  various  norths. 
T'  whom  Satan,  turning  boldly,  thus,  "Ye  powers 
And  spirits  of  this  nethermost  abyss, 
Chaos  and  ancient  night !  I  come  no  spy, 
With  purpose  to  explore  or  to  disturb 
The  secrets  of  your  realm ;  but,  by  constraint 
Wandering  this  darksome  desert,  as  my  way 
Lies  through  your  spacious  empire  up  to  light, 
Alone,  and  without  guide,  half  lost,  I  seek 
What  readiest  path  leads  where  your  gloomy 

bounds 

Confine  with  Heaven ;  or  if  some  other  place, 
From  your  dominion  won,  th'  ethereal  King 
Possesses  lately,  thither  to  arrive 
I  travel  this  profound :  direct  my  course ; 
Directed,  no  mean  recompense  it  brings 
To  your  behoof,  if  I  that  region  lost, 
All  usurpation  thence  expelled  reduce, 
To  her  original  darkness,  and  your  sway, 
(Which  is  my  present  journey,)  and  once  more 
Erect  the  standard  there  of  ancient  night : 
Yours  be  th'  advantage  all,  mine  the  revenge." 
Thus  Satan  ;  and  him  thus  the  Anarch  old, 
With  faltering  speech  and  visage  incomposed 
Answered,  "  I  know  thee,  stranger !  who  thou  art, 
That  mighty  leading  angel,  who  of  late 


Made  head  against  Heaven's  King,  though  over- 
thrown. 

I  saw  and  heard ;  for  such  a  numerous  host 
Fled  not  in  silence  through  the  frighted  deep, 
With  ruin  upon  ruin,  rout  on  rout, 
Confusion  worse  confounded ;  and  Heaven  gates 
Poured  out  by  millions  her  victorious  bands 
Pursuing.     I  upon  my  frontiers  here 
Keep  residence ;  if  all  I  can  will  serve 
That  little  which  is  left  so  to  defend, 
Encroached  on  still  through  your  intestine  broils, 
Weakening  the  sceptre  of  old  Night :  first  hell, 
Your  dungeon,  stretching  far  and  wide  beneath ; 
Now  lately  Heaven  and  Earth,  another  world, 
Hung  o'er  my  realm,  linked  in  a  golden  chain 
To  that  side  Heaven  from  whence  your  legions  fell : 
If  that  way  be  your  walk,  you  have  not  far ; 
So  much  the  nearer  danger ;  go,  and  speed ! 
Havoc,  and  spoil,  and  ruin  are  my  gain." 

He  ceased;  and  Satan  stayed  not  to  reply, 
But,  glad  that  now  his  sea  should  find  a  shore, 
With  fresh  alacrity  and  force  renewed, 
Springs  upward,  like  a  pyramid  of  fire, 
[nto  the  wild  expanse,  and  through  the  shock 
Of  fighting  elements,  on  all  sides  round 
Environed,  wins  his  way;  harder  beset, 
And  more  endangered,  than  when  Argo  passed 
Through  Bosphorus,  betwixt  the  justling  rocks ; 
Or  when  Ulysses  on  the  larboard  shunned 

harybdis,  and  by  the  other  whirlpool  steered. 
So  he  with  difficulty  and  labour  hard 
Moved  on,  with  difficulty  and  labour  he: 
But,  he  once  past,  soon  after,  when  man  fell, 
Strange  alteration !  Sin  and  Death  amain 
Following  his  track,  such  was  the  will  of  Heaven, 
Paved  after  him  a  broad  and  beaten  way 
Over  the  dark  abyss,  whose  boiling  gulf 
Tamely  endured  a  bridge  of  wondrous  length, 
Prom  hell  continued,  reaching  the  utmost  orb 
Of  this  frail  world ;  by  which  the  spirits  perverse 
With  easy  intercourse  pass  to  and  fro 
To  tempt  or  punish  mortals,  except  whom 

od  and  good  angels  guard  by  special  grace. 
But  now  at  last  the  sacred  influence 
Of  light  appears,  and  from  the  walls  of  Heaven 
Shoots  far  into  the  bosom  of  dim  night 
A  glimmering  dawn :  here  Nature  first  begins 
Eler  farthest  verge,  and  Chaos  to  retire, 
As  from  her  outmost  works  a  broken  foe, 
With  tumult  less,  and  with  less  hostile  din : 
That  Satan  with  less  toil,  and  now  with  ease, 
Wafts  on  the  calmer  wave  by  dubious  light, 
And,  like  a  weatherbeaten  vessel,  holds 
Gladly  the  port;  though  shrouds  and  tackle  torn ; 
)r  in  the  emptier  waste,  resembling  air, 
Weighs  his  spread  wings,  at  leisure  to  behold 
•'ar  off  the  empyreal  Heaven,  extended  wide 
n  circuit,  undetermined  square  or  round, 
With  opal  towers  and  battlements  adorned 


18 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  m. 


Of  living  sapphire,  once  his  native  seat ; 
And  fast  by,  hanging  in  a  golden  chain, 
This  pendent  world,  in  bigness  as  a  star 
Of  smallest  magnitude  close  by  the  moon. 
Thither,  full  fraught  with  mischievous  revenge, 
Accursed,  and  in  a  cursed  hour,  he  hies. 


BOOK  III. 


THE  ARGUMENT- 

God,  sitting  on  his  throne,  sees  Satan  flying  towards  this 
world,  then  newly  created ;  shows  him  to  the  Son,  who  sat  at 
his  right'  hand ;  foretells  the  success  of  Satan  in  perverting 
mankind ;  clears  his  own  justice  and  wisdom  from  all  impu- 
tation, having  created  man  free,  and  able  enough  to  have  with- 
stood his  tempter ;  yet  declares  his  purpose  of  grace  towards 
him,  in  regard  he  fell  not  of  his  own  malice,  as  did  Satan,  but 
by  him  seduced.  The  Son  of  God  renders  praises  to  his  Fa- 
ther, for  the  manifestation  of  his  gracious  purpose  towards 
man ;  but  God  again  declares,  that  grace  can  not  be  extended 
towards  man  without  the  satisfaction  o'f  divine  justice;  man 
hath  offended  the  majesty  of  God  by  aspiring  to  Godhead,  and, 
therefore,  with  all  his  progeny,  devoted  to  death,  must  die,  un- 
less some  one  can  be  found  sufficient  to  answer  for  his  offence, 
and  undergo  his  punishment.  The  Son  of  God  freely  offers 
himself  a  ransom  for  man :  the  Father  accepts  him,  ordains 
his  incarnation,  pronounces  his  exaltation  above  all  names  in 
Heaven  and  earth;  commands 'all  the  angels  to  adore  him; 
they  obey,  and,  hymning  to  their  harps  in  full  choir,  celebrate 
the  Father  and  the  Son.  Meanwhile  Satan  alights  upon  the 
bare  convex  of  this  world's  outermost  orb  ;  where  wandering, 
he  first  finds  a  place  since  called  the  Limbo  of  Vanity :  what 
persons  and  things  fly  up  thither ;  thence  comes  to  the  gate  of 
Heaven,  described  ascending  by  stairs,  and  the  waters  above 
the  firmament  that  flow  about  it ;  his  passage  thence  to  the 
orb  of  the  sun  ;  he  finds  there  Uriel,  the  regent  of  that  orb, 
but  first  changes  himself  into  the  shape  of  a  meaner  angel ; 
and  pretending  a  zealous  desire  to  behold  the  new  creation,  and 
man  whom  God  had  placed  here,  inquires  of  him  the  place 
of  his  habitation,  and  is  directed :  alights  first  on  mount  Ni- 
phates. 

HAIL,  holy  Light !  offspring  of  Heaven  first  born! 
Or  of  the  eternal  coeternal  beam 
May  I  express  thee  unblamed  1  since  God  is  light, 
And  never  but  in  unapproached  light 
Dwelt  from  eternity,  dwelt  then  in  thee, 
Bright  effluence  of  bright  essence  increate. 
Or  hearest  thou  rather  pure  ethereal  stream. 
Whose  fountain  who  shall  tell  1  Before  the  sun, 
Before  the  heavens  thou  wert,  and,  at  the  voice 
Of  God,  as  with  a  mantle,  didst  invest 
The  rising  world  of  waters  dark  and  deep, 
Won  from  the  void  and  formless  infinite. 
Thee  I  revisit  now  with  bolder  wing, 
Escaped  the  Stygian  pool,  though  long  detained 
In  that  obscure  sojourn,  while  in  my  flight 
Through  utter  and  through  middle  darkness  borne, 
With  other  notes  than  to  the  Orphean  lyre, 
I  sung  of  Chaos  and  eternal  Night, 
Taught  by  the  heavenly  Muse  to  venture  down 
The  dark  descent,  and  up  to  reascend, 
Though  hard  and  rare :  thee  I  revisit  safe, 


And  feel  thy  sovereign  vital  lamp ;  but  thou 
Revisitest  not  these  eyes,  that  roll  in  vain 
To  find  thy  piercing  ray,  and  find  no  dawn ; 
So  thick  a  drop  serene  hath  quenched  their  orbs. 
Or  dim  suffusion  veiled.    Yet  not  the  more 
Cease  I  to  wander,  where  the  muses  haunt 
Clear  spring,  or  shady  grove,  or  sunny  hill, 
Smit  with  the  love  of  sacred  song ;  but  chief 
Thee,  Sion,  and  the  flowery  brooks  beneath, 
That  wash  thy  hallowed  feet,  and  warbling  flow, 
Nightly  I  visit :  nor  sometimes  forget 
Those  other  two  equalled  with  me  in  fate, 
So  were  I  equalled  with  them  in  renown, 
Blind  Thamyris  and  blind  Mseonides, 
And  Tiresias  and  Phineus,  prophets  old : 
Then  feed  on  thoughts,  that  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers ;  as  the  wakeful  bird 
Sings  darkling,  and  in  shadiest  covert  hid 
Tunes  her  nocturnal  note.     Thus  with  the  year 
Seasons  return ;  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn, 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose 
Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine ; 
But  cloud  instead,  and  ever-during  dark 
Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 
Cut  off,  and,  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair 
Presented  with  a  universal  blank 
Of  nature's  works,  to  me  expunged  and  razed, 
And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out. 
So  much  the  rather  thou,  celestial  Light, 
Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her  powers 
Irradiate;  there  plant  eyes,  all  mist  from  thence 
Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 
Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight. 

Now  nad  the  almighty  Father  from  above, 
From  the  pure  empyrean  where  he  sits 
High  throned  above  all  height,  bent  down  his  eye, 
His  own  works  and  their  works  at  once  to  view: 
About  him  all  the  sanctities  of  Heaven 
Stood  thick  as  stars,  and  from  his  sight  received 
Beatitude  past  utterance;  on  his  right 
The  radiant  image  of  his  glory  sat, 
His  only  Son;  on  the  earth  he  first  beheld 
Our  two  first  parents,  yet  the  only  two 
Of  mankind,  in  the  happy  garden  placed, 
Reaping  immortal  fruits  of  joy  and  love, 
Uninterrupted  joy,  unrivalled  love, 
In  blissful  solitude;  he  then  surveyed 
Hell  and  the  gulf  between,  and  Satan  there 
Coasting  the  wall  of  Heaven  on  this  side  Night 
In  the  dun  air  sublime,  and  ready  now 
To  stoop,  with  wearied  wings,  and  willing  feet, 
On  the  bare  outside  of  this  world,  that  seemed 
Firm  land  embosomed,  without  firmament, 
Uncertain  which,  in  ocean  or  in  air. 
Him  God  beholding  from  his  prospect  high 
Wherein  past,  present,  future  he  beholds, 
Thus  to  his  only  Son  foreseeing  spake. 

"  Only  begotten  Son,  seest  thou  what  rage 


BOOK  in. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


19 


Transports  our  adversary!  whom  no  bounds 
Prescribed,  no  bars  of  hell,  nor  all  the  chains 
Heaped  on  him  there,  nor  yet  the  main  abyss 

:'e  interrupt  can  hold;  so  bent  he  seems 
On  desperate  revenue,  that  shall  redound 
Upon  his  own  rebellious  head.     And  now, 
Through  all  restraint  broke  loose,  he  wings  his 

way 

Nor  far  off  Heaven,  in  the  precincts  of  light, 
Directly  towards  the  new  created  world, 
And  man  there  placed,  with  purpose  to  assay 
If  him  by  force  he  can  destroy,  or,  worse, 
By  some  false  guile  pervert;  and  shall  pervert: 
For  man  will  hearken  to  his  glozing  lies, 
And  easily  transgress  the  sole  command, 
Sole  pledge  of  his  obedience :  so  will  fall 
He  and  his  faithless  progeny:  whose  fault! 
Whose  but  his  own  7  Ingrate,  he  had  of  me 
All  he  could  have ;  I  made  him  just  and  right, 
Sufficient  to  have  stood,  though  free  to  fall. 
Such  I  created  all  the  ethereal  powers 
And  spirits,  both  them  who  stood  and  them  wh( 

failed; 

Freely  they  stood  who  stood,  and  fell  who  fell. 
Not  free,  what  proof  could  they  have  given  sincere 
Of  true  allegiance,  constant  faith  or  love, 
Where  only  what  they  needs  must  do  appeared, 
Not  what  they  would  7  what  praise  could  they  re- 
ceive1? 

What  pleasure  I  from  such  obedience  paid, 
When  will  and  reason  (reason  also  is  choice) 
Useless  and  vain,  of  freedom  both  despoiled, 
Made  passive  both,  had  served  necessity, 
Not  me  ?  They,  therefore,  as  to  right  belonged 
So  were  created,  nor  can  justly  accuse 
Their  Maker,  or  their  making,  or  their  fate, 
As  if  predestination  overruled 
Their  will,  disposed  by  absolute  decree 
Or  high  foreknowledge;  they  themselves  decreed 
Their  own  revolt,  not  I ;  if  I  foreknew, 
Foreknowledge  had  no  influence  on  their  fault, 
Which  had  no  less  proved  certain  unforeknown. 
So  without  least  impulse  or  shadow  of  fate, 
Or  aught  by  me  immutably  foreseen, 
They  trespass,  authors  to  themselves  in  all 
Both  what  they  judge  and  what  they  choose ;  for  so 
I  formed  them  free,  and  free  they  must  remain, 
Till  they  inthral  themselves;  I  else  must  change 
Their  nature,  and  revoke  the  high  decree 
Unchangeable,  eternal,  which  ordained 
Their  freedom ;  they  themselves  ordained  their  fall. 
The  first  sort  by  their  own  suggestion  fell, 
Self-tempted,  self-depraved:  man  falls,  deceived 
By  the  other  first :  man  therefore  shall  find  grace, 
The  other  none :  in  mercy  and  justice  both, 
Through  heaven  and  earth,  so  shall  my  glory  ex- 
cel: 
But  mercy  first  and  last  shall  brightest  shine.'' 


Thus  while  God  spake,   ambrosial  fragrance 

filled 

All  Heaven,  and  in  the  blessed  spirit  elect 
Sense  of  new  joy  ineffable  diffused : 
Beyond  compare  the  Son  of  God  was  seen 
Most  glorious ;  in  him  all  his  Father  shone 
Substantially  expressed;  and  in  his  face 
Divine  compassion  visibly  appeared, 
Love  without  end,  and  without  measure  grace, 
Which  uttering,  thus  he  to  his  Father  spake : 
"  O  Father,  gracious  was  that  word  which 

closed 
Thy  sovereign  sentence,  that  man  should  find 

grace 

For  which  both  Heaven  and  earth  shall  high  extol 
Thy  praises,  with  th'  innumerable  sound 
Of  hymns  and  sacred  songs,  wherewith  thy  throne 
Incompassed  shall  resound  thee  ever  blest. 
For  should  man  finally  be  lost,  should  man, 
Thy  creature  late  so  loved,  thy  youngest  son 
Fall  circumvented  thus  by  fraud,  though  joined 
With  his  own  folly'?  that  be  from  thee  far, 
That  far  be  from  thee,  Father,  who  art  judge 
Of  all  things  made,  and  judgest  only  right. 
Or  shall  the  adversary  thus  obtain 
His  end,  and  frustrate  thine  ?  shall  he  fulfil 
His  malice,  and  thy  goodness  bring  to  nought, 
Or  proud  return,  though  to  his  heavier  doom, 
Yet  with  revenge  accomplished,  and  to  hell 
Draw  after  him  the  whole  race  of  mankind, 
By  him  corrupted'?  or  wilt  thou  thyself 
Abolish  thy  creation,  and  unmake, 

'or  him,  what  for  thy  glory  thou  hast  made? 
So  should  thy  goodness  and  thy  greatness  both 
3e  questioned  and  blasphemed  without  defence." 
To  whom  the  great  Creator  thus  replied, 
O  Son,  in  whom  my  soul  hath  chief  delight, 
Son  of  my  bosom,  Son  who  art  alone 
Vly  word,  my  wisdom,  and  effectual  might, 
All  hast  thou  spoken  as  my  thoughts  are,  all 
As  my  eternal  purpose  hath  decreed: 
Man  shall  not  quite  be  lost,  but  saved  who  will; 
f  et  not  of  will  in  him,  but  grace  in  me 
reely  vouchsafed;  once  more  I  will  renew 
lis  lapsed  powers,  though  forfeit  and  inthralled 
•y  sin  to  foul  exorbitant  desires; 
Jpheld  by  me,  yet  once  more  he  shall  stand 
)n  even  ground  against  his  mortal  foe, 
y  me  upheld,  that  he  may  know  how  frail 
lis  fallen  condition  is,  and  to  me  owe 
Vll  his  deliverance,  and  to  none  but  me. 
ome  I  have  chosen  of  peculiar  grace, 
lect  above  the  rest ;  so  is  my  will: 
"he  rest  shall  hear  me  call,  and  oft  be  warned 
'heir  sinful  state,  and  to  appease  betimes 
'h'  incensed  Deity,  while  offered  grace 
nvites;  for  I  will  clear  their  senses  dark, 
What  may  suffice  and  soften  stony  hearts 


20 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  ni. 


To  pray,  repent,  and  bring  obedience  due. 

To  prayer,  repentance,  and  obedience  due, 

Though  but  endeavoured  with  sincere  intent, 

Mine  ear  shall  not  be  slow,  mine  eye  not  shut. 

And  I  will  place  within  them  as  a  guide 

My  umpire  Conscience,  whom  if  they  will  hear, 

Light  after  light  well  used  they  shall  attain, 

And  to  the  end  persisting,  safe  arrive. 

This  my  long  sufferance  and  my  day  of  grace 

They  who  neglect  and  scorn  shall  never  taste; 

But  hard  be  hardened,  blind  be  blinded  more, 

That  they  may  stumble  on,  and  deeper  fall; 

And  none  but  such  from  mercy  I  exclude. 

But  yet  all  is  not  done ;  man  disobeying, 

Disloyal,  breaks  his  fealty,  and  sins 

Against  the  high  supremacy  of  Heaven, 

Affecting  Godhead,  and,  so  losing  all, 

To  expiate  his  treason  hath  naught  left, 

But  to  destruction  sacred  and  devote, 

He  with  his  whole  posterity  must  die, 

Die  he  or  justice  must :  unless  for  him 

Some  other  able,  and  as  willing,  pay 

The  rigid  satisfaction,  death  for  death. 

Say,  heavenly  powers,  where  shall  we  find  such 

love? 

Which  of  ye  will  be  mortal  to  redeem 
Man's  mortal  crime,  and  just  th'  unjust  to  save  1 
Dwells  in  all  heaven  charity  so  dear1?" 

He  asked,  but  all  the  heavenly  choir  stood 

mute, 

And  silence  was  in  Heaven;  on  man's  behalf 
Patron  or  intercessor  none  appeared, 
Much  less  that  durst  upon  his  own  head  draw 
The  deadly  forfeiture,  and  ransom  set. 
And  now  without  redemption  all  mankind 
Must  have  been  lost,  adjudged  to  death  and  hell 
By  doom  severe,  had  not  the  Son  of  God 
In  whom  the  fulness  dwells  of  love  divine, 
His  dearest  mediation  thus  renewed. 

"  Father,  thy  word  is  past,  man  shall  find  grace; 
And  shall  grace  not  find  means,  that  finds  her 

way, 

The  speediest  of  thy  winged  messengers, 
To  visit  all  thy  creatures,  and  to  all 
Comes  unprevented,  unimplored,  unsought? 
Happy  for  man,  so  coming;  he  her  aid 
Can  never  seek,  once  dead  in  sins,  and  lost; 
Atonement  for  himself  or  offering  meet, 
Indebted  and  undone,  hath  none  to  bring: 
Behold  me  then;  me  for  him;  life  for  life 
I  offer;  on  me  let  thine  anger  fall ; 
Account  me  man;  I  for  his  sake  will  leave 
Thy  bosom,  and  this  glory  next  to  thee 
Freely  put  off,  and  for  him  lastly  die 
Well  pleased;  on  me  let  Death  wreak   all  his 

rage; 

Under  his  gloomy  power  I  shall  not  long 
Lie  vanquished;  thou  hast  given  me  to  possess 
Life  in  myself  for  ever:  by  thee  I  live, 


Though  now  to  Death  I  yield,  and  am  his  due 
All  that  of  me  can  die ;  yet  that  debt  paid 
Thou  wilt  not  leave  me  in  the  loathsome  grave 
His  prey,  nor  suffer  my  unspotted  soul 
For  ever  with  corruption  there  to  dwell; 
But  I  shall  rise  victorious,  and  subdue 
My  vanquisher,  spoiled  of  his  vaunted  spoil; 
Death  his  death's  wound  shall  then  receive,  and 

stoop 

Inglorious,  of  his  mortal  sting  disarmed, 
I  through  the  ample  air  in  triumph  high 
Shall  lead  hell  captive,  maugre  hell,  and  show 
The  powers  of  darkness  bound.    Thou,  at  the 

sight 
Pleased,  out  of  Heaven  shall  look  down  and 

smile, 

While,  by  thee  raised,  I  ruin  all  my  foes, 
Death  last,  and  with  his  carcass  glut  the  grave : 
Then  with  the  multitude  of  my  redeemed 
Shall  enter  Heaven,  long  absent,  and  return, 
Father,  to  see  thy  face,  wherein  no  cloud 
Of  anger  shall  remain,  but  peace  assured 
And  reconcilement :  wrath  shall  be  no  more 
Thenceforth,  but  in  thy  presence  joy  entire." 
His  words  here  ended,  but  his  meek  aspect 
Silent  yet  spake,  and  breathed  immortal  love 
To  mortal  men,  above  which  only  shone 
Filial  obedience:  as  a  sacrifice 
Glad  to  be  offered,  he  attends  the  will 
Of  his  great  Father.     Admiration  seized 
All  Heaven,  what  this  might  mean,  and  whither 

tend, 

Wondering ;  but  soon  th'  Almighty  thus  replied. 
"  O  thou,  in  Heaven  and  earth  the  only  peace 
Found  out  for  mankind  under  wrath!    O  thou, 
My  sole  complacence!    well  thou  knowest  how 

dear 

To  me  are  all  my  works,  nor  man  the  least, 
Though  last  created ;  that  for  him  I  spare 
Thee  from  my  bosom  and  right  hand,  to  save, 
By  losing  thee  awhile,  the  whole  race  lost. 
Thou,  therefore,  whom  thou  only  canst  redeem, 
Their  nature  also  to  thy  nature  join; 
And  be  thyself  man  among  men  on  earth, 
Made  flesh,  when  time  shall  be,  of  virgin  seed, 
By  wondrous  birth:  be  thou,  in  Adam's  room, 
The  head  of  all  mankind,  though  Adam's  son. 
As  in  him  perish  all  men,  so  in  thee, 
As  from  a  second  root,  shall  be  restored 
As  many  as  are  restored,  without  thee  none. 
His  crime  makes  guilty  all  his  sons;  thy  merit, 
Imputed,  shall  absolve  them  who  renounce 
Their  own  both  righteous  and  unrighteous  deeds, 
And  live  in  thee  transplanted,  and  from  thee 
Receive  new  life.    So  man,  as  is  most  just, 
Shall  satisfy  for  man,  be  judged  and  die, 
And  dying  rise,  and  rising  with  him  raise 
His  brethren,  ransomed  with  his  own  dear  life. 
So  heavenlv  love  shall  outdo  hellish  hate. 


BOOK  HI. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


2i 


Giving  to  death,  and  dying  to  redeem, 
So  dearly  to  redeem  what  hellish  hate 
So  easily  destroyed,  and  still  destroys 
In  those  who,  when  they  may,  accept  not  grace. 
Nor  shalt  thou,  by  descending  to  assume 
Man's  nature,  lessen  or  degrade  thine  own. 
Because  thou  hast,  though  throned  in  highest  bliss 
Equal  to  God,  and  equally  enjoying 
Godlike  fruition,  quitted  all  to  save 
A  world  from  utter  loss,  and  hast  been  found 
By  merit  more  than  birthright  Son  of  God, 
Found  worthiest  to  be  so  by  being  good, 
Far  more  than  great  or  high ;  because  in  thee 
Love  hath  abounded  more  than  glory  abounds ; 
Therefore  thy  humiliation  shall  exalt 
With  thee  thy  manhood  also  to  this  throne: 
Here  shalt  thou  sit  incarnate,  here  shalt  reign 
Both  God  and  man,  Son  both  of  God  and  man, 
Anointed  universal  King;  all  power 
I  give  thee ;  reign  for  ever,  and  assume 
Thy  merits ;  under  thee,  as  head  supreme, 
Thrones,  princedoms,  powers,  dominions  I  reduce: 
All  knees  to  thee  shall  bow,  of  them  that  bide 
In  Heaven,  or  earth,  or  under  earth  in  hell. 
When  thou,  attended  gloriously  from  Heaven, 
Shalt  in  the  sky  appear,  and  from  thee  send 
The  summoning  archangels  to  proclaim 
Thy  dread  tribunal,  forthwith  from  all  winds 
The  living,  and  forthwith  the  cited  dead 
Of  all  past  ages  to  the  general  doom 
Shall  hasten,  such  a  peal  shall  rouse  their  sleep. 
Then,  all  thy  saints  assembled,  thou  shalt  judge 
Bad  men  and  angels ;  they,  arraigned,  shall  sink 
Beneath  thy  sentence ;  hell,  her  numbers  full, 
Thenceforth  shall  be  for  ever  shut.     Meanwhile 
The  world  shall  burn,  and  from  her  ashes  spring 
New  Heaven  and  earth,  wherein  the  just  shall 

dwell, 

And,  after  all  their  tribulations  long, 
See  golden  days,  fruitful  of  golden  deeds, 
With  joy  and  love  triumphing,  and  fair  truth. 
Then  thou  thy  regal  sceptre  shalt  lay  by, 
For  regal  sceptre  then  no  more  shall  need, 
God  shall  be  all  in  all.     But,  all  ye  gods, 
Adore  him,  who  to  compass  all  this  dies; 
Adore  the  Son,  and  honour  him  as  me." 

No  sooner  had  the  Almighty  ceased,  but  all 
The  multitude  of  angels,  with  a  shout 
Loud  as  from  numbers  without  number,  sweet 
As  from  blest  voices,  uttering  joy,  Heaven  rung 
With  jubilee,  and  loud  hosannas  filled 
The  eternal  regions :  lowly  reverent 
Towards  either  throne  they  bow,  and  to  the  ground 
With  solemn  adoration  down  they  cast 
Their  crowns  inwove  with  amaranth  and  gold; 
Immortal  amaranth,  a  flower  which  once 
In  Paradise,  fast  by  the  tree  of  life, 
Began  to  bloom ;  but  soon  for  man's  offence 


To  Heaven  removed,  where  first  it  grew,  there 

grows, 

And  flowers,  aloft,  shading  the  fount  of  life, 
And  where  the  river  of  bliss  through  midst  of 

Heaven 

Rolls  o'er  Elysian  flowers  her  amber  stream : 
With  these  that  never  fade  the  spirits  elect 
Bind  their   resplendent  locks   inwreathed  with 

beams; 

Now  in  loose  garlands  thick  thrown  off,  the  bright 
Pavement,  that  like  a  sea  of  jasper  shone, 
Impurpled  with  celestial  roses  smiled. 
Then,  crowned  again,  their  golden  harps  they  took, 
Harps  ever  tuned,  that,  glittering  by  their  side, 
Like  quivers  hung,  and  with  preamble  sweet 
Of  charming  symphony  they  introduce 
Their  sacred  song,  and  waken  raptures  high ; 
No  voice  exempt,  no  voice  but  well  could  join 
Melodious  part,  such  concord  is  in  Heaven. 
Thee,  Father,  first  they  sung,  omnipotent, 
Immutable,  immortal,  infinite, 
Eternal  King ;  the  Author  of  all  being, 
Fountain  of  light,  thyself  invisible 
Amidst  the  glorious  brightness  where  thou  sittest 
Throned  inaccessible,  but  when  thou  shadest 
The  full  blaze  of  thy  beams,  and  through  a  cloud 
Drawn  round  about  thee  like  a  radiant  shrine, 
Dark  with  excessive  bright  thy  skirts  appear, 
Yet  dazzle  Heaven,  that  brightest  seraphim 
Approach  not,  but  with  both  wings  veil  their  eyes, 
Thee  next  they  sang,  of  all  creation  first, 
Begotten  Son,  divine  similitude, 
In  whose  conspicuous  countenance,  without  cloud 
Made  visible,  the  Almighty  Father  shines, 
Whom  else  no  creature  can  behold ;  on  thee 
Impressed  the  effulgence  of  his  glory  abides, 
Transfused  on  thee  his  ample  spirit  rests. 
He   Heaven  of  Heavens,   and   all   the  powers 

therein, 

By  thee  created,  and  by  thee  threw  down 
The  aspiring  dominations :  thou  that  day 
Thy  Father's  dreadful  thunder  didst  not  spare, 
Nor  stop  thy  flaming  chariot  wheels,  that  shook 
Heaven's  everlasting  frame,  while  o'er  the  necks 
Thou  drovest  of  warring  angels  disarrayed. 
Back  from  pursuit  thy  powers  with  loud  acclaim 
Thee  only  extolled,  Son  of  thy  Father's  might, 
To  execute  fierce  vengeance  on  his  foes. 
Not  so  on  man ;  him,  through  their  malice  fallen, 
Father  of  mercy  and  grace,  thou  didst  not  doom 
So  strictly,  but  much  more  to  pity  incline : 
No  sooner  did  thy  dear  and  only  Son 
Perceive  thee  purposed  not  to  doom  frail  man 
So  strictly,  but  much  more  to  pity  inclined, 
He,  to  appease  thy  wrath,  and  end  the  strife 
Of  mercy  and  justice  in  thy  face  discerned, 
Regardless  of  the  bliss  wherein  he  sat 
i  Second  to  thee,  offered  himself  to  die 


22 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  in. 


For  man's  offence.     O  unexampled  love, 
Love  no  where  to  be  found  less  than  divine ! 
Hail,  Son  of  God,  Saviour  of  men !  thy  name 
Shall  be  the  copious  matter  of  my  song 
Henceforth,  and  never  shall  my  harp  thy  praise 
Forget,  nor  from  thy  Father's  praise  disjoin. 

Thus  they  in  Heaven,  above  the  starry  sphere, 
Their  happy  hours  in  joy  and  hymning  spent. 
Meanwhile  upon  the  firm  opacious  globe 
Of  this  round  world,  whose  first  convex  divides 
Their  luminous  inferior  orbs,  inclosed 
From  Chaos  and  th'  inroad  of  Darkness  old, 
Satan  alighted  walks :  a  globe  far  off 
It  seemed,  now  seems  a  boundless  continent, 
Dark,  waste,  and  wild,  under  the  frown  of  Night 
Starless  exposed,  and  ever-threatening  storms 
Of  Chaos  blustering  round,  inclement  sky; 
Save  on  that  side  which  from  the  wall  of  Heaven, 
Though  distant  far,  some  small  reflection  gains 
Of  glimmering  air,  less  vexed  with  tempest  loud : 
Here  walked  the  fiend  at  large  in  spacious  field. 
As  when  a  vulture,  on  Imaus  bred, 
Whose  snowy  ridge  the  roving  Tartar  bounds, 
Dislodging  from  a  region  scarce  of  prey 
To  gorge  the  flesh  of  lambs  or  yearling  kids, 
On  hills  where  flocks  are  fed,  flies  towards  the 

springs 

Of  Ganges  or  Hydaspes,  Indian  streams ; 
But  in  his  way  lights  on  the  barren  plains 
Of  Sericana,  where  Chineses  drive 
With  sails  and  wind  their  cany  wagons  light ; 
So,  on  this  windy  sea  of  land,  the  fiend 
Walked  up  and  down  alone,  bent  on  his  prey; 
A.lone,  for  other  creature  in  this  place, 
Living  or  lifeless  to  be  found  was  none; 
None  yet,  but  store  hereafter  from  the  earth 
Up  hither  like  aerial  vapours  flew 
Of  all  things  transitory  and  vain,  when  sin 
With  vanity  had  filled  the  works  of  men ; 
Both  all  things  vain,  and  all  who  in  vain  things 
Built  their  fond  hopes  of  glory  or  lasting  fame, 
Or  happiness  in  this  or  the  other  life ; 
All  who  have  their  reward  on  earth,  the  fruits 
Of  painful  superstition  and  blind  zeal, 
Nought  seeking  but  the  praise  of  men,  here  find 
Fit  retribution,  empty  as  their  deeds; 
All  the  unaccomplished  works  of  Nature's  hand, 
Abortive,  monstrous,  or  unkindly  mixed, 
Dissolved  on  earth,  fleet  hither,  and  in  vain, 
Till  final  dissolution  wander  here, 
Not  in  the   neighb'ring  moon,  as  some  have 

dreamed : 

Those  argent  fields  more  likely  habitants, 
Translated  saints,  or  middle  spirits,  hold 
Betwixt  the  angelical  and  human  kind. 
Hither,  of  ill-joined  sons  and  daughters  born, 
First  from  the  ancient  world  those  giants  came 
With  many  a  vain  exploit  though  then  renowned  : 
The  builders  next  of  Babel  on  the  plain 


Of  Sennaar,  and  still  with  vain  design 

New  Babels,  had  they  wherewithal  would  build : 

Others  came  single:  he  who,  to  be  deemed 

A  god,  leaped  fondly  into  ./Etna  flames, 

Empedocles;  and  he  who,  to  enjoy 

Plato's  elysium,  leaped  into  the  sea, 

Cleombrotus ;  and  many  more  too  long, 

Embryos,  and  idiots,  eremites,  and  friars 

White,  black,  and  gray,  with  all  their  trumpery 

Here  pilgrims  roam,  that  strayed  so  far  to  seek 

In  Golgotha  him  dead,  who  lives  in  Heaven ; 

And  they  who,  to  be  sure  of  Paradise, 

Dying  put  on  the  weeds  of  Dominic, 

Or  in  Franciscan  think  to  pass  disguised  ; 

They  pass  the  planets  seven,  and  pass  the  fixed, 

And  crystalline  sphere,  whose  balance  weighs 

The  trepidation  talked,  and  that  first  moved : 

And  now  saint  Peter  at  Heaven's  wicket  seems 

To  wait  them  with  his  keys,  and  now  at  foot 

Of  Heaven's  ascent  they  lift  their  feet,  when  lo 

A  violent  cross  wind  from  either  coast 

Blows  them  transverse  ten  thousand  leagues  awry 

Into  the  devious  air ;  then  might  ye  see 

Cowls,  hoods,  and  habits,  with  their  wearers  tost 

And  fluttered  into  rags ;  then  reliques,  beads, 

Indulgences,  dispenses,  pardons,  bulls, 

The  sport  of  winds :  all  these,  upwhirled  aloft, 

Fly  o'er  the  backside  of  the  world  far  off 

Into  a  limbo  large  and  broad,  since  called 

The  Paradise  of  fools,  to  few  unknown 

Long  after,  now  unpeopled,  and  untrod. 

All  this  dark  globe  the  fiend  found  as  he  passed, 

And  long  he  wandered  till  at  last  a  gleam 

Of  dawning  light  turned  thitherward  in  haste 

His  travelled  steps :  far  distant  he  descries, 

Ascending  by  degrees  magnificent 

Up  to  the  wall  of  Heaven,  a  structure  high ; 

At  top  whereof,  but  far  more  rich,  appeared 

The  work  as  of  a  kingly  palace  gate, 

With  frontispiece  of  diamond  and  gold 

Embellished ;  thick  with  sparkling  orient  gems 

The  portal  shone,  inimitable  on  earth 

By  model,  or  by  shading  pencil  drawn. 

The  stairs  were  such  as  whereon  Jacob  saw 

Angels  ascending  and  descending,  bands 

Of  guardians  bright,  when  he  from  Esau  fled 

To  Padan- Aram,  in  the  field  of  Luz 

Dreaming  by  night  under  the  open  sky, 

And  waking  cried,  "  This  is  the  gate  of  Heaven." 

Each  stair  mysteriously  was  meant,  nor  stood 

There  always,  but  drawn  up  to  Heaven  sometimes 

Viewless ;  and  underneath  a  bright  sea  flowed 

Of  jasper,  or  of  liquid  pearl,  whereon 

Who  after  came  from  earth,  sailing  arrived 

Wafted  by  angels,  or  flew  o'er  the  lake 

Rapt  in  a  chariot  drawn  by  fiery  steeds. 

The  stairs  were  then  let  down,  whether  to  dare 

The  fiend  by  easy  ascent,  or  aggravate 

His  sad  exclusion  from  the  doors  of  bliss ; 


BOOK  m. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


•23 


Direct  against  which  opened  from  beneath, 

Just  o'er  the  blissful  seat  of  Paradise, 

A  passage  down  to  th'  earth,  a  passage  wide, 

Wider  by  far  than  that  of  aftertimes 

Over  mount  Sion,  and,  though  that  were  large, 

Over  the  promised  land  to  God  so  dear: 

By  which,  to  visit  oft  those  happy  tribes, 

On  high  behests  his  angels  to  and  fro 

Passed  frequent,  and  his  eye  with  choice  regard 

From  Paneas,  the  fount  of  Jordan's  flood, 

To  Beersaba,  where  the  Holy  Land 

Borders  on  Egypt  and  the  Arabian  shore ; 

So  wide  the  opening  seemed,  where  bounds  were 

set 

To  darkness,  such  as  bound  the  ocean  wave. 
Satan  from  hence,  now  on  the  lower  stair, 
That  scaled  by  steps  of  gold  to  Heaven  gate, 
Looks  down  with  wonder  at  the  sudden  view 
Of  all  this  world  ut  once.    As  when  a  scout, 
Through  dark  and  desert  ways  with  peril  gone 
All  night,  at  last  by  break  of  cheerful  dawn, 
Obtains  the  brow  of  some  high-climbing  hill, 
Which  to  his  eye  discovers  unaware 
The  goodly  prospect  of  some  foreign  land. 
First  seen,  or  some  renowned  metropolis 
With  glistering  spires  and  pinnacles  adorned, 
Which  now  the  rising  sun  gilds  with  his  beams  : 
Such  wonder  seized,  though  after  Heaven  seen, 
The  spirit  malign,  but  much  more  envy  seized, 
At  sight  of  all  this  world  beheld  so  fair. 
Round  he  surveys,  (and  well  might,  where  he  stood 
So  high  above  the  circling  canopy 
Of  night's  extended  shade)  from  eastern  point 
Of  Libra  to  the  fleecy  star  that  bears 
Andromeda  far  off  Atlantic  seas 
Beyond  the  horizon;  then  from  pole  to  pole 
He  views  in  breadth,  and  without  longer  pause 
Downright  into  the  world's  first  region  throws 
His  flight  precipitant,  and  winds  with  ease 
Through  the  pure  marble  air,  his  oblique  way 
Amongst  innumerable  stars  that  shone, 
Stars  distant,  but  nigh  hand  seemed  other  worlds ; 
Or  other  worlds  they  seemed,  or  happy  isles, 
Like  those  Hesperean  gardens  famed  of  old, 
Fortunate  fields,  and  groves,  and  flowery  vales, 
Thrice  happy  isles;  but  who  dwelt  happy  there 
He  stayed  not  to  inquire ;  above  them  all 
The  golden  sun,  in  splendour  likest  Heaven, 
Allured  his  eye;  thither  his  course  he  bends 
Through  the  calm  firmament  (but  up  or  down, 
By  centre,  or  eccentric,  hard  to  tell, 
Or  longitude,)  where  the  great  luminary, 
Aloof  the  vulgar  constellations  thick 
That  from  his  lordly  eye  keep  distance  due, 
Dispenses  light  from  far:  they,  as  they  move 
Their  starry  dance,  in  numbers  that  compute 
Days,  months,  and  years,  towards  his  all-cheering 

lamp 
Turns  swift  their  various  motions,  or  are  turned 


By  his  magnetic  beam,  that  gently  warms 
The  universe,  and  to  each  inward  part 
With  gentle  penetration,  though  unseen, 
Shoots  invisible  virtue  even  to  the  deep  ; 
So  wondrously  was  set  his  station  bright. 
There  lands  the  fiend,  a  spot  like  which  perhaps 
Astronomer  in  the  sun's  lucent  orb, 
Through  his  glazed  optic  tube,  yet  never  saw. 
The  place  he  found  beyond  expression  bright, 
Compared  with  aught  on  earth,  metal  or  stone; 
Not  all  parts  like,  but  all  alike  informed 
With  radiant  light,  as  glowing  iron  with  fire ; 
If  metal,  part  seemed  gold,  part  silver  clear  ; 
If  stone,  carbuncle  most  or  chrysolite, 
Ruby  or  topaz,  to  the  twelve  that  shone 
In  Aaron's  breastplate,  and  a  stone  besides 
Imagined  rather  oft  than  elsewhere  seen, 
That  stone,  or  like  to  that  which  here  below 
Philosophers  in  vain  so  long  have  sought, 
In  vain,  though  by  their  powerful  art  they  bind 
Volatile  Hermes,  and  call  up  unbound 
In  various  shapes  old  Proteus  from  the  sea, 
Drained  through  a  limbec  to  his  native  form. 
What  wonder  then  if  fields  and  regions  here 
Breathe  forth  elixir  pure,  and  rivers  run 
Potable  gold,  when  with  one  virtuous  touch 
The  arch  chymic  sun,  so  far  from  us  remote, 
Produces,  with  terrestrial  humour  mixed, 
Here  in  the  dark  so  many  precious  things 
Of  colour  glorious,  and  effect  so  rare! 
Here  matter  new  to  gaze  the  Devil  met 
Undazzled;  far  and  wide  his  eye  commands; 
For  sight  no  obstacle  found  here,  nor  shade, 
But  all  sunshine,  as  when  his  beams  at  noon 
Culminate  from  the  equator,  as  they  now 
Shot  upward  still  direct,  whence  no  way  round 
Shadow  from  body  opaque  can  fall;  and  the  air 
No  where  so  clear,  sharpened  his  visual  ray 
To  objects  distant  far,  whereby  he  scon 
Saw  within  ken  a  glorious  angel  stand, 
The  same  whom  John  saw  also  in  the  sun: 
Bis  back  was  turned,  but  not  his  brightness  hid; 
Of  beaming  sunny  rays  a  golden  tiar 
Circled  his  head,  nor  less  his  locks  behind 
llustrious  on  his  shoulders  fledged  with  wings 
L,ay  waving  round ;  on  some  great  charge  employed 
He  seemed  or  fixed  in  cogitation  deep, 
lad  was  the  spirit  impure,  as  now  in  hope 
To  find  who  might  direct  his  wandering  flight 
To  Paradise,  the  happy  seat  of  man, 
lis  journey's  end,  and  our  beginning  wo. 
3ut  first  he  casts  to  change  his  proper  shape, 
Vhich  else  might  work  him  danger  or  delay: 
And  now  a  stripling  cherub  he  appears, 
Not  of  the  prime,  yet  such  as  in  his  face 
fouth  smiled  celestial,  and  to  every  limb 
Suitable  grace  diffused,  so  well  he  feigned : 
Under  a  coronet  his  flowing  hair 
In  curls  on  either  cheek  played;  wings  he  wore 


24 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  iv. 


Of  many  a  coloured  plume,  sprinkled  with  gold ; 
His  habit  fit  for  speed  succinct,  and  held 
Before  his  decent  steps  a  silver  wand. 
He  drew  not  nigh  unheard;  the  angel  bright, 
Ere  he  drew  nigh,  his  radiant  visage  turned, 
Admonished  by  his  ear,  and  straight  was  known 
The  archangel  Uriel,  one  of  the  seven 
Who  in  God's  presence,  nearest  to  his  throne, 
Stanc*  ~eady  at  command,  and  are  his  eyes 
Thfe*  run  through  all  the  Heavens,  or  down  to  the 

earth 

Bear  his  swift  errands  over  moist  and  dry, 
O'er  sea  and  land:  him  Satan  thus  accosts. 

"  Uriel,  for  thou  of  those  seven  spirits  that  stand 
In  sight  of  God's  high  throne,  gloriously  bright, 
The  first  art  wont  his  great  authentic  will 
Interpreter  through  highest  Heaven  to  bring. 
Where  all  his  sons  thy  embassy  attend; 
And  here  art  likeliest  by  supreme  decree 
Like  honour  to  obtain,  and  as  his  eye 
To  visit  oft  this  new  creation  round ; 
Unspeakable  desire  to  see  and  know 
All  these  his  wondrous  works,  but  chiefly  man, 
His  chief  delight  and  favour,  him  for  whom 
All  these  his  work  so  wondrous  he  ordained, 
Hath  brought  me  from  the  choirs  of  cherubim 
Alone  thus  wandering.     Brightest  seraph,  tell 
In  which  of  all  these  shining  orbs  hath  man 
His  fixed  seat,  or  fixed  seat  hath  none, 
But  all  these  shining  orbs  his  choice  to  dwell; 
That  I  may  find  him,  and  with  secret  gaze 
Or  open  admiration  him  behold, 
On  whom  the  great  Creator  hath  bestowed 
Worlds,  and  on  whom  hath  all  these  graces  poured; 
That  both  in  him  and  all  things,  as  is  meet, 
The  universal  Maker  we  may  praise; 
Who  justly  hath  driven  out  his  rebel  foes 
To  deepest  hell,  and  to  repair  that  loss 
Created  this  new  happy  race  of  men 
To  serve  him  better :  wise  are  all  his  ways." 

So  spake  the  false  dissembler  unperceived; 
For  neither  man  nor  angel  can  discern 
Hypocrisy,  the  only  evil  that  walks 
Invisible,  except  to  God  alone, 
By  his  permissive  will,  through  Heaven  and  earth: 
And  oft,  though  wisdom  wake  suspicion  sleeps 
At  wisdom's  gate,  and  to  simplicity 
Resigns  her  charge,  while  goodness  thinks  no  ill 
Where  no  ill  seems :  which  now  for  once  beguiled 
Uriel,  though  regent  of  the  sun,  and  held 
The  sharpest-sighted  spirit  of  all  in  Heaven; 
Who  to  the  fraudulent  impostor  foul, 
In  his  uprightness,  answer  thus  returned. 

"  Fair  angel,  thy  desire,  which  tends  to  know 
The  works  of  God,  thereby  to  glorify 
The  great  Workmaster,  leads  to  no  excess 
That  reaches  blame,  but  rather  merits  praise 
The  more  it  seems  excess,  that  led  thee  hither 
From  thy  empyreal  mansion  thus  alone, 


To  witness  with  thine  eyes  what  some  perhaps 
Contented  with  report,  hear  only  in  Heaven: 
For  wonderful  indeed  are  all  his  works, 
Pleasant  to  know,  and  worthiest  to  be  all 
Had  in  remembrance  always  with  delight; 
But  what  created  mind  can  comprehend 
Their  number,  or  the  wisdom  infinite 
That  brought  them  forth,  but  hid  their  causes  deep1? 
I  saw  when  at  his  word  the  formless  mass, 
This  world's  material  mould,  came  to  a  heap: 
Confusion  heard  his  voice,  and  wild  uproar 
Stood  ruled,  stood  vast  infinitude  confined ; 
Till  at  his  second  bidding  darkness  fled, 
Light  shone,  and  order  from  disorder  sprung: 
Swift  to  their  several  quarters  hasted  then, 
The  cumbrous  elements,  earth,  flood,  air,  fire; 
And  this  ethereal  quintessence  of  Heaven 
Flew  upward,  spirited  with  various  forms, 
That  rolled  orbicular,  and  turned  to  stars 
Numberless,  as  thou  seest,  and  how  they  move ; 
Each  had  his  place  appointed,  each  his  course; 
The  rest  in  circuit  walls  this  universe. 
Look  downward  on  that  globe,  whose  hither  side 
With  light  from  hence,  though  but  reflected,  shines; 
That  place  is  earth,  the  seat  of  man,  that  light 
His  day,  which  else,  as  the  other  hemisphere, 
Night  would  invade;  but  there  the  neighbouring 

moon 

(So  call  that  opposite  fair  star)  her  aid 
Timely  interposes,  and  her  monthly  round 
Still  ending,  still  renewing,  through  mid  Heaven, 
With  borrowed  light  her  countenance  triform 
Hence  fills  and  empties  to  enlighten  the  earth, 
And  in  her  pale  dominion  checks  the  night. 
That  spot  to  which  I  point  is  Paradise, 
Adam's  abode ;  those  lofty  shades,  his  bower. 
Thy  way  thou  can'st  not  miss,  me  mine  requires." 
Thus  said,  he  turned ;  and  Satan,  bowing  low 
As  to  superior  spirits  is  wont  in  Heaven, 
Where  honour  due  and  reverence  none  neglects, 
Took  leave,  and  toward  the  coast  of  earth  beneath 
Down  from  th'  ecliptic,  sped  with  hoped  success, 
Throws  his  steep  flight  in  many  an  airy  wheel; 
Nor  stayed,  till  on  Niphates'  top  he  lights. 


BOOK  IV. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

Satan,  now  in  prospect  of  Eden,  and  nigh  the  place  where 
he  must  now  attempt  the  bold  enterprise  which  he  undertook 
alone  against  God  and  man,  falls  into  many  doubts  with  him- 
self, and  many  passions,  fear,  envy,  and  despair ;  but  at  length 
confirms  himself  in  evil ;  journeys  on  to  Paradise,  whose  out- 
ward prospect  and  situation  is  described;  overleaps  the  bounds; 
sits  in  the  shape  of  a  cormorant  on  the  tree  of  life,  as  highest 
in  the  garden,  to  look  about  him.  The  garden  described ; 
Satan's  first  sight  of  Adam  and  Eve ;  his  wonder  at  their  ex- 
cellent form  and  happy  state,  but  with  resolution  to  work 
their  fall ;  overhears  their  discourse,  thence  gathers  that  the 
tree  of  knowledge  was  forbidden  them  to  eat  of,  under  penalty 


BOOK  iv. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


25 


of  death ;  and  thereon  intends  to  found  his  temptation,  by  se- 
ducing them  to  transgress ;  then  leaves  them  a  while,  to  know 
further  of  their  state  by  some  other  means.  Meanwhile  Uriel, 
descending  on  a  sun-beam,  warns  Gabriel,  who  had  in  charge 
the  gate  of  Paradise,  that  some  evil  spirit  had  escaped  the 
deep,  and  passed  at  noon  by  his  sphere,  in  the  shape  of  a  good 
angel,  down  to  Paradise,  discovered  after  by  his  furious  ges- 
tures in  the  mount  Gabriel  promises  to  find  him  ere  morn- 
ing. Night  coming  on,  Adam  and  Eve  discourse  of  going  to 
their  rest;  their  bower  described;  their  evening  worship. 
Gabriel,  drawing  forth  his  bands  of  nightwatch  to  walk  the 
round  of  Paradise,  appoints  two  strong  angels  to  Adam's 
bower,  lest  the  evil  spirit  should  be  there  doing  some  harm  to 
Adam  or  Eve  sleeping ;  there  they  find  him  at  the  ear  of  Eve, 
tempting  her  in  a  dream,  and  bring  him,  though  unwilling,  to 
Gabriel;  by  whom  questioned,  he  scornfully  answers,  pre- 
pares resistance,  but,  hindered  by  a  sign  from  Heaven,  flies 
out  of  Paradise. 


O  FOR  that  warning  voice,  which  he  who  saw 
Th'  Apocalypse  heard  cry  in  Heaven  aloud, 
Then  when  the  dragon,  put  to  second  rout, 
Came  furious  down  to  be  revenged  on  men, 
Wo  to  th'  inhabitants  on  earth  !  that  now, 
While  time  was,  our  first  parents  had  been  warned 
The  coming  of  their  secret  foe,  and  'scaped. 
Haply  so  'scaped  his  mortal  snare :  for  now 
Satan,  now  first  inflamed  with  rage  came  down, 
The  tempter  ere  the  accuser  of  mankind, 
To  wreak  on  innocent  frail  man  his  loss 
Of  that  first  battle,  and  his  flight  to  hell : 
Yet  not  rejoicing  in  his  speed,  though  bold 
Far  off  and  fearless,  nor  with  cause  to  boast, 
Begins  his  dire  attempt,  which,  nigh  the  birth, 
Now  rolling  boils  in  his  tumultuous  breast, 
And  like  a  devilish  engine  back  recoils 
Upon  himself;  horror  and  doubt  distract 
His  troubled  thoughts,  and  from  the  bottom  stir 
The  hell  within  him ;  for  within  him  hell 
He  brings,  and  round  about  him,  nor  from  hell 
One  step,  no  more  than  from  himself,  can  fly 
By  change  of  place :  now  conscience  wakes  despair, 
That  slumbered,  wakes  the  bitter  memory 
Of  what  he  was,  what  is,  and  what  must  be 
Worse;  of  worse  deeds  worse  sufferings  must  ensue. 
Sometimes  towards  Eden,  which  now  in  his  view 
Lay  pleasant,  his  grieved  look  he  fixes  sad ; 
Sometimes  towards  Heaven,and  the  full  blazing  sun, 
WTiich  now  sat  high  in  his  meridian  tower : 
Then,  much  revolving,  thus  in  sighs  began — 

"  O  thou,  that  with  surpassing  glory  crowned, 
Lookest  from  thy  sole  dominion  like  the  God 
Of  this  new  world ;  at  whose  sight  all  the  stars 
Hide  their  diminished  heads ;  to  thee  I  call, 
But  with  no  friendly  voice,  and  add  thy  name, 

0  Sun  !  to  tell  thee  how  I  hate  thy  beams, 
That  bring  to  my  remembrance  from  what  state 

1  fell,  how  glorious  once  above  thy  sphere ; 
Till  pride  and  worse  ambition  threw  me  down 
Warring  in  Heaven  against  Heaven's  matchless 

King; 
Ah !  wherefore !  he  deserved  no  such  return 


From  me,  whom  he  created  what  I  was 
In  that  bright  eminence,  and  with  his  good 
Upbraided  none ;  nor  was  his  service  hard. 
What  could  be  less  than  to  afford  him  praise, 
The  easiest  recompense,  and  pay  him  thanks, 
How  due !  yet  all  his  good  proved  ill  in  me 
And  wrought  but  malice ;  lifted  up  so  high 
I  'sdained  subjection,  and  thought  one  step  higher 
Would  set  me  highest,  and  in  a  moment  quit 
The  debt  immense  of  endless  gratitude, 
So  burdensome  still  paying,  still  to  owe, 
Forgetful  what  from  him  I  still  received, 
And  understood  not  that  a  grateful  mind 
By  owing  owes  not,  but  still  pays  at  once 
Indebted  and  discharged ;  what  burden  then  1 
O  had  his  powerful  destiny  ordained 
Me  some  inferior  angel,  I  had  stood 
Then  happy ;  no  unbounded  hope  had  raised 
Ambition !    Yet  why  not  1  some  other  power 
As  great  might  have  aspired,  and  me,  though  mean, 
Drawn  to  his  part ;  but  other  powers  as  great 
Fell  not,  but  stand  unshaken,  from  within 
Or  from  without,  to  all  temptations  armed. 
Hadst  thou  the  same  free  will  and  power  to  stand  7 
Thou  hadst:  whom  hadst  thou  then  or  what  to 

accuse, 

But  Heaven's  free  love  dealt  equally  to  alii 
Be  then  this  love  accused,  since  love  or  hate, 
To  me  alike,  it  deals  eternal  wo. 
Nay,  cursed  be  thou ;  since  against  his  thy  will 
Chose  freely  what  it  now  so  justly  rues 
Me  miserable !  which  way  shall  I  fly 
Infinite  wrath,  and  infinite  despair  1 
Which  way  I  fly  is  hell ;  myself  am  hell ; 
And,  in  the  lowest  deep,  a  lower  deep 
Still  threatening  to  devour  me  opens  wide, 
To  which  the  hell  I  suffer  seems  a  Heaven. 
O  then  at  last  relent :  is  there  no  place 
Left  for  repentance,  none  for  pardon  left  1 
None  left  but  by  submission ;  and  that  word 
Disdain  forbids  me,  and  my  dread  of  shame 
Among  the  spirits  beneath,  whom  I  seduced 
With  other  promises  and  other  vaunts 
Than  to  submit,  boasting  I  could  subdue 
Th'  Omnipotent.     Ay  me !  they  little  know 
How  dearly  I  abide  that  boast  so  vain, 
Under  what  torments  inwardly  I  groan, 
While  they  adore  me  on  the  throne  of  hell. 
With  diadem  and  sceptre  high  advanced, 
The  lower  still  I  fall,  only  supreme 
In  misery ;  such  joy  ambition  finds. 
But  say  I  could  repent,  and  could  obtain, 
By  act  of  grace,  my  former  state ;  how  soon 
Would  height  recall  high  thoughts,  how  soon  unsay 
What  feigned  submission  swore !  ease  would  recant 
Vows  made  in  pain,  as  violent  and  void  : 
For  never  can  true  reconcilement  grow 
Where  wounds  of  deadly  hate  have  pierced  so  deep, 
Which  would  but  lead  me  to  a  worse  relapse 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  iv. 


And  heavier  fall :  so  should  I  purchase  dear 
Short  intermission  bought  with  double  smart. 
This  knows  my  Punisher ;  therefore  as  far 
From  granting  he,  as  I  from  begging  peace : 
All  hope  excluded  thus,  behold,  in  stead 
Of  us  outcast,  exiled,  his  new  delight, 
Mankind  created,  and  for  him  this  world. 
So  farewell  hope,  and  with  hope  farewell  fear, 
Farewell  remorse !  all  good  to  me  is  lost ; 
Evil,  be  thou  my  good  !  by  thee  at  least 
Divided  empire  with  Heaven's  King  I  hold, 
By  thee,  and  more  than  half  perhaps  will  reign ; 
As  man  ere  long,  and  this  new  world,  shall  know." 
Thus  while  he  spake,  each  passion  dimmed  his 

face 

Thrice  changed  with  pale,  ire,  envy,  and  despair; 
Which  marred  his  borrowed  visage,  and  betrayed 
Him  counterfeit,  if  any  eye  beheld: 
For  heavenly  minds  from  such  distempers  foul 
Are  ever  clear.    Whereof  he  soon  aware, 
Each  perturbation  smoothed  with  outward  calm, 
Artificer  of  fraud ;  and  was  the  first 
That  practised  falsehood  under  saintly  show, 
Deep  malice  to  conceal,  couched  with  revenge : 
Yet  not  enough  had  practised  to  deceive 
Uriel  once  warned ;  whose  eye  pursued  him  down 
The  way  he  went,  and  on  the  Assyrian  mount 
Saw  him  disfigured,  more  than  could  befal 
Spirit  of  happy  sort :  his  gestures  fierce 
He  marked,  and  mad  demeanour,  then  alone, 
As  he  supposed,  all  unobserved,  unseen. 
So  on  he  fares,  and  to  the  border  comes 
Of  Eden,  where  delicious  Paradise, 
Now  nearer  crowns  with  her  inclosure  green, 
As  with  rural  mound,  the  champaign  head 
Of  a  steep  wilderness,  whose  hairy  sides 
With  thicket  overgrown,  grotesque  and  wild, 
Access  denied ;  and  over  head  up  grew 
Insuperable  height  of  loftiest  shade, 
Cedar,  and  pine,  and  fir,  and  branching  palm 
A  sylvan  scene,  and,  as  the  ranks  ascend 
Shade  above  shade,  a  woody  theatre 
Of  stateliest  view.    Yet  higher  than  their  tops 
The  verdurous  wall  of  Paradise  upsprung : 
Which  to  our  general  sire  gave  prospect  large 
Into  his  nether  empire  neighbouring  round. 
And  higher  than  that  wall  a  circling  row 
Of  goodliest  trees,  loaden  with  fairest  fruit, 
Blossoms  and  fruits  at  once  of  golden  hue, 
Appeared,  with  gay  enamelled  colours  mixed : 
On  which  the  sun  more  glad  impressed  his  beams 
Than  in  fair  evening  cloud,  or  humid  bow, 
When  God  hath  showered  the  earth :  so  lovely 

seemed 

That  landscape  :  and  of  pure  now  purer  air 
Meets  his  approach,  and  to  the  heart  inspires 
Vernal  delight  and  joy,  able  to  drive 
All  sadness  but  despair :  now  gentle  gales, 
Fanning  their  odoriferous  wings,  dispense 


Native  perfumes,  and  whisper  whence  they  stole 

Those  balmy  spoils.    As  when  to  them  who  sail 

Beyond  the  Cape  of  Hope,  and  now  are  past 

Mozambic,  off  at  sea  northeast  winds  blow 

Sabean  odours  from  the  spicy  shore 

Of  Araby  the  blest :  with  such  delay 

Well  pleased  they  slack  their  course,  and  many  a 

league 

Cheered  with  the  grateful  smell,  old  Ocean  smiles : 
So  entertained  those  odorous  sweets  the  fiend, 
Who  came  their  bane,  though  with  them  better 

pleased 

Than  Asmodeus  with  the  fishy  fume 
That  drove  him,  though  enamoured,  from  the 

spouse 

Of  Tobit's  son,  and  with  a  vengeance  sent 
From  Medea  post  to  Egypt,  there  fast  bound, 
Now  to  th'  ascent  of  that  steep  savage  hill 
Satan  had  journeyed  on,  pensive  and  slow; 
But  further  way  found  none,  so  thick  entwined, 
As  one  continued  brake,  the  undergrowth 
Of  shrubs  and  tangling  bushes  had  perplexed 
All  path  of  man  or  beast  that  passed  that  way : 
One  gate  there  only  was,  and  that  looked  east 
On  th'  other  side :  which  when  th'  arch-felon  saw, 
Due  entrance  he  disdained,  and,  in  contempt, 
At  one  slight  bound  high  overleaped  all  bound 
Of  hill  or  highest  wall,  and  sheer  within 
Lights  on  his  feet.    As  when  a  prowling  wolf, 
Whom  hunger  drives  to  seek  new  haunt  for  prey, 
Watching  where  shepherds  pen  their  flocks  at 

eve, 

In  hurdled  cotes  amid  the  field  secure. 
Leaps  o'er  the  fence  with  ease  into  the  fold : 
Or  as  a  thief,  bent  to  unhoard  the  cash 
Of  some  rich  burgher,  whose  substantial  doors, 
Cross-barred  and  bolted  fast,  fear  no  assault, 
In  at  the  window  climbs,  or  o'er  the  tiles : 
So  clomb  this  first  grand  thief  into  God's  fold ; 
So  since  into  his  church  lewd  hirelings  climb. 
Thence  up  he  flew,  and  on  the  tree  of  life, 
The  middle  tree  and  highest  there  that  grew, 
Sat  like  a  cormorant ;  yet  not  true  life 
Thereby  regained,  but  sat  devising  death 
To  them  who  lived ;  nor  on  the  virtue  thought 
Of  that  life-giving  plant,  but  only  used 
For  prospect,  what,  well  used,  had  been  the  pledge 
Of  immortality.     So  little  knows 
Any,  but  God  alone,  to  value  right 
The  good  before  him,  but  perverts  best  things 
To  worst  abuse,  or  to  their  meanest  use. 
Beneath  him  with  new  wonder  now  he  views, 
To  all  delight  of  human  sense  exposed, 
In  narrow  room  Nature's  whole  wealth,  yea  more, 
A  Heaven  on  earth ;  for  blissful  Paradise 
Of  God  the  garden  was,  by  him  in  the  east 
Of  Eden  planted ;  Eden  stretched  her  line 
From  Auran  eastward  to  the  royal  towers 
Of  great  Seleucia,  built  by  Grecian  kings. 


BOOK  iv. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


Or  where  the  sons  of  Eden  long  before 
Dwelt  in  Telassar :  in  this  pleasant  soil 
His  far  more  pleasant  garden  God  ordained  ; 
Out  of  the  fertile  ground  he  caused  to  grow 
All  trees  of  noblest  kind  for  sight,  smell,  taste; 
And  all  amid  them  stood  the  tree  of  life, 
High  eminent,  blooming  ambrosial  fruit 
Of  vegetable  gold ;  and  next  to  life, 
Our  death,  the  tree  of  knowledge  grew  fast  by, 
Knowledge  of  good  bought  dear  by  knowing  ill. 
Southward  through  Eden  went  a  river  large, 
Nor  changed  his  course,  but  through  the  shaggy 

hill 

Passed  underneath  ingulphed ;  for  God  had  thrown 
That  mountain  as  his  garden  mould  high  raised 
Upon  the  rapid  current,  which,  through  veins 
Of  porous  earth,  with  kindly  thirst  updrawn, 
Rose  a  fresh  fountain,  and  with  many  a  rill 
Watered  the  garden ;  thence  united  fell 
Down  the  steep  glade,  and  met  the  nether  flood. 
Which  from  his  darksome  passage  now  appears 
And  now,  divided  into  four  main  streams, 
Runs  diverse,  wandering  many  a  famous  realm 
And  country,  whereof  here  needs  no  account ; 
But  rather  to  tell  how,  if  Art  could  tell, 
How  from  that  sapphire  fount  the  crisped  brooks, 
Rolling  on  orient  pearl  and  sands  of  gold, 
With  mazy  error  under  pendent  shades 
Ran  nectar,  visiting  each  plant,  and  fed 
Flowers,  worthy  of  Paradise,  which  not  nice  Art 
In  beds  and  curious  knots,  but  Nature  boon 
Poured  forth  profuse  on  hill  and  dale  and  plain, 
Both  where  the  morning  sun  first  warmly  smote 
The  open  field,  and  where  the  unpierced  shade 
Embrowned  the  noontide  bowers:  thus  was  this 

place 

A  happy  rural  seat  of  various  view ; 
Groves  whose  rich  trees  wept  odorous  gums  and 

balm, 

Others  whose  fruit,  burnished  with  golden  rind, 
Hung  amiable,  Hesperian  fables  true, 
If  true,  here  only,  and  of  delicious  taste: 
Betwixt  them  lawns,  or  level  downs,  and  flocks 
Grazing  the  tender  herb,  were  interposed, 
Or  palmy  hillock ;  or  the  flowery  lap 
Of  some  irriguous  valley  spread  her  store, 
Flowers  of  all  hue,  and  without  thorn  the  rose : 
Another  side,  umbrageous  grots  and  caves 
Of  cool  recess,  o'er  which  the  mantling  vine 
Lays  forth  her  purple  grape,  and  gently  creeps 
Luxuria^;  meanwhile  murmuring  waters  fall 
Dow»  the  slope  hills,  dispersed,  or  in  a  lake, 
That  to  the  fringed  bank  with  myrtle  crowned 
Her  crystal  mirror  holds,  unite  their  streams. 
The  birds  their  choir  apply;  airs,  vernal  airs, 
Breathing  the  smell  of  field  and  grove,  attune 
The  trembling  leaves,  while  universal  Pan. 
Knit  with  the  Graces  and  the  Hours,  in  dance- 
Led  on  the  eternal  spring.    Not  that  fair  field 


Of  Enna,  where  Proserpine  gathering  flowers, 
Herself  a  fairer  flower,  by  gloomy  Dis 
Was  gathered,  which  cost  Ceres  all  that  pain 
To  seek  her  through  the  world ;  nor  that  sweet 

grove 

Of  Daphne  by  Orontes,  and  the  inspired 
Castalian  spring,  might  with  this  Paradise 
Of  Eden  strive ;  nor  that  Nyseian  isle, 
Girt  with  the  river  Triton,  where  old  Cham, 
Whom  Gentiles  Ammon  call  and  Lybian  Jove, 
Hid  Amalthea,  and  her  florid  son, 
Young  Bacchus,  from  her  step-dame  Rhea's  eye ; 
Nor  where  Abassin  kings  their  issue  guard, 
Mount  Amara,  though  this  by  some  supposed 
True  Paradise,  under  the  Ethiop  line 
By  Nilus'  head,  enclosed  with  shining  rock, 
A  whole  day's  journey  high,  but  wide  remote 
From  this  Assyrian  garden,  where  the  fiend 
Saw  undelighted  all  delight,  all  kind 
Of  living  creatures,  new  to  sight,  and  strange. 
Two  of  far  nobler  shape,  erect  and  tall, 
Godlike  erect,  with  native  honour  clad, 
In  naked  majesty  seemed  lords  of  all : 
And  worthy  seemed ;  for  in  their  looks  divine 
The  image  of  their  glorious  Maker  shone, 
Truth,  wisdom,  sanctitude  severe  and  pure 
(Severe,  but  in  true  filial  freedom  placed,) 
Whence  true  authority  in  men ;  though  both 
Not  equal,  as  their  sex  not  equal  seemed  j 
For  contemplation  he  and  valour  formed, 
For  softness  she  and  sweet  attractive  grace ; 
He  for  God  only,  she  for  God  in  him : 
His  fair  large  front  and  eye  sublime  declared 
Absolute  rule;  and  hyacinthine  locks 
Round  from  his  parted  forelock  manly  hung 

lustering,  but  not  beneath  his  shoulders  broad : 
She,  as  a  veil,  down  to  the  slender  waist 
Her  unadorned  golden  tresses  wore 
Dishevelled,  but  in  wanton  ringlets  waved 
As  the  vine  curls  her  tendrils,  which  implied 
Subjection,  but  required  with  gentle  sway, 
And  by  her  yielded,  by -him  best  received, 
Yielded  with  coy  submission,  modest  pride, 
And  sweet,  reluctant,  amorous  delay. 
Nor  those  mysterious  parts  were  then  concealed ; 
Then  was  not  guilty  shame,  dishonest  shame 
Of  nature's  works,  honour  dishonourable, 
Sin-bred,  how  have  ye  troubled  all  mankind 
With  shows  instead,  mere  shows  of  seeming  pure 
And  banished  from  man's  life  his  happiest  life, 
Simplicity  and  spotless  innocence ! 
So  passed  they  naked  on,  nor  shunned  the  sight 
Of  God  or  angel,  for  they  thought  no  ill: 
So  hand  in  hand  they  passed,  the  loveliest  pair 
That  ever  since  in  love's  embraces  met; 
Adam  the  godliest  man  of  men  since  born 
3is  sons ;  the  fairest  of  her  daughters  Eve. 
Jnder  a  tuft  of  shade,  that  on  a  green 
Stood  whispering  soft,  by  a  fresh  fountain  side, 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  IT. 


They  sat  them  down;  and,  after  no  more  toil 
Of  their  sweet  gardening  labour  than  sufficed 
To  recommend  cool  zephyr,  and  made  ease 
More  easy,  wholesome  thirst  and  appetite 
More  grateful,  to  their  supper  fruits  they  fell, 
Nectarine  fruits  which  the  compliant  boughs 
Yielded  them,  side-long  as  they  sat  recline, 
On  the  soft  downy  bank  damasked  with  flowers : 
The  savoury  pulp  they  chew,  and  in  the  rind 
Still  as  they  thirsted  scoop  the  brimming  stream ; 
Nor  gentle  purpose,  nor  endearing  smiles 
Wanted,  nor  youthful  dalliance,  as  beseems 
Fair  couple,  linked  in  happy  nuptial  league, 
Alone  as  they.    About  them  frisking  played 
All  beasts  of  the  earth,  since  wild,  and  of  all  chase, 
In  wood  or  wilderness,  forest  or  den ; 
Sporting  the  lion  ramped,  and  in  his  paw 
Dandled  the  kid ;  bears,  tigers,  ounces,  pards, 
Gambolled  before  them ;  the  unwieldy  elephant, 
To  make  them  mirth,  used  all  his  might  and 

wreathed 

His  lithe  proboscis;  close  the  serpent  sly, 
Insinuating,  wove  with  Gordian  twine, 
His  braided  train,  and  of  his  fatal  guile 
Gave  proof  unheeded ;  others  on  the  grass 
Couched,  and,  now  filled  with  pasture,  gazing  sat, 
Or  bedward  ruminating ;  for  the  sun, 
Declined,  was  hasting  now  with  prone  career 
To  the  ocean  isles,  and  in  the  ascending  scale 
Of  Heaven  the  stars  that  usher  evening  rose : 
When  Satan,  still  in  gaze,  as  first  he  stood, 
Scarce  thus  at  length  failed  speech  recovered  sad. 
"  O  hell !  what  do  mine  eyes  with  grief  behold ! 
Into  our  room  of  bliss  thus  high  advanced 
Creatures  of  other  mould,  earthborn  perhaps, 
Not  spirits,  yet  to  heavenly  spirits  bright 
Little  inferior;  whom  my  thoughts  pursue 
With  wonder,  and  could  love,  so  lively  shines 
In  them  divine  resemblance,  and  such  grace 
The  hand  that  formed  them  on  their  shape  hath 

poured. 

Ah,  gentle  pair!  ye  little  think  how  nigh 
Your  change  approaches,  when  all  these  delights 
Will  vanish,  and  deliver  ye  to  wo, 
More  wo,  the  more  your  taste  is  now  of  joy; 
Happy,  but  for  so  happy  ill  secured 
Long  to  continue,  and  this  high  seat  your  Heaven 
111  fenced  for  Heaven  to  keep  out  such  a  foe 
As  now  is  entered;  yet  no  purposed  foe 
To  you,  whom  I  could  pity  thus  forlorn, 
Though  I  unpitied:  league  with  you  I  seek, 
And  mutual  amity,  so  straight,  so  close, 
That  I  with  you  must  dwell,  or  you  with  me 
Henceforth ;  my  dwelling  haply  may  not  please, 
Like  this  fair  Paradise,  your  sense ;  yet  such 
Accept  your  Maker's  work;  he  gave  it  me, 
Which  I  as  freely  give:  hell  shall  unfold, 
To  entertain  you  two,  her  widest  gates, 
And  send  forth  all  her  kings ;  there  will  be  room, 


Not  like  these  narrow  limits,  to  receive 
Your  numerous  offspring;  if  no  better  place, 
Thank  him  who  puts  me  loth  to  this  revenge 
On  you  who  wrong  me  not,  for  him  who  wronged. 
And  should  I  at  your  harmless  innocence 
Melt  as  I  do,  yet  public  reason  just, 
Honour  and  empire  with  revenge  enlarged, 
By  conquering  this  new  world,  compels  me  now 
To  do  what  else,  though  damned,  I  should  abhor." 

So  spake  the  fiend,  and  with  necessity, 
The  tyrant's  plea,  excused  his  devilish  deeds. 
Then  from  his  lofty  stand  on  that  high  tree 
Down  he  alights  among  the  sportful  herd 
Of  those  four-footed  kinds,  himself  now  one, 
Now  other,  as  their  shape  served  best  his  end 
Nearer  to  view  his  prey,  and  unespied 
To  mark  what  of  their  state  he  more  might  learn, 
By  word  or  action  marked:  about  them  round 
A  lion  now  he  stalks  with  fiery  glare; 
Then  as  a  tyger,  who  by  chance  hath  spied 
In  some  purlieu  two  gentle  fawns  at  play, 
Straight  couches  close,  then,  rising,  changes  oft 
His  couchant  watch,  as  one  who  chose  his  ground, 
Whence  rushing  he  might  surest  seize  them  both, 
Griped  in  each  paw:  when  Adam,  first  of  men, 
To  first  of  women  Eve,  thus  moving  speech, 
Turned  him,  all  ear  to  hear  new  utterance  flow. 

"  Sole  partner,  and  sole  part,  of  all  these  joys, 
Dearer  thyself  than  all :  needs  must  the  Power 
That  made  us,  and  for  us  this  ample  world 
Be  infinitely  good,  and  of  his  good 
As  liberal  and  free  as  infinite ; 
That  raised  us  from  the  dust,  and  placed  us  here 
In  all  this  happiness,  who  at  his  hand 
Have  nothing  merited,  nor  can  perform 
Aught  whereof  he  hath  need:  he  who  requires 
From  us  no  other  service  than  to  keep 
This  one,  this  easy  charge,  '  of  all  the  trees 
In  Paradise  that  bear  delicious  fruit 
So  various,  not  to  taste  that  only  tree 
Of  knowledge,  planted  by  the  tree  of  life;' 
So  near  grows  death  to  life,  whate'er  death  is, 
Some  dreadful  thing  no  doubt ;  for  well  thou  know- 

est 

God  hath  pronounced  it  death  to  taste  that  tree, 
The  only  sign  of  our  obedience  left, 
Among  so  many  signs  of  power  and  rule 
Conferred  upon  us,  and  dominion  given 
Over  all  other  creatures  that  possess 
Earth,  air,  and  sea.     Then  let  us  not  think  hard 
One  easy  prohibition,  who  enjoy 
Free  leave  so  large  to  all  things  else,  and  choice 
Unlimited  of  manifold  delights: 
But  let  us  ever  praise  him,  and  extol 
His  bounty,  following  our  delightful  task, 
To  prune  these  growing  plants,  and  tend  these 

flowers, 
Which,  were  it  toilsome,  yet  with  thee  were  sweet." 

To  whom  thus  Eve  replied :— "  Othou  for  whom 


BOOK  iv. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


And  from  whom  I  was  formed,  flesh  of  thy  flesh, 
And  without  whom  am  to  no  end,  my  guide 
And  head!  what  thou  hast  said  is  just  and  right 
For  we  to  him  indeed  all  praises  owe, 
And  daily  thanks ;  I  chiefly,  who  enjoy 
So  far  the  happier  lot,  enjoying  thee 
Pre-eminent  by  so  much  odds,  while  thou 
Like  consort  to  thyself  canst  no  where  find. 
That  day  I  oft  remember,  when  from  sleep 
I  first  awaked,  and  found  myself  reposed 
Under  a  shade  on  flowers,  much  wondering  where 
And  what  I  was,  whence  thither  brought,  and  how, 
Not  distant  far  from  thence  a  murmuring  sound 
Of  waters  issued  from  a  cave,  and  spread 
Into  a  liquid  plain,  then  stood  unmoved 
Pure  as  the  expanse  of  Heaven;  I  thither  went 
With  unexperienced  thought,  and  laid  me  down 
On  the  green  bank  to  look  into  the  clear 
Smooth  lake,  that  to  me  seemed  another  sky. 
As^I  bent  down  to  look,  just  opposite 
A  shape  within  the  watery  gleam  appeared, 
Bending  to  look  on  me:  I  started  back, 
It  started  back;  but  pleased  I  soon  returned, 
Pleased  it  returned  as  soon  with  answering  looks 
Of  sympathy  and  love :  there  I  had  fixed 
Mine  eyes  till  now,  and  pined  with  vain  desire, 
Had  not  a  voice  thus  warned  me :  '  What  thou 


What  there  thou  seest,  fair  creature,  is  thyself; 
With  thee  it  came  and  goes :  but  follow  me, 
And  I  will  bring  thee  where  no  shadow  stays 
Thy  coming,  and  thy  soft  embraces,  he 
Whose  image  thou  art ;  him  thou  shalt  enjoy, 
Inseparably  thine,  to  him  shalt  bear 
Multitudes  like  thyself,  and  thence  be  called 
Mother  of  human  race.'     What  could  I  do, 
But  follow  straight,  invisibly  thus  led  1 
Till  I  espied  thee,  fair  indeed  and  tall, 
Under  a  plantain ;  yet  methought  less  fair, 
Less  winning  soft,  less  amiably  mild, 
Than  that  smooth  watery  image:  back  I  turned; 
Thou  following  criedst  aloud,  '  Return,  fair  Eve, 
Whom  fliest  thou?  whom  thou  fiiest,  of  him  thou 

art, 

His  flesh,  his  bone :  to  give  thee  being,  I  lent 
Out  of  my  side  to  thee  nearest  my  heart, 
Substantial  life,  to  have  thee  by  my  side 
Henceforth  an  individual  solace  dear; 
Part  of  my  soul  I  seek  thee,  and  thee  claim 
My  other  half.'    With  that  thy  gentle  hand 
Seized  mine;  I  yielded,  and  from  that  time  see 
How  beauty  is  excelled  by  manly  grace, 
And  wisdom,  which  alone  is  truly  fair." 

So  spake  our  general  mother,  and  with  eyes 
Of  conjugal  attraction,  unreproved, 
And  meek  surrender,  half-embracing  leaned 
On  our  first  father;  half  her  swelling  breast 
Naked  met  his,  under  the  flowing  gold 
Of  her  loose  tresses  hid :  he,  in  delight 


Smiled  with  superior  love,  as  Jupiter 

On  Juno  smiles,  when  he  impregns  the  clouds 

That  shed  May  flowers;  and  pressed  her  matron 

lip 

With  kisses  pure:  aside  the  devil  turned 
For  envy,  yet  with  jealous  leer  malign 
Eyed  them  askance,  and  to  himself  thus  plained 
Both  of  her  beauty  and  submissive  charms, 

"  Sight  hateful,  sight  tormenting!  thus  these  two, 
Imparadised  in  one  another's  arms, 
The  happier  Eden,  shall  enjoy  their  fill 
Of  bliss  on  bliss;  while  I  to  hell  am  thrust, 
Where  neither  joy  nor  love,  but  fierce  desire, 
Among  our  other  torments  not  the  least, 
Still  unfulfilled,  with  pain  of  longing  pines. 
Yet  let  me  not  forget  what  I  have  gained 
From  their  own  mouths:  all  is  not  theirs,  it  seems; 
One  fatal  tree  there  stands,  of  knowledge  called, 
Forbidden  them  to  taste:  knowledge  forbidden? 
Suspicious,  reasonless.    Why  should  their  Lord 
Envy  them  that?  can  it  be  sin  to  know? 
Can  it  be  death?  and  do  they  only  stand 
By  ignorance  ?  is  that  their  happy  state, 
The  proof  of  their  obedience  and  their  faith? 
O  fair  foundation  laid  whereon  to  build 
Their  ruin !     Hence  I  will  excite  their  minds 
With  more  desire  to  know,  and  to  reject 
Envious  commands,  invented  with  design 
To  keep  them  low,  whom  knowledge  might  exalt 
Equal  with  gods :  aspiring  to  be  such, 
They  taste  and  die;  what  likelier  can  ensue? 
But  first  with  narrow  search  I  must  walk  round 
This  garden,  and  no  comer  leave  unspied  : 
A  chance  but  chance  may  lead  where  I  may  meet 
Some  wandering  spirit  of  Heaven  by  fountain 

side, 

Or  in  thick  shade  retired,  from  him  to  draw 
What  further  would  be  learned.    Live  while  ye 

may 

Yet  happy  pair ;  enjoy,  till  I  return, 
Short  pleasures,  for  long  woes  are  to  succeed." 
So  saying,  his  proud  step  he  scornful  turned, 
But  with  sly  circumspection,  and  began, 
Through  wood,  through  waste,  o'er  hill,  o'er  dale, 

his  roam. 

Meanwhile  in  utmost  longitude,  where  Heaven, 
With  earth  and  ocean  meets,  the  setting  sun 
Slowly  descended,  and  with  right  aspect 
Against  the  eastern  gate  of  Paradise 
Levelled  his  evening  rays:  it  was  a  rock 
Of  alabaster,  piled  up  to  the  clouds, 
Conspicuous  far,  winding  with  one  ascent 
Accessible  from  earth,  one  entrance  high ; 
The  rest  was  craggy  clifT,  that  overhung 
Still  as  it  rose,  impossible  to  climb. 
Betwixt  these  rocky  pillars  Gabriel  sat, 
Chief  of  the  angelic  guards,  awaiting  night: 
About  him  exercised  heroic  games 
The  unarmed  youth  of  Heaven,  but  nigh  at  hand 


30 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  iv. 


Celestial  armoury,  shields,  helms,  and  spears, 
Hung  high  with  diamond  flaming,  and  with  gold. 
Thither  came  Uriel,  gliding  through  the  even 
On  a  sunbeam,  swift  as  a  shooting  star, 
In  autumn  thwarts  the  night,  when  vapours  fired 
Impress  the  air,  and  shows  the  mariner 
From  what  point  of  his  compas  to  beware 
Impetuous  winds :  he  thus  began  hi  haste. 

"  Gabriel,  to  thee  thy  course  by  lot  hath  given 
Charge  and  strict  watch,  that  to  this  happy  place 
No  evil  thing  approach  or  enter  in. 
This  day  at  height  of  noon  came  to  my  sphere 
A  spirit,  zealous,  as  he  seemed,  to  know 
More  of  the  Almighty's  works,  and  chiefly  man, 
God's  latest  image :  I  described  his  way 
Bent  all  on  speed,  and  marked  his  airy  gait ; 
But  in  the  mount  that  lies  from  Eden  north, 
Where  he  first  lighted,  soon  discerned  his  looks 
Alien  from  Heaven,  with  passions  foul  obscured: 
Mine  eye  pursued  him  still,  but  under  shade 
Lost  sight  of  him :  one  of  the  banished  crew, 
I  fear,  hath  ventured  from  the  deep,  to  raise 
New  troubles ;  him  thy  care  must  be  to  find." 

To  whom  the  winged  warrior  thus  returned. 
"  Uriel,  no  wonder  if  thy  perfect  sight, 
Amid  the  sun's  bright  circle  where  thou  sittest, 
See  far  and  wide:  in  at  this  gate  none  pass 
The  vigilance  here  placed,  but  such  as  come    . 
Well  known  from  Heaven;  and  since  meridian 

hour 

No  creature  thence:  if  spirit  of  other  sort, 
So  minded,  have  o'erleaped  these  earthly  bounds 
On  purpose,  hard  thou  knowest  it  to  exclude 
Spiritual  substance  with  corporeal  bar. 
But  if  within  the  circuit  of  these  walks, 
In  whatsoever  shape  he  lurk,  of  whom 
Thou  tellest,  by  morrow  dawning  I  shall  know." 

So  promised  he ;  and  Uriel  to  his  charge 
Returned  on  that  bright  beam,  whose  point  now 

raised 

Bore  him  slope  downward  to  the  sun  now  fallen 
Beneath  the  Azores ;  whether  the  prime  orb, 
Incredible  how  swift,  had  thither  rolled 
Diurnal,  or  this  less  voluble  earth, 
By  shorter  flight  to  the  east  had  left  him  there 
Arraying  with  reflected  purple  and  gold 
The  clouds  that  on  his  western  throne  attend. 
Now  came  still  evening  on,  and  twilight  gray 
Had  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clad ; 
Silence  accompanied ;  for  beast  and  bird, 
They  to  their  grassy  couch,  these  to  their  nests 
Were  slunk,  all  but  the  wakeful  nightingale; 
She  all  night  long  her  amorous  descant  sung ; 
Silence  was  pleased ;  now  glowed  the  firmament 
With  living  sapphires ;  Hesperus,  that  led 
The  starry  host,  rode  brightest,  till  the  moon, 
Rising  in  clouded  majesty,  at  length, 
Apparent  queen,  unveiled  her  peerless  light, 
And  o'er  the  dark  her  silver  mantle  threw. 


When  Adam  thus  to  Eve.  "  Fair  consort,  the 

hour 

Of  night,  and  all  things  now  retired  to  rest, 
Mind  us  of  like  repose,  since  God  hath  set 
Labour  and  rest,  as  day  and  night,  to  men 
Successive ;  and  the  timely  dew  of  sleep, 
Now  falling  with  soft  slumb'rous  weight,  inclines 
Our  eyelids:  other  creatures  all  day  long 
Rove  idle,  unemployed,  and  less  need  rest : 
Man  hath  his  daily  work  of  body  or  mind 
Appointed,  which  declares  his  dignity, 
And  the  regard  of  Heaven  on  all  his  ways; 
While  other  animals  unactive  range, 
And  of  their  doings  God  takes  no  account. 
To-morrow,  ere  fresh  morning  streak  the  east 
With  first  approach  of  light,  we  must  be  risen, 
And  at  our  pleasant  labour  to  reform 
Yon  flowery  arbours,  yonder  alleys  green, 
Our  walk  at  noon,  with  branches  overgrown, 
That  mock  our  scant  manuring,  and  require 
More  hands  than  ours  to  lop  their  wanton  growth : 
Those  blossoms  also,  and  those  dropping  gums, 
That  lie  bestrown,  unsightly  and  unsmooth, 
Ask  riddance,  if  we  mean  to  tread  with  ease : 
Meanwhile,  as  Nature  wills,  night  bids  us  rest." 

To  whom  thus  Eve,  with  perfect  beauty  adorned. 
(<  My  author  and  disposer,  what  thou  bid'st 
Unargued  I  obey :  so  God  ordains ; 
God  is  thy  law,  thou  mine:  to  know  no  more 
Is  woman's  happiest  knowledge  and  her  praise 
With  thee  conversing  I  forget  all  time ; 
All  seasons  and  their  change,  all  please  alike. 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  morn,  her  rising  sweet, 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds ;  pleasant  the  sun, 
When  first  on  this  delightful  land  he  spreads 
His  orient  beams,  on  herb,  tree,  fruit,  and  flower, 
Glistering  with  dew ;  fragrant  the  fertile  earth 
After  soft  showers;  and  sweet  the  coming  on 
Of  grateful  evening  mild ;  then  silent  night, 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  and  this  fair  moon, 
And  these  the  gems  of  Heaven,  her  starry  train : 
But  neither  breath  of  morn,  when  she  ascends 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds;  nor  rising  sun 
On  this  delightful  land;  nor  herb,  fruit,  flower, 
Glistering  with  dew ;  nor  fragrance  after  showers , 
Nor  grateful  evening  mild;  nor  silent  night, 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  nor  walk  by  moon, 
Or  glittering  starlight,  without  thee  is  sweet. 
But  wherefore  all  night  long  shine  these  ?  for  whom 
This  glorious  sight,  when  sleep  hath  shut  all 
eyes  V 

To  whom  our  general  ancestor  replied. 
"  Daughter  of  God  and  man,  accomplished  Eve, 
These  have  their  course  to  finish  round  the  earth, 
By  morrow  evening,  and  from  land  to  land 
In  order,  though  to  nations  yet  unborn, 
Ministering  light  prepared,  they  set  and  rise; 
Lest  total  darkness  should  by  night  regain 
Her  old  possession,  and  extinguish  life 


BOOK  iv. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


31 


In  nature  and  all  things,  which  these  soft  fires 
Not  only  enlighten,  but  with  kindly  heat 
Of  various  influence  foment  and  warm, 
Temper  or  nourish,  or  in  part  shed  down 
Their  stellar  virtue  on  all  kinds  that  grow 
On  earth,  made  hereby  apter  to  receive 
Perfection  from  the  sun's  more  potent  ray. 
These  then,  though  unbeheld  in  deep  of  night, 
Shine  not  in  vain ;  nor  think,  though  men  were 

none, 
That  Heaven  would  want  spectators,  God  want 

praise; 

Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake,  and  when  we  sleep 
All  these  with  ceaseless  praise  his  works  behold 
Both  day  and  night :  how  often  from  the  steep 
Of  echoing  hill  or  thicket  have  we  heard 
Celestial  voices  to  the  midnight  air, 
Sole,  or  responsive  each  to  other's  note, 
Singing  their  great  Creator  1  oft  in  bands 
While  they  keep  watch,  or  nightly  rounding  walk, 
With  heavenly  touch  of  instrumental  sounds 
In  full  harmonic  number  joined,  their  songs 
Divide  the  night,  and  lift  our  thoughts  to  Heaven.' 
Thus  talking,  hand  in  hand  alone  they  passed 
On  to  their  blissful  bower :  it  was  a  place 
Chosen  by  the  sovereign  Planter,  when  he  framed 
All  things  to  man's  delightful  use ;  the  roof 
Of  thickest  covert  was  interwoven  shade 
Laurel  and  myrtle,  and  what  higher  grew 
Of  firm  and  fragrant  leaf:  on  either  side 
Acanthus,  and  each  odorous  bushy  shrub, 
Fenced  up  the  verdant  wall;    each  beauteous 

flower, 

Iris  all  hues,  roses,  and  jessamine 
Reared  high  their  flourishing  heads  between,  and 

wrought 

Mosaic ;  under  foot  the  violet, 
Crocus,  and  hyacinth,  with  rich  inlay 
Broidered  the  ground,  more  coloured  than  with 

stone 

Of  costliest  emblem:  other  creature  here, 
Beast,  bird,  insect,  or  worm  durst  enter  none, 
Such  was  their  awe  of  man.     In  shadier  bower, 
More  sacred  and  sequestered,  though  but  feigned, 
Pan  or  Sylvanus  never  slept,  nor  nymph 
Nor  fauns  haunted.     Here,  in  close  recess, 
With  flowers,  garlands,  and  sweet  swelling  herbs, 
Espoused  Eve  decked  first  her  nuptial  bed, 
And  heavenly  choirs  the  hymensean  sung, 
What  day  the  genial  angel  to  our  sire 
Brought  her,  in  naked  beauty  more  adorned, 
More  lovely  than  Pandora,  whom  the  god 
Endowed  with  all  their  giftg,  and  O  too  like 
In  sad  event,  when  to  the  unwiser  son 
Of  Japhet  brought  by  Hermes,  she  ensnared 
Mankind  with  her  fair  looks,  to  be  avenged 
On  him  who  had  stole  Jove's  authentic  fire, 
v    Thus,  at  their  shady  lodge  arrived,  both  stood, 


Both  turned,  and  under  open  sky  adored 

The  God  that  made  both  sky,   air,  earth,  and 

Heaven 

Which  they  beheld,  the  moon's  resplendent  globe, 
And  starry  pole :  "  Thou  also  mad'st  the  night, 
Maker  omnipotent,  and  thou  the  day, 
Which  we,  in  our  appointed  work  employed 
Have  finished,  happy  in  our  mutual  help 
And  mutual  love,  the  crown  of  all  our  bliss 
Ordained  by  thee;  and  this  delicious  place 
For  us  too  large,  where  thy  abundance  wants 
Partakers,  and  uncropt  falls  to  the  ground. 
But  thou  hast  promised  from  us  two  a  race 
To  fill  the  earth,  who  shall  with  us  extol 
Thy  goodness  infinite,  both  when  we  wake, 
And  when  we  seek,  as  now,  thy  gift  of  sleep." 

This  said  unanimous,  and  other  rites 
Observing  none,  but  adoration  pure 
Which  God  likes  best,  into  their  inmost  bower 
Handed  they  went ;  and,  eased  the  putting  off 
These  troublesome  disguises  which  we  wear, 
Straight  side  by  side  were  laid ;  nor  turned,  I  ween, 
Adam  from  his  fair  spouse,  nor  Eve  the  rites 
Mysterious  of  connubial  love  refused : 
Whatever  hypocrites  austerely  talk 
Of  purity,  and  place,  and  innocence, 
Defaming  as  impure  what  God  declares 
Pure,  and  commands  to  some,  leaves  free  to  all 
Our  Maker  bids  increase ;  who  bids  abstain 
But  our  destroyer,  foe  to  God  and  man? 
Hail,  wedded  love,  mysterious  law,  true  source 
Of  human  offspring,  sole  propriety 
[n  Paradise  of  all  things  common  else ! 
By  thee  adult'rous  lust  was  driven  from  men 
Among  the  bestial  herds  to  range ;  by  thee, 
Pounded  in  reason,  loyal,  just,  and  pure, 
Relations  dear,  and  all  the  charities 
Of  father,  son,  and  brother  first  were  known. 
Far  be  it  that  I  should  write  thee  sin  or  blame, 
Or  think  thee  unbefitting  holiest  place, 
Perpetual  fountain  of  domestic  sweets, 
Whose  bed  is  undefiled  and  chaste  pronounced, 
Present,  or  past,  as  saints  and  patriarchs  used ! 
Here  love  his  golden  shafts  employs,  here  lights 
BLis  constant  lamp,  and  waves  his  purple  wings, 
Jeigns  here  and  revels ;  not  in  the  bought  smile 
Of  harlots,  loveless,  joyless,  unendeared, 

asual  fruition ;  nor  in  court  amours, 
Mixed  dance,  or  wanton  mask,  or  midnight  ball, 
Or  serenade,  which  the  starved  lover  sings 
To  his  proud  fair,  best  quitted  with  disdain. 
These  lulled  by  nightingales,  embracing  slept, 
And  on  their  naked  limbs  the  flowery  roof 
Showered  roses,  which  the  morn  repaired.  Sleep  on, 
Slest  pair ;  and  O  yet  happiest,  if  ye  seek 
No  happier  state,  and  know  to  know  no  more. 

Now  had  night  measured  with  her  shadowy  cone 
3alf  way  up  hill  this  vast  sublunar  vault. 
And  from  their  ivory  port  the  cherubim, 


32 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  iv. 


Forth  issuing  at  the  accustomed  hour,  stood  armed 
To  their  night  watches  in  warlike  parade, 
When  Gabriel  to  his  next  in  power  thus  spake. 

"  Uzziel,  half  these  draw  off,  and  coast  the  south 
With  strictest  watch ;  these  other  wheel  the  north; 
Our  circuit  meets  full  west."  As  flame  they  part, 
Half  wheeling  to  the  shield,  half  to  the  spear. 
From  these,  two  strong  and  subtle  spirits  he  called 
That  near  him  stood,  and  gave  them  thus  in  charge. 

"  Ithuriel  and  Zephon,  with  winged  speed 
Search  through  this  garden,  leave  unsearched  no 

nook: 

But  chiefly  where  those  two  fair  creatures  lodge, 
Now  laid  perhaps  asleep,  secure  of  harm. 
This  evening  from  the  sun's  decline  arrived 
Who  tells  of  some  infernal  spirit  seen 
Hitherward  bent  (who  could  have  thought  ?)  es- 
caped 

The  bars  of  hell,  on  errand  bad  no  doubt : 
Such  where  ye  find,  seize  fast  and  hither  bring." 

So  saying,  on  he  led  his  radiant  files, 
Dazzling  the  moon ;  these  to  the  bower  direct 
In  search  of  whom  they  sought ;  him  there  they 

found 

Squat  like  a  toad,  close  at  the  ear  of  Eve, 
Assaying  by  his  devilish  art  to  reach 
The  organs  of  her  fancy,  and  with  them  forge 
Illusions  as  he  list,  phantasms  and  dreams ; 
Or  if,  inspiring  venom,  he  might  taint 
The  animal  spirits,  that  from  pure  blood  arise 
Like  gentle  breaths  from  rivers  pure,  thence  raise 
At  least  distempered,  discontented  thoughts, 
Vain  hopes,  vain  aims,  inordinate  desires, 
Blown  up  with  high  conceits  engendering  pride. 
Him  thus  intent  Ithuriel  with  his  spear 
Touched  lightly ;  for  no  falsehood  can  endure 
Touch  of  celestial  temper,  but  returns 
Of  force  to  its  own  likeness :  up  he  starts 
Discovered  and  surprised.     As  when  a  spark 
Lights  on  a  heap  of  nitrous  powder,  laid 
Fit  for  the  tun  some  magazine  to  store 
Against  a  rumoured  war,  the  smutty  grain, 
With  sudden  blaze  diffused,  inflames  the  air : 
So  started  up  in  his  own  shape  the  fiend. 
Back  step  those  two  fair  angels,  half  amazed 
So  sudden  to  behold  the  grisly  king ; 
Yet  thus,  unmoved  with  fear,  accost  him  soon. 

"  Which  of  those  rebel  spirits  adjudged  to  Hell 
Comest  thou,  escaped  thy  prison*?  and,  transformed 
Why  sat'st  thou  like  an  enemy  in  wait, 
Here  watching  at  the  head  of  these  that  sleep  1" 

"  Know  ye  not  then,"  said  Satan,  filled  with 

scorn, 

"  Know  ye  not  me  7  ye  knew  me  once  no  mate 
For  you,  there  sitting  where  ye  durst  not  soar ; 
Not  to  know  me  argues  yourselves  unknown, 
The  lowest  of  your  throng ;  or,  if  you  know, 
Why  ask  ye,  and  superfluous  begin 
Your  message,  like  to  end  as  much  in  vain  T 


To  whom  thus  Zephon,  answering  scorn  with 

scorn: 

"  Think  not,  revolted  spirit,  thy  shape  the  same, 
Or  undiminished  brightness  to  be  known, 
As  when  thou  stood'st  in  Heaven  upright  and 

pure; 

That  glory  then,  when  thou  no  more  wast  good, 
Departed  from  thee ;  and  thou  resemblest  now 
Thy  sin  and  place  of  doom,  obscure  and  foul. 
But  come,  for  thou,  be  sure,  shall  give  account 
To  him  who  sent  us,  whose  charge  is  to  keep 
This  place  inviolable,  and  these  from  harm." 

So  spake  the  cherub ;  and  this  grave  rebuke, 
Severe  in  youthful  beauty,  added  grace 
Invincible ;  abashed  the  devil  stood, 
And  felt  how  awful  goodness  is,  and  saw 
Virtue  in  her  shape  how  lovely ;  saw,  and  pined 
His  loss ;  but  chiefly  to  find  her  observed 
His  lustre  visibly  impaired;  yet  seemed 
Undaunted.     "  If  I  must  contend,"  said  he, 
"  Best  with  the  best,  the  sender  not  the  sent, 
Or  all  at  once ;  more  glory  will  be  won, 
Or  less  be  lost."     "  Thy  fear,"  said  Zephon  bold, 
"  Will  save  us  trial  what  the  least  can  do 
Single  against  thee  wicked,  and  thence  weak." 
The  fiend  replied  not,  overcome  with  rage ; 
But,  like  a  proud  steed  reined,  went  haughty  on, 
Champing  his  iron  curb :  to  strive  or  fly 
He  held  it  vain ;  awe  from  above  had  quelled 
His  heart,  not  else  dismayed.    Now  drew  they 

nigh 
The  western  point,  where  those  half-rounding 

guards 

Just  met,  and  closing  stood  in  squadron  joined, 
Awaiting  next  command.     To  whom  their  chief, 
Gabriel,  from  the  front  thus  called  aloud. 

"  O  friends !  I  hear  the  tread  of  nimble  feet 
Hasting  this  way,  and  now  by  glimpse  discern 
Ithuriel  and  Zephon  through  the  shade ; 
And  with  them  comes  a  third  of  regal  port, 
But  faded  splendour  wan ;  who,  by  his  gait 
And  fierce  demeanour,  seems  the  prince  of  hell, 
Not  likely  to  part  hence  without  contest ; 
Stand  firm,  for  in  his  look  defiance  lowers." 
He  scarce  had  ended,  when  those  two  ap- 
proached, 
And  brief  related  whom  they  brought,  where 

found, 
How  busied,  in  what  form  and  posture  couched. 

To  whom  with  stern  regard  thus  Gabriel  spake. 
"  Why  hast  thou,  Satan,  broke  the  bounds  pre- 
scribed 

To  thy  transgressions,  and  disturbed  the  charge 
Of  others,  who  approve  not  to  transgress 
By  thy  example,  but  have  power  and  right 
To  question  thy  bold  entrance  on  this  place ; 
Employed,  it  seems,  to  violate  sleep,  and  those 
Whose  dwelling  God  hath  planted  here  in  bliss  1" 
To  whom  thus  Satan  with  contemptuous  brow. 


' 


BOOK  iv. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


33 


'•Gabriel,  thou  hadst  in  Heaven  the  esteem  of 

wise, 

And  such  I  held  thee ;  but  this  question  asked 
Puts  me  in  doubt.  Lives  there  who  loves  his  pain  1 
Who  would  not,  finding  way,  break  loose  from 

hell, 
Though  thither  doomed?    Thou  wouldst  thyself 

no  doubt, 

And  boldly  venture  to  whatever  place 
Farthest  from  pain,  where  thou  mightest  hope  to 

change 

Torment  with  ease,  and  soonest  recompense 
Dole  with  delight,  which  in  this  place  I  sought ; 
To  thee  no  reason,  who  knowest  only  good, 
But  evil  hast  not  tried :  and  wilt  object 
His  will  who  bounds  us  1  let  him  surer  bar 
His  iron  gates,  if  he  intends  our  stay 
In  that  dark  durance :  thus  much  what  was  asked. 
The  rest  is  true,  they  found  me  where  they  say ; 
But  that  implies  not  violence  or  harm." 

Thus  he  in  scorn.     The  warlike  angel,  moved, 
Disdainfully  half  smiling,  thus  replied. 
"  O  loss  of  one  in  Heaven  to  judge  of  wise, 
Since  Satan  fell,  whom  folly  overthrew, 
And  now  returns  him  from  lu's  prison  'scaped, 
Gravely  in  doubt  whether  to  hold  them  wise 
Or  not,  who  ask  what  boldness  brought  him  hither, 
Unlicensed,  from  his  bounds  in  hell  prescribed ; 
So  wise  he  judges  it  to  fly  from  pain, 
However,  and  to  escape  his  punisliment ! 
So  judge  thou  still,  presumptuous !  till  the  wrath 
Which  thou  incurrest  by  flying,  meet  thy  flight 
Sevenfold,  and  scourge  that  wrisdom  back  to  hell, 
Which  taught  thee  yet  no  better,  that  no  pain 
Can  equal  anger  infinite  provoked. 
But  wherefore  thou  alone  1  wherefore  with  thee 
Came  not  all  hell  broke  loose  1  is  pain  to  them 
Less  pain,  less  to  be  fled  1  or  thou  than  they 
Less  hardy  to  endure1?  Courageous  chief! 
The  first  in  flight  from  pain !  hadst  thou  alleged 
To  thy  deserted  host  this  cause  of  flight, 
Thou  surely  hadst  not  come  sole  fugitive/' 

To  which  the  fiend  thus  answered,  frowning 

stern, 

"  Not  that  I  less  endure  or  shrink  from  pain, 
Insulting  angel !  well  thou  knowest  I  stood 
Thy  fiercest,  when  in  battle  to  thy  aid 
The  blasting  vollied  thunder  made  all  speed, 
And  seconded  thy  else  not  dreaded  spear. 
But  still  thy  words  at  random,  as  before, 
Argue  thy  inexperience  what  behooves, 
From  hard  assays  and  ill  successes  past, 
A  faithful  leader,  not  to  hazard  all 
Through  ways  of  danger  by  himself  untried ; 
I  therefore,  I  alone  first  undertook 
To  wing  the  desolate  abyss,  and  spy 
This  new  created  world,  whereof  in  hell 
Fame  is  not  silent,  here  in  hope  to  find 
Belter  abode,  and  my  afflicted  powers 


To  settle  here  on  earth,  or  in  mid  air ; 
Though  for  possession  put  to  try  once  more 
What  thou  and  thy  gay  legions  dare  against ; 
Whose  easier  business  were  to  serve  their  Lord 
High  up  in  Heaven,  with  songs  to  hymn  his  throne 
And  practised  distances  to  cringe,  not  fight." 

To  whom  the  warrior  angel  soon  replied. 
"  To  say  and  straight  unsay,  pretending  first 
Wise  to  fly  pain,  professing  next  the  spy, 
Argues  no  leader  but  a  liar  traced, 
Satan,  and  could'st  thou  faithful  add  7  O  name, 
O  sacred  name  of  faithfulness  profaned ! 
Faithful  to  whom  1  to  thy  rebellious  crew  1 
Army  of  fiends,  fit  body  to  fit  head. 
Was  this  your  discipline  and  faith  engaged, 
Your  military  obedience,  to  dissolve 
Allegiance  to  the  acknowledged  Power  supreme! 
And  thou,  sly  hypocrite,  who  now  wouldst  seem 
Patron  of  liberty,  who  more  than  thou 
Once  fawned,  and  cringed,  and  servilely  adored 
Heaven's  awful  Monarch'?  whrerefore,  but  in  hope 
To  dispossess  him,  and  thyself  to  reign  7 
But  mark  what  I  arreed  thee  now,  avaunt ; 
Fly  thither  whence  thou  fledst !  if  from  this  hour 
Within  these  hallowed  limits  thou  appear, 
Back  to  the  infernal  pit  I  drag  thee  chained, 
And  seal  thee  so,  as  henceforth  not  to  scorn 
The  facile  gates  of  hell  too  slightly  barred." 

So  threatened  he :  but  Satan  to  no  threats 
Gave  heed,  but  waxing  more  in  rage,  replied. 

"  Then  when  I  am  thy  captive  talk  of  chains, 
Proud  limitary  cherub !  but  ere  then 
Far  heavier  load  thyself  expect  to  feel 
From  my  prevailing  arm,  though  Heaven's  King 
Ride  on  thy  wings,  and  thou  with  thy  compeers, 
Used  to  the  yoke,  drawest  his  triumphant  wheels 
In  progress  through  the  road  of  Heaven  star-paved." 

While  thus   he   spake,  the  angelic  squadron 

bright 

Turned  fiery  red,  sharpening  in  mooued  horns 
Their  phalanx,  and  began  to  hem  him  round 
With  ported  spears,  as  thick  as  when  a  field 
Of  Ceres  ripe  for  harvest  waving  bends 
j  Her  bearded  grove  of  ears,  which  way  the  wind 
Sways  them;  the  careful  ploughman  doubting 

stands, 

Lest  on  the  threshing-floor  his  hopeful  sheaves 
Prove  chaff.     On  the  other  side,  Satan,  alarmed, 
Collecting  all  his  might,  dilated  stood, 
Like  Teneriff  or  Atlas,  unremoved  : 
His  stature  reached  the  sky,  and  on  his  crest 
Sat  horror  plumed ;  nor  wanted  in  his  grasp 
What  seemed  both  spear  and  shield :  now  dread- 
ful deeds 

Might  have  ensued,  not  only  Paradise 
In  this  commotion,  but  the  starry  cope 
Of  Heaven  perhaps,  or  all  the  elements 
At  least  had  gone  to  wrack,  disturbed  and  torn 
With  violence  of  this  conflict,  had  not  soon 


34 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  v. 


The  Eternal,  to  prevent  .such  horrid  fray, 
Hung  forth  in  Heaven  his  golden  scales,  yet  seen 
Betwixt  Astrea  and  the  scorpion  sign, 
Wherein  all  things  created  first  he  weighed, 
The  pendulous  round  earth  with  balanced  air 
In  counterpoise,  now  ponders  all  events, 
Battles  and  realms :  in  these  he  put  two  weights, 
The  sequel  each  of  parting  and  of  fight ; 
The  latter  quick  up  flew,  and  kicked  the  beam ; 
Which  Gabriel  spying,  thus  bespake  the  fiend. 
"  Satan,  I  know  thy  strength,  and  thou  knowest 

mine, 

Neither  our  own,  but  given ;  what  folly  then 
To  boast  what  arms  can  do !  since  thine  no  more 
Than  Heaven  permits,  nor  mine,  though  doubled 

now 

To  trample  thee  as  mire :  for  proof  look  up, 
And  read  thy  lot  in  yon  celestial  sign, 
Where  thou  art  weighed,  and  shown  how  light, 

how  weak, 

If  thou  resist."     The  fiend  looked  up,  and  knew 
His  mounted  scale  aloft ;  nor  more ;  but  fled 
Murmuring,  and  with  him  fled  the  shades  of  night. 


BOOK  V. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

Morning  approached,  Eve  relates  to  Adam  her  troublesome 
dream ;  he  likes  it  not,  yet  comforts  her;  they  come  forth  to 
their  day  labours ;  their  morning  hymn  at  the  door  of  their 
bower.  God,  to  render  man  inexcusable,  sends  Raphael  to 
admonish  him  of  his  obedience,  of  his  free  estate,  of  his  ene- 
my near  at  hand,  who  he  is,  and  why  his  enemy,  and  what- 
ever else  may  avail  Adam  to  know.  Raphael  comes  down  to 
Paradise;  his  appearance  described ;  his  coming  discerned  by 
Adam  afar  off  sitting  at  the  door  of  his  bower ;  he  goes  out  to 
meet  him,  brings  him  to  his  lodge,  entertains  him  with  the 
choicest  fruits  of  Paradise  got  together  by  Eve  ;  their  discourse 
at  table  ;  Raphael  performs  his  message,  minds  Adam  of  his 
elate  and  of  his  enemy ;  relates  at  Adam's  request,  who  that 
enemy  is,  and  how  he  came  to  be  so,  beginning  from  his  first 
revolt  in  Heaven,  and  the  occasion  thereof;  how  he  drew  his 
legions  after  him  to  the  parts  of  the  north,  and  there  incited 
them  to  rebel  with  him,  persuading  all  but  only  Abdiel  a  se- 
raph, who  in  argument  dissuades  and  opposes  him,  then  for- 
sakes him. 


Now  morn,  her  rosy  steps  in  the  eastern  clime 
Advancing,  sowed  the  earth  with  orient  pearl, 
When  Adam  waked,  so  customed ;  for  his  sleep 
Was  airy  light,  from  pure  digestion  bred, 
And  temperate  vapours  bland,  which  the  only  sound 
Of  leaves  and  fuming  rills,  Aurora's  fan, 
Lightly  dispersed,  and  the  shrill  matin  song 
Of  birds  on  every  bough ;  so  much  the  more 
His  wonder  was  to  find  unwakened  Eve 
With  tresses  discomposed,  and  glowing  cheek 
As  through  unquiet  rest ;  he  on  his  side 
Leaning  half  raised,  with  looks  of  cordial  love 
Hung  over  her  enamoured,  and  beheld 


Beauty,  which,  whether  waking  or  asleep, 
Shot  forth  peculiar  graces ;  then  with  voice 
Mild,  as  when  Zephyrus  on  Flora  breathes, 
Her  hand  soft  touching,  whispered  thus.  ' '  Awake, 
My  fairest,  my  espoused,  my  latest  found, 
Heaven's  last  best  gift,  my  ever  new  delight ! 
Awake :  the  morning  shines,  and  the  fresh  field 
Calls  us ;  we  lose  the  prime,  to  mark  how  spring 
Our  tended  plants,  how  blows  the  citron  grove, 
What  drops  the  myrrh,  and  what  the  balmy  reed, 
How  nature  paints  her  colours,  how  the  bee 
Sits  on  the  bloom  extracting  liquid  sweet." 

S  uch  whispering  waked  her,  but  with  st  artled  eye 
On  Adam,  whom  embracing,  thus  she  spake. 

"  O  sole  in  whom  my  thoughts  find  all  repose, 
My  glory,  my  perfection !  glad  I  see 
Thy  face,  and  morn  returned ;  for  I  this  night 
(Such  night  till  this  I  never  passed)  have  dreamed, 
If  dreamed,  not,  as  I  oft  am  wont,  of  thee, 
Works  of  day  past,  or  morrow's  next  design. 
But  of  offence  and  trouble,  which  my  mind 
Knew  never  till  this  irksome  night :  methought 
Close  at  mine  ear  one  called  me  forth  to  walk 
With  gentle  voice ;  I  thought  it  thine  :  it  said1, 
'  Why  sleepest  thou,  Eve  1  now  is  the  pleasant  time, 
The  cool,  the  silent,  save  where  silence  yields 
To  the  night-warbling  bjrd,  that  now  awake 
Tunes  sweetest  his  love-laboured  song :  now  reigns 
Full  orbed  the  moon,  and  with  more  pleasing  light 
Shadowy  sets  off  the  face  of  things ;  in  vain, 
If  none  regard ;  Heaven  wakes  with  all  his  eyes, 
Whom  to  behold  but  thee,  Nature's  desire  1 
In  whose  sight  all  things  joy,  with  ravishment 
Attracted  by  thy  beauty  still  to  gaze. 
I  rose  as  at  thy  call,  but  found  thee  not ; 
To  find  thee  I  directed  then  my  walk ; 
And  on,  methought,  alone  I  passed  through  ways 
That  brought  me  on  a  sudden  to  the  tree 
Of  interdicted  knowledge  :  fair  it  seemed, 
Much  fairer  to  my  fancy  than  by  day : 
And,  as  I  wonderingjooked,  beside  it  stood 
One  shaped  and  winged  like  one  of  those  from 

Heaven 

By  us  oft  seen;  his  dewy  locks  distilled 
Ambrosia;  on  that  tree  he  also  gazed ; 
And  '  O  fair  plant,'  said  he, '  with  fruit  surcharged, 
Deigns  none  to  ease  thy  load  and  taste  thy  sweet, 
Nor  God,  nor  man]  is  knowledge  so  despised? 
Or  envy,  or  what  reserve  forbids  us  taste'? 
Forbid  who  will,  none  shall  from  me  withhold 
Longer  thy  offered  good ;  why  else  set  here  V 
This  said,  he  paused  not,  but  with  venturous  arm 
He  plucked,  he  tasted;  me  damp  horror  chilled 
At  such  bold  words,  vouched  with  a  deed  so  bold: 
But  he  thus,  overjoyed.     '  O  fruit  divine, 
Sweet  of  thyself,  but  much  more  sweet  thus  cropt, 
Forbidden  here,  it  seems,  as  only  fit 
For  gods,  yet  able  to  make  gods  of  men ! 
And  why  not  gods  of  men,  since  good,  the  more 


BOOK  v. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


35 


Communicated,  more  abundant  grows, 
The  author  not  impaired,  but  honoured  more ! 
Here  happy  creature,  fair  angelic  Eve, 
Partake  thus  also;  happy  though  thou  art, 
Happier  thou  mayest  be,  worthier  canst  not  be : 
Taste  this,  and  be  henceforth  among  the  gods 
Thyself  a  goddess,  not  to  earth  confined, 
But  sometimes  in  the  air,  as  we,  sometimes 
Ascend  to  Heaven,  by  merit  thine,  and  see 
What  life  the  gods  live  there,  and  such  live  thou 
So  saying,  he  drew  nigh,  and  to  me  held, 
Even  to  my  mouth  of  that  same  fruit  held  part 
Which   he  had  plucked ;   the  pleasant  savoury 

smell 

So  quickened  appetite,  that  I,  methought, 
Could  not  but  taste.     Forthwith  up  to  the  clouds 
With  him  I  flew,  and  underneath  beheld 
The  earth  outstretched  immense,  a  prospect  wide 
And  various:  wondering  at  my  flight  and  change 
To  this  high  exaltation;  suddenly 
My  guide  was  gone,  and  I,  methought  sunk  down 
And  fell  asleep;  but  O  how  glad  I  waked 
To  find  this  but  a  dream!"  Thus  Eve  her  night 
Related,  and  thus  Adam  answered  sad. 

"  Best  image  of  myself,  and  dearer  half, 
The  trouble  of  thy  thoughts  this  night  in  sleep 
Affects  me  equally;  nor  can  I  like 
This  uncouth  dream,  of  evil  sprung,  I  fear; 
Yet  evil  whence  1  in  thee  can  harbour  none, 
Created  pure.     But  know,  that  in  the  soul 
Are  many  lesser  faculties,  that  serve 
Reason  as  chief;  among  these  fancy  next 
Her  office  holds ;  of  all  external  things, 
Which  the  five  watchful  senses  represent, 
She  forms  imaginations,  airy  shapes, 
Which  reason,  joining  or  disjoining,  frames 
All  what  we  affirm  or  what  deny,  and  call 
Our  knowledge  or  opinion ;  then  retires 
Into  her  private  cell  when  nature  rests. 
Oft  in  her  absence  mimic  fancy  wakes 
To  imitate  her ;  but.  misjoining  shapes, 
Wild  work  produces  oft,  and  most  in  dreams, 
111  matching  words  and  deeds  long  past  or  late. 
Some  such  resemblances,  methinks,  I  find 
Of  our  last  evening's  talk,  in  this  thy  dream, 
But  with  addition  strange ;  yet  be  not  sad. 
Evil  into  the  mind  of  God  or  man 
May  come  and  go,  so  unapproved,  and  leave 
No  spot  or  blame  behind :  which  gives  me  hope, 
That  what  in  sleep  thou  didst  abhor  to  dream, 
Waking  thou  never  wilt  consent  to  do. 
Be  not  disheartened  then,  nor  cloud  those  looks, 
That  wont  to  be  more  cheerful  and  serene, 
Than  when  fair  morning  first  smiles  on  the  world ; 
And  let  us  to  our  fresh  employments  rise 
Amon  the  groves,  the  fountains,  and  the  flowers, 
That  open  now  their  choicest  bosomed  smells, 
Reserved  from  night,  and  kept  for  thee  in  store." 


So  cheered   he   his  fair  spouse,  and    she  was 

cheer'd; 

But  silently  a  gentle  tear  let  fall 
From  either  eye.  and  wiped  them  with  her  hair; 
Two  other  precious  drops  that  ready  stood, 
Each  in  their  crystal  sluice,  he  ere  they  fell 
Kissed,  as  the  gracious  signs  of  sweet  remorse 
And  pious  awe,  that  feared  to  have  offended. 

So  all  was  cleared,  and  to  the  field  they  haste. 
But  first,  from  under  shady  arborous  roof, 
Soon  as  they  forth  were  come  to  open  sight 
Of  dayspring,  and  the  sun,  who  scarce  uprisen, 
With  wheels  yet  hovering  o'er  the  ocean  brim, 
Shot  parallel  to  the  earth  his  dewy  ray, 
Discovering  in  wide  landscape  all  the  east 
Of  Paradise  and  Eden's  happy  plains, 
Lowly  they  bowed  adoring,  and  began 
Their  orisons,  each  morning  duly  paid 
[n  various  style ;  for  neither  various  style 
Nor  holy  rapture  wanted  they  to  praise 
Their  Maker,  in  fit  strains  pronounced,  or  sung 
Unmeditated ;  such  prompt  eloquence 
flowed  from  their  lips,  in  prose  or  numerous  verse 
More  tuneable  than  needed  lute  or  harp 
To  add  more  sweetness;  and  they  thus  began. 

"  These  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of  good, 
Almighty !  thine  this  universal  frame, 
Thus  wondrous  fair:  thyself  how  wondrous  then ! 
Jnspeakable,  who  sitst  above  these  Heavens, 
To  us  invisible,  or  dimly  seen 
n  these  thy  lowest  works;  yet  these  declare 
Thy  goodness  beyond  thought,  and  power  divine. 
Speak,  ye  who  best  can  tell,  ye  sons  of  light, 
Angels;  for  ye  behold  him,  and  with  songs 
And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  night. 

ircle  his  throne  rejoicing;  ye  in  Heaven, 
)n  earth  join  all  ye  creatures  to  extol 
Him  first,  him  last,  him  midst,  and  without  end. 

'airest  of  stars,  last  in  the  train  of  night, 
f  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawn, 

ure  pledge  of  day,  that  crown'st  the  smiling  morn 
ATith  thy  bright  circlet,  praise  him  in  thy  sphere, 
Vhile  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 

'hou  Sun,  of  this  great  world  both  eye  and  soul, 

.cknowledge  him  thy  greater,  sound  his  praise 
n  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climbest, 

nd  when  high  noon  has  gained,  and  when  thou 

fallest. 

loon,  that  now  meetest  the  orient  sun,  now  fliest, 
With  the  fixed  stars,  fixed  in  their  orb  that  flies 
^.nd  ye  five  other  wandering  fires,  that  move 
n  mystic  dance,  not  without  song,  resound 
[is  praise,  who  out  of  darkness  called  up  light, 
jr,  and  ye  elements,  the  eldest  birth 

f  nature's  womb,  that  in  quaternion  run 

erpetual  circle,  multiform ;  and  mix 

jid  nourish  all  things ;  let  your  ceaseless  change 

ary  to  our  great  Maker  still  new  praise. 


36 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  v. 


Ye  mists  and  exhalations,  that  now  rise 
From  hill  or  steaming  lake,  dusky  or  gray 
Till  the  sun  paint  your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, 
In  honour  to  the  world's  great  Author  rise ; 
Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  the  uncoloured  sky, 
Or  wet  the  thirsty  earth  with  falling  showers, 
Rising  or  falling,  still  advance  his  praise. 
His  praise,  ye  winds,  that  from  four  quarters  blow, 
Breathe  soft  or  loud;   and  wave  your  tops,  ye 

pines, 

With  every  plant  in  sign  of  worship  wave. 
Fountains,  and  ye  that  warble,  as  ye  flow, 
Melodious  murmurs,  warbling  tune  his  praise. 
Join  voices  all  ye  living  souls:  ye  birds. 
That  singing  up  to  Heaven  gate  ascend, 
Bear  on  your  wings  and  in  your  notes  his  praise. 
Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk 
The  earth,  and  stately  tread,  or  lowly  creep, 
Witness  if  I  be  silent,  morn  or  even, 
To  hill,  or  valley,  fountain,  or  fresh  shade, 
Made  vocal  by  my  song,  and  taught  his  praise. 
Hail !  universal  Lord,  be  bounteous  still 
To  give  us  only  good;  and  if  the  night 
Have  gathered  aught  of  evil,  or  concealed, 
Disperse  it,  as  now  light  dispels  the  dark." 

So  prayed  they  innocent,  and  to  their  thoughts 
Firm  peace  recovered  soon  and  wonted  calm. 
On  to  their  morning's  rural  work  they  haste, 
Among  sweet  dews  and  flowers,  where  any  row 
Of  fruit  trees  over- woody  reached  too  far 
Their  pampered  boughs,  and  needed  hands  to 

check 

Fruitless  embraces:  or  they  led  the  vine 
To  wed  her  elm ;  she,  spoused  about  him  twines 
Her  marriageable  arms,  and  with  her  brings 
Her  dower,  the  adopted  clusters,  to  adorn 
His  barren  leaves.     Them  thus  employed  beheld 
With  pity  Heaven's  high  King,  and  to  him  called 
Raphael,  the  sociable  spirit,  that  deigned 
To  travel  with  Tobias,  and  secured 
His  marriage  with  the  seven-times  wedded  maid. 

"  Raphael,"  said  he,  "  thou  hearest  what  stir  on 

earth 
Satan  from  hell  escaped  through  the  darksome 

gulf, 

Hath  raised  in  Paradise,  and  how  disturbed 
This  night  the  human  pair;  how  he  designs 
In  them  at  once  to  ruin  all  mankind. 
Go,  therefore,  half  this  day  as  friend  with  friend 
Converse  with  Adam,  in  what  bower  or  shade 
Thou  findest  him  from  the  heat  of  noon  retired, 
To  respite  his  day  labour  with  repast, 
Or  with  repose;  and  such  discourse  bring  on, 
As  may  advise  him  of  his  happy  state, 
Happiness  in  his  power  left  free  to  will, 
Left  to  his  own  free  will,  his  will  though  free, 
Yet  mutable ;  w.hence  warn  him  to  beware 
He  swerve  not,  too  secure ;  tell  him  withal 
His  danger,  and  from  whom ;  what  enemy, 


Late  fallen  himself  from  Heaven,  is  plotting  now 
The  fall  of  others  from  like  state  of  bliss; 
By  violence?  no,  for  that  shall  he  withstood; 
But  by  deceit  and  lies:  this  let  him  know, 
Lest  wilfully  trangressing  he  pretend 
Surprisal,  unadmonished,  unforewarned." 
So  spake  the  eternal  Father  and  fulfilled 
All  justice :  nor  delayed  the  winged  saint 
After  his  charge  received;  but  from  among 
Thousand  celestial  ardours,  where  he  stood 
Veiled  with  his  gorgeous  winds,  up  springing 

light, 
Flew  through  the  midst  of  Heaven ;  th'  angelic 

choirs, 

On  each  hand  parting,  to  his  speed  gave  way 
Through  all  the  empyreal  road ;  till  at  the  gate 
Of  Heaven  arrived,  the  gate  self-opened  wide, 
On  golden  hinges  turning,  as  by  work 
Divine  the  sovereign  architect  had  framed. 
From  hence,  no  cloud,  or,  to  obstruct  his  sight, 
Star  interposed,  however  small  he  sees, 
Not  unconform  to  other  shining  globes, 
Earth,  and  the  garden  of  God,  with  cedars  crowned 
Above  all  hills.     As  when  by  night  the  glass 
Of  Galileo,  less  assured,  observes 
Imagined  lands  and  regions  in  the  moon; 
Or  pilot,  from  amidst  the  Cyclades 
Delos  or  Samos  first  appearing,  kens 
A  cloudy  spot.     Down  thither  prone  in  flight 
He  speeds,  and  through  the  vast  ethereal  sky 
Sails  between  worlds  and  worlds,   with   steady 

wing  , 

Now  on  the  polar  winds,  then  with  quick  fan 
Winnows  the  buxom  air;  till,  within  soar 
Of  towering  eagles,  to  all  the  fowls  he  seems 
A  phoenix,  gazed  by  all  as  that  sole  bird, 
When,  to  enshrine  his  reliques  in  the  sun's 
Bright  temple,  to  Egyptian  Thebes  he  flies. 
At  once  on  the  eastern  cliff  of  Paradise 
He  lights,  and  to  his  proper  shape  returns 
A  seraph  winged:  six  wings  he  wore,  to  shade 
His  lineaments  divine ;  the  pair  that  clad 
Each  shoulder  broad,  came  mantling  o'er  his  breast 
With  regal  ornament;  the  middle  pair 
Girt  like  a  starry  zone  his  waist,  and  round 
Skirted  his  loins  and  thighs  with  downy  gold 
And  colours  dipt  in  Heaven ;  the  third  his  feet 
Shadowed  from  either  heel  with  feathered  mail, 
Sky-tinctured  grain.    Like  Maia's  son  he  stood. 
And  shook  his  plumes,  that  Heavenly  fragrance 

filled 
The  circuit  wide.    Straight  knew  him  all  the 

bands 

Of  angels  under  watch;  and  to  his  state, 
And  to  his  message  high,  in  honour  rise; 
For  on  some  message  they  guessed  him  bound. 
Their  glittering  tents  he  passed,  and  now  is  come 
Into  the  blissful  field,  through  groves  of  myrrh, 
And  flowering  odours,  cassia,  nard,  and  balm; 


BOOK  v. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


37 


A  wilderness  of  sweets;  for  Nature  here 
Wantoned  as  in  her  prime,  and  played  at  will 
Her  virgin  fancies,  pouring  forth  more  sweet 
Wild  above  rule  or  art;  enormous  bliss. 
Him,  through  the  spicy  forest  onward  come, 
Adam  discerned,  as  in  the  door  he  sat 
Of  his  cool  bower,  while  now  the  mounted  sun 
Shot  down  direct  his  fervid  rays  to  warm 
Earth's  inmost  womb,  more  warmth  than  Adam 


needs 

And  Eve  within,  due  at  her  hour  prepared 
For  dinner  savoury  fruits,  of  taste  to  please 
True  appetite,  and  not  disrelish  thirst 
Of  nectarous  draughts  between,  from  milky  stream,  Since,  by  descending  from  the  thrones  above, 
Berry  or  grape:  to  whom  thus  Adam  called.         |  Those  happy  places  thou  hast  deigned  a  while 
"  Haste  hither,  Eve,  and,  worth  thy  sight,  behold  To  want,  and  honour  these,  vouchsafe  with  us 


Meanwhile  our  primitive  great  sire,  to  meet 
His  godlike  guest,  walks  forth,  without  more  train 
Accompanied  than  with  his  own  complete 
Perfections;  in  himself  was  all  his  state, 
More  solemn  than  the  tedious  pomp  that  waits 
On  princes,  when  their  rich  retinue  long 
Of  horses  led,  and  grooms  besmeared  with  gold, 
Dazzles  the  crowd,  and  sets  them  all  agape. 
Nearer  his  presence  Adam,  though  not  awed, 


Yet  with  submiss  approach  and  reverence  meek, 
As  ty  a  superior  nature  bowing  low 
Thus  said.     "  Native  of  Heaven,  for  other  place 
None  can  than  Heaven  such  glorious  shape  contain; 


Eastward  among  those  trees,  what  glorious  shape 
Comes  this  way  moving;  seems  another  morn 
Risen  on  mid-noon;  some  great  behest  from  heaven 
To  us  perhaps  he  brings,  and  will  vouchsafe 
This  day  to  be  our  guest.    But  go  with  speed, 
And  what  thy  stores  contain  bring  forth  and  pour 
Abundance,  fit  to  honour  and  receive 
Our  heavenly  stranger:  well  we  may  afford 
Our  givers  their  own  gifts,  and  large  bestow 
From  large  bestowed,  where  nature  multiplies 
Her  fertile  growth,  and  by  disburdening  grows 
More  fruitful,  which  instructs  us  not  to  spare." 

To  whom  thus  Eve.     "  Adam,  earth's  hallowed 

mould, 

Of  God  inspired,  small  store  will  serve,  where  store, 
All  seasons,  ripe  for  us  hangs  on  the  stalk; 
Save  what  by  frugal  storing  firmness  gains 
To  nourish,  and  superfluous  moist  consumes : 
But  I  will  haste,  and  from  each  bough  and  brake, 
Each  plant  and  juiciest  gourd,  will  pluck  such 

choice 

To  entertain  our  angel  guest,  as  he 
Beholding  shall  confess,  that  here  on  earth 
God  hath  dispensed  his  bounties  as  in  Heaven." 

So  saying,  with  despatchful  looks  in  haste 
She  turns,  on  hospitable  thoughts  intent 
What  choice  to  choose  for  delicacy  best, 
What  order  so  contrived  as  not  to  mix 
Tastes,  not  well  joined,  inelegant,  but  bring 
Taste  after  taste  upheld  with  kindliest  change; 
Bestirs  her  then,  and  from  each  tender  stalk 
Whatever  earth,  all  bearing  mother,  yields 
In  India  East  or  West,  or  middle  shore 
In  Pontus  or  the  Punic  coast,  or  where 
Alcinous  reigned,  fruit  of  all  kinds,  in  coat 
Rough  or  smooth  rind,  or  bearded  husk,  or  shell, 
She  gathers,  tribute  large,  and  on  the  board 
Heaps  with  unsparing  hand ;  for  drink  the  grape 
She  crushes,  inoffensive  must,  and  meaths 
From  many  a  berry;  and  from  sweet  kernels  press'd 
She  tempers  dulcet  creams;  nor  these  to  hold 
Wants  her  fit  vessels  pure;  then  strews  the  ground 
With  rose  and  odours  from  the  shrub  unnamed. 


Two  only,  who  yet  by  sovereign  gift  possess 
This  spacious  ground,  in  yonder  shady  bower 
To  rest,  and  what  the  garden  choicest  bears 
To  sit  and  taste  till  this  meridian  heat 
Be  over  and  the  sun  more  cool  decline." 

Whom  thus  the  angelic  virtue  answered  mild, 
"  Adam,  I  therefore  came ;  nor  art  thou  such 
Created,  or  such  place  hast  here  to  dwell, 
As  may  not  oft  invite,  though  spirits  of  Heaven, 
To  visit  thee:  lead  on  then  where  thy  bower 
O'ershades ;  for  these  mid-hours,  till  evening  rise, 
I  have  at  will."     So  to  the  sylvan  lodge 
They  came,  that  like  Pomona's  arbour  smiled, 
With  flowerets  decked,  and  fragrant  smells;  but 

Eve, 

Undecked,  save  with  herself,  more  lovely  fair 
Than  wood  nymph,  or  the  fairest  goddess,  feigned 
Of  three  that  in  mount  Ida  naked  strove, 
Stood  to  entertain  her  guest  from  heaven :  no  veil 
She  needed,  virtu?  proof;  no  thought  infirm 
Altered  her  cheek.     On  whom  the  angel  "  Hail" 
Bestowed,  the  holy  salutation  used 
Long  after  to  blest  Mary,  second  Eve. 

"  Hail !  mother  of  mankind,  whose  fruitful  womb 
Shall  fill  the  world  more  numerous  with  thy  sons 
Than  with  these  various  fruits  the  trees  of  God 
Have  heaped  this  table !"     Raised  of  grassy  turf 
Their  table  was,  and  mossy  seats  had  round, 
And  on  her  ample  square  from  side  to  side 
All  autumn  piled,  though  spring  and  autumn  here 
Danced  hand  in  hand.  Awhile  discourse  they  hold: 
No  fear  lest  dinner  cool ;  when  thus  began 
Our  Author.  "  Heavenly  stranger,  please  to  taste 
These  bounties,  which  our  Nourisher,  from  whom 
All  perfect  good,  unmeasured  out,  descends, 
To  us  for  food,  and  for  delight  hath  caused 
The  earth  to  yield ;  unsavoury  food  perhaps 
To  spiritual  natures ;  only  this  I  know, 
That  one  celestial  Father  gives  to  all." 
To  whom  the  Angel.     "  Therefore  what  he  gives 
(Whose  praise  be  ever  sung)  to  man,  in  part 
Spiritual,  may  of  purest  spirits  be  found 
No  ingrateful  food:  and  food  alike  those  pure 


38 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  v, 


Intelligential  substances  require, 

As  doth  your  rational ;  and  both  contain 

Within  them  every  lower  faculty 

Of  sense,  whereby  they  hear,  see,  smell,  touch 

taste, 

Tasting  concoct,  digest,  assimilate, 
And  corporeal  to  incorporeal  turn. 
For  know,  whatever  was  created,  needs 
To  be  sustained  and  fed;  of  elements 
The  grosser  feeds  the  purer,  earth  the  sea, 
Earth  and  the  sea  feed  air,  the  air  those  fires 
Ethereal,  and,  as  lowest,  first  the  moon ; 
Whence  in  her  visage  round  those  spots,  unpurged 
Vapours  not  yet  into  her  substance  turned. 
Nor  doth  the  moon  to  nourishment  exhale 
From  her  moist  continent  to  higher  orbs 
The  sun,  that  light  imparts  to  all,  receives 
From  all  his  alimental  recompense 
In  humid  exhalations,  and  at  even 
Sups  with  the  ocean.  Though  in  Heaven  the  trees 
Of  life  ambrosial  fruitage  bear,  and  vines 
Yield  nectar;   though  from  off  the  boughs  each 

morn 

We  brush  mellifluous  dews,  and  find  the  ground 
Covered  with  pearly  grain:  yet  God  hath  here 
Varied  his  iounty  so  with  new  delights, 
As  may  compare  with  Heaven;  and  to  taste 
Think  not  1  shall  be  nice."    So  down  they  sat, 
And  to  their  viands  fell ;  nor  seemingly 
The  angel,  nor  in  mist,  the  common  gloss 
Of  theologians ;  but  with  keen  despatch 
Of  real  hunger,  and  concoctive  heat 
To  transubstantiate :  what  redounds,  transpires 
Through  spirits  with  ease  ;  nor  wonder,  if  by  fire 
Of  sooty  coal,  th'  empiric  alchymist 
Can  turn,  or  holds  it  possible  to  turn, 
Metals  of  drossiest  ore  to  perfect  gold, 
As  from  the  mine.    Meanwhile  at  table  Eve 
Ministered  naked,  and  their  flowing  cups 
With  pleasant  liquors  crowned :  O  innocence 
Deserving  Paradise !  if  ever,  then, 
Then  had  the  sons  of  God  excuse  to  have  been 
Enamoured  at  that  sight ;  but  in  those  hearts 
Love  unlibidinous  reigned,  nor  jealousy 
Was  understood,  the  injured  lover's  hell. 

Thus  when  with  meats  and  drinks  they  had 

sufficed, 

Not  burdened  nature,  sudden  mind  arose 
In  Adam,  not  to  let  th'  occasion  pass, 
Given  him  by  this  great  conference,  to  know 
Of  things  above  this  world,  and  of  their  being 
Who  dwell  in  Heaven,  whose  excellence  he  saw 
Transcend  his  own  so  far,  whose  radiant  forms, 
Divine  effulgence,  whose  high  power  so  far 
Exceeded  human,  and  his  wary  speech 
Thus  to  th'  empyreal  minister  he  framed. 

"  Inhabitant  with  God,  now  know  I  well 
Thy  favour,  in  this  honour  done  to  man, 
Under  whose  lowly  roof  thou  hast  vouchsafed 


To  enter,  and  these  earthly  fruits  to  taste, 
Food  not  of  angels,  yet  accepted  so, 
As  that  more  willingly  thou  couldst  not  seem 
At  Heaven's  high  feasts  to  have  fed:  yet  what 

compare'?" 

To  whom  the  winged  hierarch  replied : 
"  O  Adam,  one  Almighty  is,  from  whom 
All  things  proceed,  and  up  to  him  return ; 
If  not  depraved  from  good,  created  all 
Such  to  perfection,  one  first  matter  all, 
Endued  with  various  forms,  various  degrees 
Of  substance,  and,  in  things  that  live,  of  life; 
But  more  refined,  more  spirituous,  and  pure, 
As  nearer  to  him  placed,  or  nearer  tending 
Each  in  their  several  active  spheres  assigned. 
Till  body  up  to  spirit  work,  in  bounds 
Proportioned  to  each  kind.     So  from  the  root 
Springs  lighter  the  green  stalk,  from  thence  the 

leaves 

More  airy,  last  the  bright  consummate  flower 
Spirits  odorous  breathes :  flowers  and  their  fruit, 
Man's  nourishment,  by  gradual  scale  sublimed. 
To  vital  spirits  aspire,  to  animal, 
To  intellectual ;  give  both  life  and  sense, 
Fancy  and  understanding ;  whence  the  soul 
Reason  receives,  and  reason  is  her  being, 
Discursive,  or  intuitive ;  discourse 
Is  oftest  yours,  the  latter  most  is  ours, 
Differing  but  in  degree,  of  kind  the  same. 
Wonder  not  then,  what  God  for  you  saw  good 
[f  I  refuse  not,  but  convert,  as  you, 
To  proper  substance :  tune  may  come,  when  men 
With  angels  may  participate,  and  find 
No  inconvenient  diet,  nor  too  light  fare ; 
And  from  these  corporal  nutriments  perhaps 
Your  bodies  may  at  last  turn  all  to  spirit, 
tmproved  by  tract  of  time,  and  winged  ascend 
Ethereal,  as  we,  or  may  at  choice 
Here  or  in  heavenly  Paradises  dwell ; 
[f  ye  be  found  obedient,  and  retain 
Unalterably  firm  his  love  entire, 
Whose  progeny  you  are.    Meanwhile  enjoy 
Your  fill  what  happiness  this  happy  state 
Dan  comprehend,  incapable  of  more." 

To  whom  the  patriarch  of  mankind  replied. 
'  O  favourable  spirit,  propitious  guest, 
Well  hast  thou  taught  the  way  that  might  direct 
3ur  knowledge,  and  the  scale  of  nature  set 
From  centre  to  circumference,  whereon, 
n  contemplation  of  created  things, 
Sy  steps  we  might  ascend  to  God.     But  say, 
What  meant  that  caution  joined,  '  If  ye  be  found 
Obedient  V  can  we  want  obedience  then 
To  him,  or  possibly  his  love  desert, 
Who  formed  us  from  the  dust,  and  placed  us  here, 
?ull  to  the  utmost  measure  of  what  bliss 
Human  desires  can  seek  or  apprehend  V 
To  whom  the  angel.    "  Son  of  Heaven  and 
earth, 


BOOK  v. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


39 


Attend:  that  thou  art  happy,  owe  to  God; 
That  thou  continues!  such,  owe  to  thyself, 
That  is,  to  thy  obedience ;  therein  stand. 
This  was  that  caution  given  thee ;  be  advised. 
God  made  thee  perfect,  not  immutable  ; 
And  good  he  made  thee,  but  to  persevere 
He  left  it  in  thy  power;  ordained  thy  will 
By  nature  free,  not  overruled  by  fate 
Inextricable,  or  strict  necessity  ; 
Our  voluntary  service  he  requires, 
Not  our  necessitated ;  such  with  him 
Finds  no  acceptance,  nor  can  find ;  for  how 
Can  hearts,  not  free,  be  tried  whether  they  serve 
Willing  or  no,  who  will  but  what  they  must 
By  destiny,  and  can  no  other  choose  1 
Myself  and  all  the  angelic  host,  that  stand 
In  sight  of  God  enthroned,  our  happy  state 
Hold,  as  you  yours,  while  our  obedience  holds; 
On  other  surety  none ,  freely  we  serve, 
Because  we  freely  love,  as  in  our  will 
To  love  or  not ;  in  this  we  stand  or  fall : 
And  some  are  fallen,  to  disobedience  fallen, 
And  so  from  Heaven  to  deepest  hell ;  O  fall 
From  what  high  state  of  bliss  into  what  wo !" 

To  whom  our  great  progenitor.     "  Thy  words 
Attentive,  and  with  more  delighted  ear, 
Divine  instructor,  I  have  heard,  than  when 
Cherubic  songs  by  night  from  neighbouring  hills 
Aerial  music  send :  nor  knew  I  not 
To  be  both  will  and  deed  created  free; 
Yet  that  we  never  shah"  forget  to  love 
Our  Maker,  and  obey  him,  whose  command 
Single  is  yet  so  just,  my  constant  thoughts 
Assured  me,  and  still  assure:  tho'  what  thou  telles 
Hath  passed  in  Heaven,  some  doubt  within  me 

move, 

But  more  desire  to  hear,  if  thou  consent, 
The  full  relation,  which  must  needs  be  strange, 
Worthy  of  sacred  silence  to  be  heard; 
And  we  have  yet  large  day,  for  scarce  the  sun 
Hath  finished  half  his  journey,  and  scarce  begins 
Hi*  other  half  in  the  great  zone  of  Heaven." 
Thus  Adam  made  request ;  and  Raphael, 
After  short  pause  assenting,  thus  began. 

jh  matter  thou  enjoinest  me,  O  prime  of  men 
Sad  task  and  hard :  for  how  shall  I  relate 
To  human  sense  the  invisible  exploits 
Of  warring  spirits  7  how,  without  remorse, 
The  ruin  of  so  many  glorious  once, 
And  perfect  while  they  stood'?  how,  last,  unfold 
The  secrets  of  another  world,  perhaps 
Not  lawful  to  reveal  1  yet  for  thy  good 
This  is  dispensed ;  and  what  surmounts  the  reach 
Of  human  sense,  I  shall  delineate  so, 
By  likening  spiritual  to  corporeal  forms, 
As  may  express  them  best :  though  what  if  earth 
Be  but  the  shadow  of  Heaven,  and  things  therein 
Each  to  other  like,  more  than  on  earth  is  thought? 
"  As  yet  this  world  was  not,  and  Chaos  wild 


Reigned  where  these  Heavens  now  roll,  where 

earth  now  rests 

Upon  her  centre  poised :  when  on  a  day 
(For  time,  though  in  eternity,  applied 
To  motion,  measures  all  things  durable 
By  present,  past,  and  future,)  on  such  a  day 
As  Heaven's  great  year  brings  forth,  the  empyreal 

host 

Of  angels,  by  imperial  summons  called, 
Innumerable  before  the  Almighty's  throne 
Forthwith,  from  all  the  ends  of  Heaven  appeared 
Under  their  hierarchs  in  orders  bright : 
Ten  thousand  thousand  ensigns  high  advanced, 
Standards  and  gonfalons  'twixt  van  and  rear 
Stream  in  the  air,  and  for  distinction  serve 
Of  hierarchies,  of  orders,  and  degrees ; 
Or  in  their  glittering  tissues  bear  emblazed 
Holy  memorials,  acts  of  zeal  and  love 
R-ecorded  eminent.     Thus,  when,  in  orbs 
Of  circuit  inexpressible  they  stood, 
Orb  within  orb,  the  Father  infinite, 
By  whom  in  bliss  imbosomed  sat  the  Son, 
Amidst,  as  from  a  flaming  mount,  whose  top 
Brightness  had  made  invisible,  thus  spake. 
:  Hear,  all  ye  angels,  progeny  of  light, 
Thrones,  dominations,  princedoms,  virtues,  powers, 
3ear  my  decree,  which  unrevoked  shall  stand. 
This  day  I  have  begot  whom  I  declare 
Vly  only  Son,  and  on  this  holy  hill 
ilim  have  anointed,  whom  ye  now  behold 
At  my  right  hand;  your  Head  I  him  appoint; 
And  by  myself  have  sworn  to  him  shall  bow 
All  knees  in  Heaven,  and  shall  confess  him  Lord: 
Jnder  his  great  vicegerent  reign  abide 
Jnited  as  one  individual  soul, 
•'or  ever  happy:  him  who  disobeys, 
Vie  disobeys,  breaks  union,  and  that  day, 
~^ast  out  from  God  and  blessed  vision,  falls 
nto  utter  darkness,  deep  ingulphed,  his  place 
Ordained  without  redemption,  without  end." 

So  spake  the  Omnipotent,  and  with  his  words 
All  seemed  well  pleased ;  all  seemed,  but  were 

not  all. 

'hat  day,  as  other  solemn  days,  they  spent 
n  song  and  dance  about  the  sacred  hill ; 
Mystical  dance,  which  yonder  starry  sphere 
)f  planets  and  of  fixed  in  all  her  wheels 
lesembles  nearest,  mazes  intricate, 
Acentric,  intervolved,  yet  regular 
hen  most,  when  most  irregular  they  seem ; 
.nd  in  their  motions  harmony  divine 
o  smooths  her  charming  tones,  that  God's  own  ear 
istens  delighted.     Evening  now  approached 
•'or  we  have  also  our  evening  and  our  morn, 
Ve  ours  for  change  delectable,  not  need ;) 
orthwith  from  dance  to  sweet  repast  they  turn 
esirous ;  all  in  circles  as  they  stood, 
ables  are  set,  and  on  a  sudden  piled 
Vith  angels'  food,  and  rubied  nectar  flows 


•10 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  r. 


In  pearl,  in  diamond,  and  massy  gold, 

Fruit  of  delicious  vines,  the  growth  of  Heaven. 

On  flowers    reposed,   and  with   fresh    flow'rets 

crowned, 

They  eat,  they  drink,  and  in  communion  sweet 
duaff  immortality  and  joy,  secure 
Of  surfeit,  where  full  measure  only  bounds 
Excess,    before    the    all-bounteous    King,    who 

showered 

With  copious  hand,  rejoicing  in  their  joy. 
Now  when  ambrosial  night,  with  clouds  exhaled 
From  that  high  mount  of  God,  whence  light  and 

shade 
Spring  both,  the  face  of  brightest  Heav'n  had 

chang'd 

To  grateful  twilight  (for  night  comes  not  there 
In  darker  veil,)  and  roseate  dews  disposed 
All  but  the  unsleeping  eyes  of  God  to  rest; 
Wide  over  all  the  plain,  and  wider  far 
Than  all  this  globous  earth  in  plain  outspread 
(Such  are  the  courts  of  God,)  the  angelic  throng, 
Dispersed  in  bands  and  files,  their  camp  extend 
By  living  streams  among  the  trees  of  life, 
Pavilions  numberless,  and  sudden  reared, 
Celestial  tabernacles,  where  they  slept 
Fanned  with  cool  winds ;  save  those  who  in  their 

course 

Melodious  hymns  about  the  sovereign  throne 
Alternate  all  night  long:  but  not  so  waked 
Satan ;  so  call  him  now,  his  former  name 
Is  heard  no  more  in  Heaven ;  he  of  the  first, 
If  not  the  first  archangel,  great  in  power, 
In  favour  and  pre-eminence,  yet  fraught 
With  envy  against  the  Son  of  God,  that  day 
Honoured  by  his  great  Father,  and  proclaimed 
Messiah  King  anointed,  could  not  bear, 
Through  pride,  that  sight,  and  thought  himself 

impaired. 

Deep  malice  thence  conceiving,  and  disdain 
Soon  as  midnight  brought  on  the  dusky  hour 
Friendliest  to  sleep  and  silence,  he  resolved 
With  all  his  legions  to  dislodge,  and  leave 
Unworshipped,  unobeyed,  the  throne  supreme, 
Contemptuous,  and  his  next  subordinate 
Awakening,  thus  to  him  in  secret  spake. 

"SleepestthoUjCompanion-'dear,  what  sleep  can 

close 

Thy  eyelids  7  and  rememberest  what  decree 
Of  yesterday,  so  late  hath  passed  the  lips 
Of  Heaven's  Almighty.  Thou  to  me  thy  thoughts 
Was  wont,  I  mine  to  thee  was  wont  to  impart ; 
Both  waking  we  were  one;  how  then  can  now 
Thy  sleep  dissent  ?  New  laws  thou  seest  imposed 
New  laws  from  him  who  reigns,  new  minds  may 

raise 

In  us  who  serve,  new  councils,  to  debate 
What  doubtful  may  ensue :  more  in  this  place 
To  utter  is  not  safe.     Assemble  thou 
Of  all  those  myriads  which  we  lead  the  chief; 


Tell  them  that  by  command,  ere  yet  dim  night 
rler  shadowy  cloud  withdraws,  I  am  to  haste, 
And  all  who  under  me  their  banners  wave, 
Elomeward  with  flying  march,  where  we  possess 
The  quarters  of  the  north;  there  to  prepare 
?it  entertainment  to  receive  our  King, 
The  great  Messiah,  and  his  new  commands. 
Who  speedily  through  all  the  hierarchies 
ntends  to  pass  triumphant,  and  give  laws." 
"  So  spake  the  false  archangel,  and  infused 
Bad  influence  into  the  unwary  breast 
Of  his  associate;  he  together  calls, 
Or  several  one  by  one,  the  regent  powers, 
Under  him  regent;  tells,  as  he  was  taught, 
That,  the  most  high  commanding,  now  ere  night, 
N"ow  ere  dim  night  had  disencumbered  Heaven, 
The  great  hierarchal  standard  was  to  move: 
Tells  the  suggested  cause,  and  casts  between 
Ambiguous  words  and  jealousies,  to  sound 
Or  taint  integrity:  but  all  obeyed 
The  wonted  signal,  and  superior  voice 
Of  their  great  potentate :  for  great  indeed 
His  name,  and  high  was  his  degree  in  heaven : 
His  countenance  as  the  morning  star  that  guides 
The  starry  flock,  allured  them,  and  with  lies 
Drew  after  him  the  third  part  of  Heaven's  host. 
Meanwhile  th'  Eternal  eye,  whose  sight  discerns 
Abstrusest  thoughts,  from  forth  his  holy  mount, 
And  from  within  the  golden  lamps  that  burn 
Nightly  before  him,  saw  without  their  light 
Rebellion  rising;  saw  in  whom,  how  spread 
Among  the  sons  of  morn,  what  multitudes 
Were  banded  to  oppose  his  high  decree ; 
And,  smiling,  to  his  only  Son  thus  said. 

"  Son,  thou  in  whom  my  glory  I  behold 
In  full  resplendence,  heir  of  all  my  might, 
Nearly  it  now  concerns  us  to  be  sure 
Of  our  omnipotence,  and  with  what  arms 
We  mean  to  hold  what  anciently  we  claim 
Of  deity  or  empire;  such  a  foe 
Is  rising,  who  intends  to  erect  his  throne 
Equal  to  ours,  throughout  the  spacious  north ; 
Nor  so  content,  hath  in  his  thought  to  try, 
In  battle,  what  our  power  is,  or  our  right. 
Let  us  advise,  and  to  this  hazard  draw 
With  speed  what  force  is  left,  and  all  employ 
In  our  defence,  lest  unawares  we  lose 
This  our  high  place,  our  sanctuary,  our  hill." 

To  whom  the  Son,  with  calnv  aspect  and  clear, 
Lightning  divine,  ineffable,  serene, 
Made  answer.     "  Mighty  Father,  thou  thy  foes 
Justly  hast  in  derision,  and,  secure, 
Laughest  at  their  vain  designs  and  tumults  vain, 
Matter  to  me  of  glory,  whom  their  hate 
Illustrates;  when  they  see  all  regal  power 
Given  to  quell  their  pride,  and  in  event 
Know  whether  I  be  dexterous  to  subdue 
Thy  rebels,  or  be  found  the  worst  in  Heaven." 
So  spake  the  Son;  but  Satan  with  powers 


BOOK  v. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


41 


Far  was  advanced  on  winged  speed;  an  host 
Innumerable  as  the  stars  of  night, 
Or  stars  of  morniug,  dew  drops,  which  the  sun 
Impearls  on  every  leaf  and  every  flower. 
Regions  they  passed,  the  mighty  regencies 
Of  seraphim,  and  potentates,  and  thrones, 
In  their  triple  degrees;  regions  to  which 
All  thy  dominion,  Adam,  is  no  more 
Than  what  this  garden  is  to  all  the  earth, 
And  all  the  sea,  from  one  entire  globose 
Stretched  into  longitude ;  which  having  passed, 
At  length  into  the  limits  of  the  north 
They  came,  and  Satan  to  his  royal  seat 
High  on  a  hill,  far  blazing,  as  a  mount 
Raised  on  a  mount,  with  pyramids  and  towers 
From  diamond  quarries  hewn,  and  rocks  of  gold, 
The  palace  of  great  Lucifer  (so  call         t 
That  structure  in  the  dialect  of  men 
Interpreted,)  which  not  long  after  he, 
Affecting  all  equality  with  God, 
In  imitation  of  that  mount  whereon 
Messiah  was  declared  in  sight  of  heaven 
The  Mountain  of  the  Congregation  called : 
For  thither  he  assembled  all  his  train, 
Pretending  so  commanded,  to  consult 
About  the  great  reception  of  their  King, 
Thither  to  come,  and  with  calumnious  art 
Of  counterfeited  truth  thus  held  their  ears. 

1  c  Thrones,  dominations,  princedoms,  virtues, 

powers, 

If  these  magnific  titles  yet  remain 
Not  merely  titular,  since  by  decree 
Another  now  hath  to  himself  engrossed 
All  power,  and  us  eclipsed,  under  the  name 
Of  King  anointed,  for  whom  all  this  haste 
Of  midnight  march,  and  hurried  meeting  here ; 
This  only  to  consult  how  we  may  best, 
With  what  may  be  devised  of  honours  new, 
Receive  him  coming,  to  receive  from  us 
Knee-tribute  yet  unpaid,  prostration  vile, 
Too  much  to  one,  but  double  how  endured, 
To  one  and  to  his  image  now  proclaimed? 
But  what  if  better  counsels  might  erect 
Our  minds,  and  teach  us  to  cast  off  this  yokel 
Will  ye  submit  your  necks,  and  choose  to  bend 
The  supple  kneel  ye  will  not,  if  I  trust 
To  know  ye  right,  or  if  ye  know  yourselves 
Natives  and  sons  of  Heaven  possessed  before 
By  none,  and  if  not  equal  all,  yet  free, 
Equally  free;  for  orders  and  degrees 
Jar  not  with  liberty,  but  well  consist. 
Who  can  in  reason,  then,  or  right,  assume 
Monarchy  over  such  as  live  by  right 
His  equals,  if  in  power  and  splendour  less, 
In  freedom  equal  1  or  can  introduce 
Law  and  edict  on  us,  who  without  law 
Err  not  1  much  less  for  this  to  be  our  Lord, 
And  look  for  adoration  to  the  abuse 


Of  those  imperial  titles,  which 

Our  being  ordained  to  govern,  not  to  serve.' 

"  Thus  far  his  bold  discourse  without  control 
Had  audience;  when  among  the  seraphim 
Abdiel,  than  whom  none  with  more  zeal  adored 
The  Deity,  and  divine  commands  obeyed, 
Stood  up,  and,  in  aflame  of  zeal  severe, 
The  current  of  his  fury  thus  opposed. 

" c  O  argument  blasphemous,  false,  and  proud*! 
Words  which  no  ear  ever  to  hear  in  Heaven 
Expected,  least  of  all  from  thee,  ingrate, 
In  place  thyself  so  high  above  thy  peers. 
Canst  thou  with  impious  obloquy  condemn 
The  just  decree  of  God,  pronounced  and  sworn, 
That  to  his  only  Son.  by  right  endued 
With  rega!  sceptre,  every  soul  in  Heaven 
Shall  bend  the  knee,  and  in  that  honour  due 
Confess  him  rightful  King  7  unjust,  thou  say'st, 
Flatly  unjust,  to  bind  with  laws  the  free 
And  equal  over  equals  to  let  reign, 
One  over  all  with  unsucceeded  power. 
Shalt  thou  give  law  to  God1?  shalt  thou  dispute 
With  him  the  points  of  liberty,  who  made 
Thee  what  thou  art,  and  formed  the  powers  of 

Heaven 

Such  as  "he  pleased,  and  circumscribed  their  being! 
Yet,  by  experience  taught,  we  know  how  good, 
And  of  our  good  and  of  our  dignity 
How  provident  he  is ;  how  far  from  thought 
To  make  us  less,  bent  rather  to  exalt 
Our  happy  state,  under  one  head  more  near 
United.     But  to  grant  it  thee  unjust, 
That  equal  over  equals  monarch  reign: 
Thy  self,  though  great  and  glorious,  dost  thou  count, 
Or  all  angelic  nature  joined  in  one, 
Equal  to  him,  begotten  Son  7  by  whom, 
As  by  his  word,  the  mighty  Father  made 
All  things,  even  thee :  and  all  the  spirits  of  Heaven 
By  him  created  in  their  bright  degrees, 

rowned  them  with  glory,  and  to  their  glory  named 
Thrones,  dominations,  princedoms,  virtues,  powers, 
Essential  powers;  nor  by  his  reign  obscured, 
But  more  illustrious  made:  since  he,  the  head 
One  of  our  number  thus  reduced  becomes ; 
His  laws  our  laws;  all  honour  to  him  done 
Returns  our  own.    Cease  then  this  impious  rage, 
And  tempt  not  these :  but  hasten  to  appease 
The  incensed  Father,  and  the  incensed  Son, 
While  pardon  may  be  found,  in  time  besought.' 

11  So  spake  the  fervent  angel;  but  his  zeal 
None  seconded,  as  out  of  season  judged, 
Or  singular  and  rash ;  whereat  rejoiced 
The  apostate,  and  more  haughty  thus  replied. 
That  we  were  formed  then,  sayest  thou  7  and  the 

work 

Of  secondary  hands,  by  task  transferred 
From  Father  to  his  Son 7  strange  point  and  new! 
Doctrine  which  we  would  know  whence  learned : 

who  saw 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  vi. 


When  this  creation  was?  rememberest  thou 
Thy  making,  while  the  Maker  gave  thee  being 
We  know  no  time  when  we  were  not  as  now; 
Know  none  before  us,  self-begot,  self-raised 
By  our  own  quickening  power,  when  fatal  course 
Had  circled  his  full  orb,  the  birth  mature 
Of  this  our  native  Heaven,  ethereal  sons. 
Our  puissance  is  our  own;  our  own  right  hand 
Shall  teach  us  highest  deeds,  by  proof  to  try 
Who  is  our  equal :  then  thou  shalt  behold 
Whether  by  supplication  we  intend 
Address,  and  to  begirt  the  almighty  throne 
Beseeching  or  besieging.     This  report, 
These  tidings,  carry  to  the  anointed  King; 
And  fly,  ere  evil  intercept  thy  flight.' 

"  He  said,  and,  as  the  sound  of  waters  deep, 
Hoarse  murmur  echoed  to  his  words  applause 
Through  the  infinite  host;  nor  less  for  that 
The  flaming  seraph,  fearless  though  alone 
Encompassed  round  with  foes,  thus  answered  bold. 

"  '  O  alienate  from  God,  O  spirit  accursed, 
Forsaken  of  all  good !  I  see  thy  fall 
Determined,  and  thy  hapless  crew  involved 
In  this  perfidious  fraud,  contagion  spread 
Both  of  thy  crime  and  punishment:  henceforth 
No  more  be  troubled  how  to  quit  the  yoke 
Of  God's  Messiah;  those  indulgent  laws 
Will  not  be  now  vouchsafed :  other  decrees 
Against  thee  are  gone  forth  without  recall; 
That  golden  sceptre,  which  thou  didst  reject, 
Is  now  an  iron  rod  to  bruise  and  break 
Thy  disobedience.     Well  thou  didst  advise; 
Yet  not  for  thy  advice  or  threats  I  fly 
These  wicked  tents  devoted,  lest  the  wrath 
^Impendent,  raging  into  sudden  flame, 
Distinguish  not :  for  soon  expect  to  feel 
His  thunder  on  thy  head,  devouring  fire. 
Then  who  created  thee  lamenting  learn, 
When  who  can  uncreate  thee  thou  shalt  know.' 

"  So  spake  the  seraph  Abdiel,  faithful  found 
Among  the  faithless,  faithful  only  he; 
Among  the  innumerable  false,  unmoved, 
Unshaken,  unseduced,  unterrified, 
His  loyalty  he  kept,  his  love,  his  zeal; 
Nor  number,  nor  example,  with  him  wrought 
To  swerve  from  truth,  or  change  his  constant  mind 
Though  single.  From  amidst  them  forthhe  passed, 
Long  way  through  hostile  scorn,  which  he  sus- 
tained 

Superior,  nor  of  violence  feared  aught; 
And  with  retorted  scorn  his  back  he  turned 
On  those  proud  towers  to  swift  destruction  doomed." 


BOOK  VI. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

Raphael  continues  to  relate  how  Michael  and  Gabriel  were 
eent  forth  to  battle  against  Satan  and  hia  angels.    The  first 


fight  described :  Satan  and  his  powers  retire  under  night :  he 
calls  a  council,  invents  devilish  engines,  which,  in  the  second 
day's  fight,  put  Michael  and  his  angels  to  some  disorder ;  but 
they  at  length,  pulling  up  mountains,  overwhelmed  both  the 
force  and  machines  of  Satan :  yet,  the  tumult  not  so  ending, 
God  on  the  third  day,  sends  Messiah  his  son,  for  whom  he 
had  reserved  the  glory  of  that  victory :  he,  in  the  power  of  his 
Father,  coming  to  the  place,  and  causing  all  his  legions  to 
stand  still  on  either  side,  with  his  chariot  and  thunder  driving 
into  the  midst  of  his  enemies,  pursues  them,  unable  to  resist, 
towards  the  wall  of  Heaven;  which  opening,  they  leap  down 
with  horror  and  confusion  into  the  place  of  punishment  pre- 
pared for  them  in  the  deep :  Messiah  returns  with  triumph  to 
his  Father. 


"  ALL  night  the  dreadless  angel,  unpursued, 
Through  Heaven's  wide  champaign  held  his  way; 

till  morn, 

Waked  by  the  circling  hours,  with  rosy  hand 
Unbarred  the  gates  of  light.  There  is  a  cave 
Within  the  mount  of  God,  fast  by  his  throne, 
Where  light  and  darkness  in  perpetual  round 
Lodge  and  dislodge  by  turns,  which  makes  through 

Heaven 

Grateful  vicissitudes,  like  day  and  night: 
Light  issues  forth,  and  at  the  other  door 
Obsequious  darkness  enters,  till  her  hour 
To  veil  the  Heaven,  though  darkness  there  might 

well 

Seem  twilight  here :  and  now  went  forth  the  morn, 
Such  as  in  highest  Heaven,  arrayed  in  gold 
Empyreal ;  from  before  her  vanished  night, 
Shot  through  with  orient  beams ;  when  all  the 

plain, 

Covered  with  thick  embattled  squadrons  bright, 
Chariots,  and  flaming  arms,  and  fiery  steeds, 
Reflecting  blaze  on  blaze,  first  met  his  view : 
War  he  perceived,  war  in  procinct,  and  found 
Already  known,  what  he  for  news  had  though 
To  have  reported :  gladly  then  he  mixed 
Among  those  friendly  powers,  who  him  received 
With  joy  and  acclamations  loud,  that  one, 
That  of  so  many  myriads  fallen,  yet  one 
Returned  not  lost :  on  to  the  sacred  hill 
They  led  him  high  applauded,  and  present 
Before  the  seat  supreme ;  from  whence  a  voice 
From  midst  a  golden  cloud  thus  mild  was  heard. 
" '  Servant  of  God,  well  done ;  well  hast  thou 

fought 

The  better  fight,  who  single  hast  maintained 
Against  revolted  multitudes  the  cause 
Of  truth,  in  word  mightier  than  they  in  arms ; 
And  for  the  testimony  of  truth  hast  borne 
Universal  reproach,  far  worse  to  bear 
Than  violence ;  for  this  was  all  thy  care 
To  stand  approved  in  sight  of  God,  though  worlds 
Judged  thee  perverse :  the  easier  conquest  now 
Remains  thee,  aided  by  this  host  of  friends, 
Back  on  thy  foes  more  glorious  to  return 
Than  scorned  thou  didst  depart,  and  to  subdue 
By  force,  who  reason  for  their  law  refuse, 


BOOK  vi. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


43 


Right  reason  for  their  law,  and  for  their  king 

-iah.  who  by  right  of  merit  reigns. 
Go,  Michael,  of  celestial  armies  prince, 
And  thou.  in  military  prowess  next, 
Gabriel,  lead  forth  to  battle  these  my  sons 
Invincible ;  lead  forth  my  armed  saints, 
By  thousands  and  by  millions,  ranged  for  fight, 
Equal  in  number  to  that  godless  crew 
Rebellious;  them  with  fire  and  hostile  arms 
Fearless  assault ;  and,  to  the  brow  of  Heaven 
Pursuing,  drive  them  out  from  God  and  bliss 
Into  their  place  of  punishment,  the  gulf 
Of  Tartarus,  which  ready  opens  wide 
His  fiery  Chaos  to  receive  their  fall.' 

"  So  spake  the  sovereign  voice,  and  clouds  began 
To  darken  all  the  hill,  and  smoke  to  roll 
In  dusky  wreaths,  reluctant  flames,  the  sign 
Of  wrath  awaked ;  nor  with  less  dread  the  loud 
Ethereal  trumpet  from  on  high  'gan  blow  : 
At  which  command  the  powers  militant, 
That  stood  for  Heaven,  in  mighty  quadrate  joined 
Of  union  irresistible,  moved  on 
In  silence  their  bright  legions,  to  the  sound 
Of  instrumental  harmony,  that  breathed 
Heroic  ardour  to  adventurous  deeds 
Under  their  godlike  leaders,  in  the  cause 
Of  God  and  his  Messiah.     On  they  move, 
Indissolubly  firm,  nor  obvious  hill, 
Xor  straitening  vale,  nor  wood,  nor  stream  divides 
Their  perfect  ranks ;  for  high  above  the  ground 
Their  march  was,  and  the  passive  air  upbore 
Their  nimble  tread ;  as  when  the  total  kind 
Of  birds,  in  orderly  array  on  wing, 
Came,  summoned  over  Eden,  to  receive 
Their  names  of  thee ;  so  over  many  a  tract 
Of  Heaven  they  marched,  and  many  a  province 

wide 

Tenfold  the  length  of  this  terrene :  at  last, 
Far  in  th'  horizon  to  the  north  appeared 
From  skirt  to  skirt  a  fiery  region,  stretch 
In  battailous  aspect,  and  nearer  view 
Bristled  with  upright  beams  innumerable 
Of  rigid  spears,  and  helmets  thronged,  and  shields 
Various,  with  boastful  argument  portrayed, 
The  banded  powers  of  Satan,  hasting  on 
With  furious  exhibition ;  for  they  weened 
That  self-same  day,  by  fight  or  by  surprise 
To  win  the  mount  of  God,  and  on  his  throne 
To  set  the  envier  of  his  state,  the  proud 
Aspirer :  but  their  thoughts  proved  fond  and  vain 
In  the  midway:  though  strange  to  us  it  seemed 
At  first,  that  angel  should  with  angel  war, 
And  in  fierce  hosting  meet,  who  wont  to  meet 
So  oft  in  festivals  of  joy  and  love 
Unanimous,  as  sons  of  one  great  Sire, 
Hymning  the  eternal  Father :  bit  the  shout 
Of  battle  now  began,  and  rushing  sound 
Of  onset  ended  soon  each  milder  thought. 
High  in  the  midst,  exalted  as  a  God, 


The  apostate  in  his  sunbright  chariot  sat, 

Idol  of  majesty  divine,  enclosed 

With  flaming  cherubim  and  golden  shields ; 

Then  lighted  from  his  gorgeous  throne,  for  now 

'Twixt  host  and  host  but  narrow  space  was  lefl 

A  dreadful  interval,  and  front  to  front 

Presented  stood  in  terrible  array 

Of  hideous  length :  before  the  cloudy  van, 

On  the  rough  edge  of  battle  ere  it  joined, 

Satan,  with  vast  and  haughty  strides  advanced 

ame  towering,  armed  in  adamant  and  gold; 
Abdiel  that  sight  endured  not,  where  he  stood 
Among  the  mightiest,  bent  on  highest  deeds, 
And  thus  his  own  undaunted  heart  explores. 

" '  O  Heaven,  that  such  resemblance  of  the 

Highest 

Should  yet  remain,  where  faith  and 
Elemain  not:  wherefore  should  not  strength  and 

might 

There  fail  where  virtue  fails,  or  weakest  prove 
Where  boldest,  though  to  sight  unconquerable  1 
Bis  puissance,  trusting  in  th'  Almighty's  aid, 
[  mean  to  try,  whose  reason  I  have  tried.; 
Unsound  and  false ;  nor  is  it  aught  but  just, 
That  he,  who  in  debate  of  truth  hath  won, 
Should  win  in  arms,  in  both  disputes  alike 
Victor ;  though  brutish  that  contest  and  foul, 
When  reason  hath  to  deal  with  force,  yet  so 
Most  reason  is  that  reason  overcome.' 

"  So  pondering,  and  from  his  armed  peers 
Forth  stepping  opposite,  half-way  he  met 
His  daring  foe,  at  this  prevention  more 
Incensed,  and  thus  securely  him  defied. 

" '  Proud,  art  thou  met?  thy  hope  was  to  have 

reached 

The  height  of  thy  aspiring  unopposed, 
The  throne  of  God  unguarded,  and  his  side 
Abandoned,  at  the  terror  of  thy  power 
Or  potent  tongue:  fool !  not  to  think  how  vain 
Against  the  Omnipotent  to  rise  in  arms; 
Who  out  of  smallest  things  could,  without  end, 
3ave  raised  incessant  armies  to  defeat 
Thy  folly;  or  with  solitary  hand 
leaching  beyond  all  limit,  at  one  blow, 
Jnaided,  could  have  finished  thee,  and  whelmed 
Thy  legions  under  darkness:  but  thou  seest 
All  are  not  of  thy  train;  there  be  who  faith 
Prefer,  and  piety  to  God,  though  then 
To  thee  not  visible,  when  I  alone 
Seemed  in  thy  world  erroneous  to  dissent 
rom  all:  my  sect  thou  seest;  now  learn  too  late, 
low  few  sometimes  may  know,  when  thousands 
err.' 

"Whom  the  grand  foe,  with  scornful  eye  askance, 
Thus  answered.  '  I'll  for  thee,  but  in  wished  hour, 
)f  my  revenge,  first  sought  for,  thou  returnest 
•'rom  flight,  seditious  angel !  to  receive 
Thy  merited  reward,  the  first  assay 
Of  this  right  hand  provoked,  since  first  that  tongue 


44 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  vi. 


Inspired  with  contradiction,  durst  oppose 
A  third  part  of  the  Gods,  in  synod  met 
Their  deities  to  assert,  who,  while  they  feel 
Vigour  divine  within  them,  can  allow 
Omnipotence  to  none.    But  well  thou  comest 
Before  thy  fellows,  ambitious  to  win 
From  me  some  plume,  that  thy  success  may  show 
Destruction  to  the. rest:  this  pause  bett/een 
(Unanswered  lest  thou  boast)  to  let  thee  know; 
At  first  I  thought  that  liberty  and  Heaven 
To  heavenly  souls  had  been  all  one ;  but  now 
I  see  that  most  through  sloth  had  rather  serve, 
Ministering  spirits,  trained  up  in  feast  and  song! 
Such  hast  thou  armed,  the  minstrelsy  of  Heaven, 
Servility  with  freedom  to  contend, 
As  both  their  deeds  compared  this  day  shall  prove.' 

"  To  whom  in  brief  thus  Abdiel  stern  repUed, 
'  Apostate !  still  thou  err'st,  nor  end  wilt  find 
Of  erring,  from  the  path  of  truth  remote: 
Unjustly  thou  depravest  it  with  the  name 
Of  servitude,  to  serve  whom  God  ordains, 
Or  nature :  God  and  nature  bid  the  same, 
When  he  who  rules  is  worthiest,  and  excels 
Them  whom  he  governs.     This  is  servitude, 
To  serve  the  unwise,  or  him  who  hath  rebelled 
Against  his  worthier,  as  thine  now  serve  thee, 
Thyself  not  free,  but  to  thyself  inthralled; 
Yet  lewdly  darest  our  ministering  upbraid. 
Reign  thou  in  hell  thy  kingdom ;  let  me  serve 
In  Heaven  God  ever  blest,  and  his  divine 
Behests  obey,  worthiest  to  be  obeyed; 
Yet  chains  in  hell,  not  realms  expect ;  meanwhile 
From  me  returned,  as  erst  thou  saidst,  from  flight, 
This  greeting  on  thy  impious  crest  receive.' 

"  So  saying,  a  noble  stroke  he  lifted  high, 
Which  hung  not,  but  so  swift  with  tempest  fell 
On  the  proud  crest  of  Satan,  that  no  sight, 
Nor  motion  of  swift  thought,  less  could  his  shield, 
Such  ruin  intercept:  ten  paces  huge 
He  back  recoiled;  the  tenth  on  bended  knee 
His  massy  spear  upstayed;  as  if  on  earth 
Winds  under  ground,  or  waters  forcing  way, 
Sidelong  had  pushed  a  mountain  from  his  seat, 
Half  sunk  with  all  his  pines.    Amazement  seized 
The  rebel  thrones,  but  greater  rage,  to  see 
Thus  foiled  their  mightiest;  ours  joy  filled,  and 

shout, 

Presage  of  victory,  and  fierce  desire 
Of  battle:  whereat  Michael  bid  sound 
Th'  archangel  trumpet;  through  the  vast  of  heaven 
It  sounded,  and  the  faithful  armies  rung 
Hosanna  to  the  Highest:  nor  stood  at  gaze 
The  adverse  legions,  nor  less  hideous  joined 
The  horrid  shock.    Now  storming  fury  rose, 
And  clamour  such  as  heard  in  Heaven  till  now 
Was  never;  arms  on  armour,  clashing  brayed 
Horrible  discord,  and  the  madding  wheels 
Of  brazen  chariots  raged;  dire  was  the  noise 
Of  conflict;  over  head  the  dismal  hiss 


Of  fiery  darts  in  flaming  volleys  flew, 
And,  flying,  vaulted  either  host  with  fire. 
So  under  fiery  cope  together  rushed 
Both  battles  main,  with  ruinous  assault 
And  inextinguishable  rage ;  all  Heaven 
Resounded,  and,  had  earth  been  then,  all  earth 
Had  to  her  centre  shook.  What  wonder,  when 
Millions  of  fierce  encountering  angels  fought 
On  either  side,  the  least  of  whom  could  wield 
These  elements,  and  arm  him  with  the  force 
Of  all  their  regions:  how  much  more  of  power 
Army  against  army  numberless  to  raise 
Dreadful  combustion  warring,  and  disturb, 
Though  not  destroy,  their  happy  native  seat ; 
Had  not  the  Eternal  King  omnipotent, 
From  his  strong  hold  of  Heaven,  high  overruled 
And  limited  their  might;  though  numbered  such 
As  each  divided  legion  might  have  seemed 
A  numerous  host ;  in  strength  each  armed  hand 
A  legion;  led  in  fight,  yet  leader  seemed 
Each  warrior  single  as  in  chief,  expert 
When  to  advance,  or  stand,  or  turn  the  sway 
Of  battle,  open  when,  and  when  to  close 
The  ridges  of  grim  war :  no  thought  of  flight, 
None  of  retreat,  no  unbecoming  deed 
That  argued  fear ;  each  on  himself  relied, 
As  only  in  his  arm  the  moment  lay 
Of  victory  :  deeds  of  eternal  fame 
Were  done,  but  infinite ;  for  wide  was  spread 
That  war  and  various ;  sometimes  on  firm  ground 
A  standing  fight,  then,  soaring  on  main  wing, 
Tormented  all  the  air ;  all  air  seemed  then 
Conflicting  fire.    Long  time  in  even  scale 
The  battle  hung ;  till  Satan,  who  that  day 
Prodigious  power  had  shown,  and  met  in  arms 
No  equal,  ranging  through  the  dire  attack 
Of  fighting  seraphim  confused,  at  length 
Saw  where  the  sword  of  Michael  smote,  and  felled 
Squadrons  at  once ;  with  huge  two-handed  sway 
Brandished  aloft,  the  horrid  edge  came  down 
Wide  wasting ;  such  destruction  to  withstand 
He  hasted,  and  opposed  the  rocky  orb 
Of  tenfold  adamant,  his  ample  shield, 
A  vast  circumference.    At  his  approach 
The  great  archangel  from  his  warlike  toil 
Surceased,  and  glad,  as  hoping  here  to  end 
Intestine  war  in  Heaven,  the  arch  foe  subdued, 
Or  captive  dragged  in  chains,  with  hostile  frown, 
And  visage  all  inflamed,  first  thus  began. 

"  '  Author  of  evil,  unknown  till  thy  revolt, 
Unnamed  in  Heaven,  now  plenteous  as  thou  seest 
These  acts  of  hateful  strife,  hateful  to  all, 
Though  heaviest  by  just  measure  on  thyself 
And  thy  adherents :  how  hast  thou  disturbed 
Heaven's  blessed  peace,  and  into  nature  brought 
Misery,  uncreated  till  the  crime 
Of  thy  rebellion !  how  hast  thou  instilled 
Thy  malice  into  thousands,  once  upright 
And  faithful,  now  proved  false !  But  think  not  here 


BOOK  vi. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


45 


To  trouble  holy  rest ;  Heaven  casts  thec  out 
From  all  her  confines :  Heaven,  the  seat  of  bliss, 
Brooks  not  the  works  of  violence  and  war. 

then,  and  «>%il  uo  with  thce  along, 
Thy  olYspriiiff.  tothr  jiruvot'  evil  hell; 
Thou  and  thy  wicked  crew !  there  mingle  broils, 
Ere  this  avenging  sword  begin  thy  doom, 
Or  some  more  sin  Mi-n  vengeance,  winged  from  God, 
Precipitate  thee  with  augmented  pain !' 

"  So  spake  the  prince  of  angels ;  to  whom  thus 
The  adversary.     '  Nor  think  thou  with  wind 
Of  airy  threats  to  awe  whom  yet  with  deeds 
Thou  canst  not.  Hast  thou  turned  the  least  of  these 
To  flight,  or  if  to  fall,  but  that  they  rise 
Unvanquishcd,  easier  to  transact  with  me 
That  thou  shouldst   hope,  imperious,  and  with 

threats 

To  chase  me  hence  1  err  not,  that  so  shall  end 
The  strife  which  thou  callest  evil,  but  we  style 
The  strife  of  glory ;  which  we  mean  to  win, 
Or  turn  this  Heaven  itself  into  the  hell 
Thou  fablest ;  here  however  to  dwell  free, 
If  not  to  reign :  meanwhile  thy  utmost  force, 
And  join  him  named  Almighty  to  thy  aid, 
I  fly  not,  but  have  sought  thee  far  and  nigh.' 

"  They  ended  parle,  and  both  addressed  for  fight 
Unspeakable ;  for  who,  though  with  the  tongue 
Of  angels,  can  relate,  or  to  what  things 
Liken  on  earth  conspicuous,  that  may  lift 
Human  imagination  to  such  height 
Of  godlike  power  1  for  likest  gods  they  seemed, 
Stood  they  or  moved,  in  stature,  motion,  arms, 
Fit  to  decide  the  empire  of  great  Heaven. 
Now  waved  their  fiery  swords,  and  in  the  air 
Made  horrid  circles ;  two  broad  suns  their  shields 
Blazed  opposite,  while  expectation  stood 
In  horror ;  from  each  hand  with  speed  retired, 
Where  erst  was  thickest  fight,  the  angelic  throng, 
And  left  large  field,  unsafe  within  the  wind 
Of  such  commotion ;  such  as,  to  set  forth 
Great  things  by  small,  if,  nature's  concord  broke, 
Among  the  constellations  war  were  sprung, 
Two  planets,  rushing  from  aspect  malign 
Of  fiercest  opposition,  in  mid  sky 
Should  combat,  and  their  jarring  spheres  confound. 
Together  both  with  next  to  Almighty  arm 
Uplifted  imminent,  one  stroke  they  aimed 
That  might  determine,  and  not  need  repeat, 
As  not  of  power  at  once ;  nor  odds  appeared 
In  might  or  swift  prevention ;  but  the  sword 
Of  Michael,  from  the  armoury  of  God, 
Was  given  him  tempered  so,  that  neither  keen 
Nor  solid  might  resist  that  edge :  it  met 
The  sword  of  Satan,  with  steep  force  to  smite 
Descending,  and  in  half  cut  sheer ;  nor  stayed, 
But  with  swift  wheel  reverse,  deep  entering,  shared 
All  his  right  side :  then  Satan  first  knew  pain, 
And  writhed  him  to  and  fro  convolved ;  so  sore 
The  griding  sword  with  discontinuous  wound 


Passed  through  him :  but  the  ethereal  substance 

closed, 

Not  long  divisible ;  and  from  the  gash 
A  stream  of  nectarous  humour  issuing  flowed 
Sanguine,  such  as  celestial  spirits  may  bleed, 
And  all  his  armour  stained,  erewhile  so  bright. 
Forthwith  on  all  sides  to  his  aid  was  run 
By  angels  many  and  strong,  who  interposed 
Defence,  while  others  bore  him  on  their  shields 
Back  to  his  chariot,  where  it  stood  retired 
From  off  the  files  of  war  ;  there  they  him  laid 
Gnashing  for  anguish,  and  despite  and  shame, 
To  find  himself  not  matchless,  and  his  pride 
Humbled  by  such  rebuke,  so  far  beneath 
His  confidence  to  equal  God  in  power. 
Yet  soon  he  healed ;  for  spirits  that  live  throughout 
Vital  in  every  part,  not  as  frail  man 
In  entrails,  heart  or  head,  liver  or  reins, 
Can  not  but  by  annihilating  die ; 
Nor  in  their  liquid  texture  mortal  wound 
Receive,  no  more  than  can  the  fluid  air : 
All  heart  they  live,  all  head,  all  eye,  all  ear, 
All  intellect,  all  sense ;  and  as  they  please, 
They  limb  themselves,  and  colour,  shape,  or  size 
Assume  as  likes  them  best,  condense  or  rare. 

"  Meanwhile  in  other  parts  like  deeds  deserved 
Memorial,  where  the  might  of  Gabriel  fought, 
And  with  fierce  ensigns  pierced  the  deep  array 
Of  Moloch,  furious  king;  who  him  defied, 
And  at  his  chariot  wheels  to  drag  him  bound 
Threatened,  nor  from  the  Holy  One  of  Heaven 
Refrained  his  tongue  blasphemous ;  but  anon, 
Down  cloven  to  the  waist,  with  shattered  arms 
And  uncouth  pain  fled  bellowing.    On  each  wing 
Uriel,  and  Raphael,  his  vaunting  foe, 
Though  huge,  and  in  a  rock  of  diamond  armed 
Vanquished  Adramelech  and  Asmadai, 
Two  potent  thrones,  that  to  be  less  than  Gods 
Disdained,  but  meaner  thoughts  learned  in  their 

flight, 
Mangled  with  ghastly  wounds  through  plate  and 

mail. 

Nor  stood  unmindful  Abdiel  to  annoy 
The  atheist  crew,  but  with  redoubled  blow 
Ariel,  and  Arioch,  and  the  violence 
Of  Ramiel,  scotched  and  blasted,  overthrew. 
I  might  relate  of  thousands,  and  their  names 
Eternize  here  on  earth ;  but  those  elect 
Angels,  contented  with  their  fame  in  Heaven, 
Seek  not  the  praise  of  men ;  the  other  sort, 
In  might  though  wondrous,  and  in  acts  of  war, 
Nor  of  renown  less  eager,  yet  by  doom 
Cancelled  from  Heaven  and  sacred  memory 
Nameless  in  dark  oblivion  let  them  dwell. 
For  strength,  from  truth  divided  and  from  just, 
Illaudable,  naught  merits  but  dispraise 
And  ignominy,  yet  to  glory  aspires 
Vain  glorious,  and  through  infamy  seeks  fame : 
Therefore  eternal  silence  be  their  doom. 


46 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  vr. 


"  And  now,  their  mightiest  quelled,  the  battle 

swerved, 

With  many  an  inroad  gored;  deformed  rout 
Entered,  and  foul  disorder;  all  the  ground 
With  shivered  armour  strown,  and  on  a  heap 
Chariot  and  charioteer  lay  overturned, 
And  fiery  foaming  steeds;  what  stood  recoiled 
O'er  wearied,  through  the  faint  satanic  host 
Defensive  scarce,  or  with  pale  fear  surprised, 
Then  first  with  fear  surprised  and  sense  of  pain, . 
Fled  ignominious,  to  such  evil  brought 
By  sin  of  disobedience ;  till  that  hour 
Not  liable  to  fear,  or  flight,  or  pain. 
Far  otherwise  the  inviolable  saints, 
In  cubic  phalanx  firm,  advanced  entire, 
Invulnerable,  impenetrably  armed; 
Such  high  advantages  their  innocence 
Gave  them  above  their  foes,  not  to  have  sinned, 
Not  to  have  disobeyed;  in  fight  they  stood 
Unwearied,  unobnoxious  to  be  pained 
By  wound,  though  from  their  place  by  violence 

moved. 

"  Now  night  her  course  began,  and  over  Heaven 
Inducing  darkness,  grateful  truce  imposed, 
And  silence  on  the  odious  din  of  war: 
Under  her  cloudy  covert  both  retired, 
Victor  and  vanquished:  on  the  foughten  field 
Michael  and  his  angels  prevalent 
Encamping,  placed  in  guard  their  watches  round, 
Cherubic  waving  fires:  on  the  other  part, 
Satan  with  his  rebellious  disappeared, 
Far  in  the  dark  dislodged ;  and,  void  of  rest, 
His  potentates  to  council  called  by  night; 
And  in  the  midst  thus  undismayed  began. 

" '  O  now  in  danger  tried,  now  known  in  arms 
Not  to  be  overpowered,  companions  dear, 
Found  worthy  not  of  liberty  alone, 
Too  mean  pretence !  but,  what  we  more  affect, 
Honour,  dominion,  glory,  and  renown; 
Who  have  sustained  one  day  in  doubtful  fight 
(And  if  one  day,  why  not  eternal  days?) 
What  Heaven's  Lord  had  power  fullest  to  send 
Against  us  from  about  his  throne,  and  judged 
Sufficient  to  subdue  us  to  his  will, 
But  proves  not  so:  then  fallible,  it  seems, 
Of  future  we  may  deem  him,  though  till  now 
Omniscient  thought.     True  is,  less  firmly  armed, 
Some  disadvantage  we  endured  and  pain, 
Till  now  not  known,  but,  known,  as  soon  con- 
temned ; 

Since  now  we  find  this  our  empyreal  form 
Incapable  of  mortal  injury, 
Imperishable,  and  though  pierced  with  wound, 
Soon  closing,  and  by  native  vigour  healed. 
Of  evil  then  so  small,  as  easy  think 
The  remedy;  perhaps  more  valid  arms, 
Weapons  more  violent,  when  next  we  meet, 
May  serve  to  better  us,  and  worse  our  foes, 
Or  equal  what  between  us  made  the  odds, 


In  nature  none;  if  other  hidden  cause 
Left  them  superior,  while  we  can  preserve 
Unhurt  our  minds  and  understanding  sound, 
Due  search  and  consultation  will  disclose.' 

"  He  sat;  and  in  the  assembly  next  upstood 
Nisroch,  of  principalities  the  prime : 
As  one  he  stood  escaped  from  cruel  fight, 
Sore  toiled,  his  riven  arms  to  havoc  hewn, 
And  cloudy  in  aspect  thus  answering  spake. 
'  Deliverer  from  new  lords,  leader  to  free 
Enjoyment  of  our  rights  as  gods ;  yet  hard 
For  gods,  and  too  unequal  work  we  find, 
Against  unequal  arms  to  fight  in  pain, 
Against  unpained,  impassive;  from  which  evil 
Ruin  must  needs  ensue;  for  what  avails 
Valour  or  strength,  though  matchless,  quelled  with 

pain 

Which  all  subdues,  and  makes  remiss  the  hands 
Of  mightiest  1  Sense  of  pleasure  we  may  well 
Spare  out  of  life  perhaps,  and  not  repine, 
But  live  content,  which  is  the  calmest  life: 
But  pain  is  perfect  misery,  the  worst 
Of  evils,  and  excessive,  overturns 
All  patience.    He  who  therefore  can  invent 
With  what  more  forcible  we  may  offend 
Our  yet  un wounded  enemies,  or  arm 
Ourselves  with  like  defence,  to  me  deserves 
No  less  than  for  deliverance  what  we  owe.5 

"Whereto  with  look  composed  Satan  replied. 
'  Not  uninverited  that,  which  thou  aright 
Believest  so  main  to  our  success,  I  bring. 
Which  of  us  who  beholds  the  bright  surface 
Of  this  ethereous  mould  whereon  we  stand, 
This  continent  of  spacious  Heaven,  adorned 
With  plant,  fruit,  flower,  ambrosial,  gems,  and 

gold; 

Whose  eye  so  superficially  surveys 
These  things  as  not  to  mind  from  whence  they  grow 
Deep  underground,  materials  dark  and  crude, 
Of  spirituous  and  fiery  spume,  till,  touched 
With  Heaven's  ray,  and  tempered,  they  shoot  forth 
So  beauteous,  opening  to  the  ambient  light  7 
These  in  their  dark  nativity  the  deep 
Shall  yield  us,  pregnant  with  infernal  flame; 
Which  into  hollow  engines  long  and  round 
Thick  rammed,  at  th'  other  bore  with  touch  of  fire 
Dilated  and  infuriate,  shall  send  forth 
From  far,  with  thundering  noise,  among  our  foes 
Such  implements  of  mischief,  as  shall  dash 
To  pieces,  and  o'erwhelm  whatever  stands 
Adverse,  that  they  shall  fear  we  have  disarmed 
The  Thunderer  of  his  only  dreaded  bolt. 
Nor  long  shall  be  our  labour ;  yet  ere  dawn, 
Effect  shall  end  our  wish.    Meanwhile  revive ; 
Abandon  fear;  to  strength  and  council  joined 
Think  nothing  hard,  much  less  to  be  despaired.' 

'  He  ended,  and  his  words  their  drooping  cheer 
Enlightened,  and  their  languished  hope  revived. 
Th'  invention  all  admired,  and  each,  how  he 


BOOK  vi. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


47 


To  be  the  inventor  missed;  so  easy  it  seemed 
Once  found,  which,  yet  unfound,  most  would  hav 

thought 

Impossible :  yet,  haply,  of  thy  race 
In  future  days,  if  malice  should  abound, 
Some  one,  intent  on  mischief,  or  inspired 
With  devilish  machination,  might  devise 
Like  instrument  to  plague  the  sons  of  men 
For  sin,  on  war  and  mutual  slaughter  bent. 
Forthwith  from  council  to  the  work  they  flew; 
None  arguing  stood :  innumerable  hands 
Were  ready ;  in  a  moment  up  they  turned 
Wide  the  celestial  soil,  and  saw  beneath 
The  originals  of  nature  in  their  crude 
Conception  ;  sulphurous  and  nitrous  foam 
They  found,  they  mingled,  and  with  subtle  art, 
Concocted  and  adjusted,  they  reduced 
To  blackest  grain,  and  into  store  conveyed : 
Part  hidden  veins  digged  up  (nor  hath  this  earth 
Entrails  unlike)  of  mineral  and  stone, 
Whereof  to  found  their  engines  and  their  balls 
Of  missive  ruin  ;  part  incentive  reed 
Provide,  pernicious  with  one  touch  to  fire. 
So  all,  ere  dayspring,  under  conscious  night, 
Secret  they  finished,  and  in  order  set, 
With  silent  circumspection,  unespied. 
"  Now  when  fair  morn  orient  in  Heaven  ap- 
peared, 

Up  rose  the  victor  angels,  and  to  arms 
The  matin  trumpet  sung :  in  arms  they  stood 
Of  golden  panoply,  refulgent  host, 
Soon  banded ;  others  from  the  dawning  hills 
Look  round,  and  scouts  each  coast  light  armed 

scour, 

Each  quarter  to  descry  the  distant  foe, 
Where  lodged,  or  whether  fled,  or  if  for  fight, 
In  motion  or  in  halt:  him  soon  they  met 
Under  spread  ensigns  moving  nigh,  in  slow 
But  firm  battalion  ;  back  with  speediest  sail 
Zophiel,  of  cherubim  the  swiftest  wing, 
Came  flying,  and  in  mid  air  aloud  thus  cried. 

"  Arm,  warriors,  arm  for  fight ;  the  foe  at  hand, 
Whom  fled  we  thought,  will  save  us  long  pursuit 
This  day;  fear  not  his  flight;  so  thick  a  cloud 
He  comes,  and  settled  in  his  face  I  see 
Sad  resolution  and  secure :  let  each 
His  adamantine  coat  gird  wejl,  and  each 
Fit  well  his  helm,  gripe  fast  his  orbed  shield, 
Borne  ev'n  or  high;  for  this  day  will  pour  down, 
If  I  conjecture  aught,  no  drizzling  shower, 
But  rattling  storm  of  arrows  barbed  with  fire.' 
"  So  warned  he  them,  aware  themselves,  and 

soon 

In  order  quit  of  all  impediment ; 
Instant  without  disturb  they  took  alarm, 
And  onward  moved  embattled ;  when,  behold ! 
Not  distant  far,  with  heavy  pace  the  foe 
Approaching,  gross  and  huge,  in  hollow  cub 
Training  his  devilish  enginery,  impaled 


On  every  side  with  shadowing  squadrons  deep, 
To  hide  the  fraud.     At  interview  both  stood 
A  while ;  but  suddenly  at  head  appeared 
Satan,  and  thus  was  heard  commanding  loud. 

"  '  Vanguard,  to  right  and- left  the  front  unfold. 
That  all  may  see  who  hate  us,  how  we  seek 
Peace  and  composure,  and  with  open  breast 
Stand  ready  to  receive  them,  if  they  like 
Our  overture,  and  turn  not  back  perverse : 
But  that  I  doubt;  however,  witness  Heaven! 
Heaven,  witness  thou  anon !  while  we  discharge 
Freely  our  part :  ye  who  appointed  stand, 
Do  as  you  have  in  charge,  and  briefly  touch 
What  we  propound,  and  loud  that  all  may  hear!' 

"  So  scoffing  in  ambiguous  words,  he  scarce 
Had  ended,  when  to  right  and  left  the  front 
Divided,  and  to  either  flank  retired ; 
Which  to  our  eyes  discovered,  new  and  strange, 
A  triple  mounted  row  of  pillars  laid 
On  wheels  (for  like  to  pillars  most  they  seemed, 
Or  hollowed  bodies  made  of  oak  or  fir, 
With  branches  lopt,  in  wood  or  mountain  felled,) 
Brass,  iron,  stony  mould,  had  not  their  mouths 
With  hideous  orifice  gaped  on  us  wide, 
Portending  hollow  truce :  at  each  behind 
A  seraph  stood,  and  in  his  hand  a  reed 
Stood  waving  tipt  with  fire ;  while  we,  suspense, 

ollected  stood  within  our  thoughts  amused, 
Not  long ;  for  sudden  all  at  once  their  reeds 
Put  forth,  and  to  a  narrow  vent  applied 
With  nicest  touch.     Immediate  in  a  flame, 
But  soon  obscured  with  smoke,  all  Heaven  ap- 
peared, 
Prom  those  deep-throated  engines  belched,  whose 

roar 

Embowelled  with  outrageous  noise  the  air, 
And  all  her  entrails  tore,  disgorging  foul 
Their  devilish  glut,  chained  thunderbolts  and  hail 
Of  iron  globes ;  which  on  the  victor  host 
levelled,  with  such  impetuous  fury  smote, 

That  whom  they  hit,  none  on  their  feet  might 

stand, 
Though  standing  else  as  rocks,  but  down  they 

fell 

?y  thousands,  angel  on  archangel  rolled ; 
The  sooner  for  their  arms ;  unarmed,  they  might 
lave  easily,  as  spirits,  evaded  swift 
Jy  quick  contraction  or  remove ;  but  now 
?oul  dissipation  followed,  and  forced  rout; 
"for  served  it  to  relax  their  serried  files. 

What  should  they  do!  if  on  they  rushed,  repulse 
lepeated,  and  indecent  overthrow 
)oubled,  would  render  them  yet  more  despised, 

And  to  their  foes  a  laughter ;  for  in  view 
tood  ranked  of  seraphim  another  row, 
n  posture  to  displode  their  second  tier 

Of  thunder:  back  defeated  to  return 
nhey  worse  abhorred.    Satan  beheld  their  plight, 

And  to  his  mates  thus  in  derision  called. 


48 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  vi. 


" '  O  friends !  why  come  not  on  these  victors 

proud'? 

Erewhile  they  fierce  were  coming ;  and  when  we 
To  entertain  them  fair  with  open  front 
And  breast  (what  could  we  more?)  propounded 

terms 

Of  composition,  straight  they  changed  their  minds, 
Flew  off,  and  into  strange  vagaries  fell, 
As  they  would  dance ;  yet  for  a  dance  they  seemed 
Somewhat  extravagant  and  wild,  perhaps 
For  joy  of  offered  peace:  but  I  suppose, 
If  our  proposals  once  again  were  heard, 
We  should  compel  them  to  a  quick  result.' 

"  To  whom  thus  Belial,  in  like  gamesome  mood. 
'  Leader!  the  terms  we  sent  were  terms  of  weight, 
Of  hard  contents,  and  full  of  force  urged  home, 
Such  as  we  might  perceive  amused  them  all, 
And  stumbled  many:  who  receives  them  right 
Had  need  from  head  to  foot  well  understand; 
Not  understood,  this  gift  they  have  besides, 
They  show  us  when  our  foes  walk  not  upright.' 

"  So  they  among  themselves  in  pleasant  vein 
Stood  scoffing,  heightened  in  their  thoughts  beyond 
All  doubt  of  victory:  eternal  might 
To  match  with  their  inventions  they  presumed 
So  easy,  and  of  his  thunder  made  a  scorn, 
And  all  his  host  derided,  while  they  stood 
A  while  in  trouble :  but  they  stood  not  long; 
Rage  prompted  them  at  length,  and  found  them 

arms 

Against  such  hellish  mischief  fit  to  oppose. 
Forthwith  (behold  the  excellence,  the  power, 
WTiich  God  hath  in  his  mighty  angels  placed !) 
Their  arms  away  they  threw,  and  to  the  hills 
(For  earth  hath  this  variety  from  Heaven 
Of  pleasure  situate  in  hill  and  dale,) 
Light  as  the  lightning  glimpse  they  ran,  they  flew; 
From  their  foundations  loosening  to  and  fro, 
They  plucked  the  seated  hills  with  all  their  load, 
Rocks,  waters,  woods,  and  by  the  shaggy  tops 
Uplifting  bore  them  in  their  hands :  amaze, 
Be  sure,  and  terror,  seized  the  rebel  host, 
When  coming  towards  them  so  dread  they  saw 
The  bottom  of  the  mountains  upward  turned ; 
Till  on  those  cursed  engines'  triple  row 
They  saw  them  whelmed,  and  all  their  confidence 
Under  the  weight  of  mountains  buried  deep; 
Themselves  invaded  next,  and  on  their  heads 
Main  promontories  flung,  which  in  the  air 
Came  shadowing,  and   oppressed  whole   legions 

armed; 
Their  armour  helped  their  harm,  crushed  in  and 

bruised 
Into  their  substance  pent,  which  wrought  them 

pain 

Implacable,  and  many  a  dolorous  groan; 
Long  struggling  underneath,  ere  they  could  wind 
Out  of  such  prison,  though  spirits  of  purest  light, 
Purest  at  first,  now  gross  by  sinning  grown, 


The  rest,  in  imitation,  to  like  arms 
Betook  them,  and  the  neighbouring  hills  uptore; 
So  hills  amid  the  air  encountered  hills, 
Hurled  to  and  fro  with  jaculation  dire, 
That  under  ground  they  fought  in  dismal  shade ; 
Infernal  noise !  war  seemed  a  civil  game 
To  this  uproar;  horrid  confusion  heaped 
Upon  confusion  rose:  and  now  all  Heaven 
Had  gone  to  wreck,  with  ruin  overspread, 
Had  not  the  almighty  Father,  where  he  sits 
Shrined  in  his  sanctuary  of  Heaven  secure, 
Consulting  on  the  sum  of  things,  foreseen 
This  tumult,  and  permitted  all,  advised : 
That  his  great  purpose  he  might  so  fulfil, 
To  honour  his  anointed  Son,  avenged 
Upon  his  enemies,  and  to  declare 
All  power  on  him  transferred :  whence  to  his  Son, 
Th'  assessor  of  his  throne,  he  thus  began. 
" '  Effulgence  of  my  glory,  Son  beloved, 
Son,  in  whose  face  invisible  is  beheld, 
Visibly,  what  by  deity  I  am, 
And  in  whose  hand  what  by  decree  I  do, 
Second  Omnipotence!  two  days  are  past, 
Two  days,  as  we  compute  the  days  of  Heaven, 
Since  Michael  and  his  powers  went  forth  to  tame 
These  disobedient:  sore  hath  been  their  fight, 
As  likeliest  was,  when  two  such  foes  met  armed ; 
For  to  themselves  I  left  them,  and  thou  knowest, 
Equal  in  their  creation  they  were  formed, 
Save  what  sin   hath  impaired,  which  yet  hath 

wrought 

Insensibly,  for  I  suspend  their  doom; 
Whence  in  perpetual  fight  they  needs  must  last 
Endless,  and  no  solution  will  be  found: 
War  wearied  hath  performed  what  war  can  do, 
And  to  disordered  rage  let  loose  the  reins, 
With  mountains  and  with  weapons  armed,  which 

makes 

Wild  work  in  Heaven,  and  dangerous  to  the  main. 
Two  days  are  therefore  past,  the  third  is  thine ; 
For  thee  I  have  ordained  it,  and  thus  far 
Have  suffered,  that  the  glory  may  be  thine 
Of  ending  this  great  war,  since  none  but  Thou 
Can  end  it.     Into  thee  such  virtue  and  grace 
Immense  I  have  transfused,  that  all  may  know 
In  Heaven  and  hell  thy  power  above  compare; 
And,  this  perverse  commotion  governed  thus, 
To  manifest  thee  worthiest  to  be  heir 
Of  all  things;  to  be  Heir  and  to  be  King 
By  sacred  unction,  by  deserved  right. 
Go  then,  thou  mightiest,  in  thy  Father's  might, 
Ascend  my  chariot,  guide  the  rapid  wheels 
That  shake  Heaven's  basis,  bring  forth  all  my  war, 
My  bow  and  thunder,  my  almighty  arms 
Gird  on,  and  sword  upon  thy  puissant  thigh; 
Pursue  these  sons  of  darkness,  drive  them  out 
From  all  Heaven's  bounds  into  the  upper  deep: 
There  let  them  learn,  as  likes  them,  to  despise 
God,  and  Messiah  his  anointed  King.' 


BOOK  vi. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


19 


"  He  said,  and  on  his  Son  with  rays  direct 
Shone  full ;  he  all  his  Father  full  expressed 
Ineffably  into  his  face  received ; 
And  thus  the  filial  Godhead  answering  spake. 

"  '  O  Father,  O  Supreme  of  Heavenly  thrones, 
First,  highest,  holiest,  best,  thou  always  seekest 
To  glorify  thy  Son,  I  always  thee, 
As  is  most  just;  this  I  my  glory  account, 
My  exaltation,  and  my  whole  delight, 
That  thou,  in  me  well  pleased,  declarest  thy  will 
Fulfilled,  which  to  fulfil  is  all  my  bliss. 
Sceptre  and  power,  thy  giving,  I  assume, 
And  gladlier  shall  resign,  when  in  the  end 
Thou  shalt  be  all  in  all,  and  I  in  thee 
For  ever,  and  in  me  all  whom  thou  lovest; 
But  whom  thou  hatest,  I  hate,  and  can  put  on 
Thy  terrors,  as  I  put  thy  mildness  on, 
Image  of  thee  in  all  tilings ;  and  shall  soon, 
Armed  with  thy  might,  rid  Heaven  of  these  re- 
belled, 

To  their  prepared  ill  mansion  driven  down, 
To  chains  of  darkness,  and  th'  undying  worm, 
That  from  thy  just  obedience  could  revolt, 
Whom  to  obey  is  happiness  entire. 
Then  shall  thy  saints  unmixed,  and  from  th'  im- 
pure 

Far  separate,  circling  thy  holy  mount, 
Unfeigned  hallelujahs  to  thee  sing, 
Hymns  of  high  praise,  and  I  among  them  Chief.' 

"  So  said,  he,  o'er  liis  sceptre  bowing,  rose 
From  the  right  hand  of  glory  where  he  sat; 
And  the  third  sacred  morn  began  to  shine, 
Dawning  through  Heaven:    forth  rushed  with 

whirlwind  sound 
The  chariot  of  paternal  Deity, 
Flashing  thick  flames,  wheel  within  wheel  un- 
drawn, 

Itself  instinct  with  spirit,  but  convoyed 
By  four  cherubic  shapes ;  four  faces  each 
Had  wondrous ;  as  with  stars,  their  bodies  all 
And  wings  were  set  with  eyes,  with  eyes  the  wheels 
Of  berryl,  and  careering  fires  between; 
Over  their  heads  a  crystal  firmament, 
Whereon  a  sapphire  throne,  inlaid  with  pure 
Amber,  and  colours  of  the  showery  arch. 
He,  in  celestial  panoply  all  armed 
Of  radiant  Urim,  work  divinely  wrought, 
Ascended;  at  his  right  hand  Victory 
Sat  eagle- winged;  beside  him  hung  his  bow 
And  quiver  with  three-bolted  thunder  stored, 
And  from  about  him  fierce  effusion  rolled 
Of  smoke,  and  bickering  flame,  and  sparkles  dire: 
Attended  with  ten  thousand  thousand  saints, 
He  onward  came,  far  off  his  coming  shone ; 
And  twenty  thousand  (I  their  number  heard) 
Chariots  of  God,  half  on  each  hand,  were  seen: 
He  on  the  wings  of  cherub  rode  sublime 
On  the  crystalline  sky,  in  sapphire  throned, 
Illustrious  far  and  wide,  but  by  his  own 
6 


First  seen :  them  unexpected  joy  surprised, 
When  the  great  ensign  of  Messiah  blazed 
Aloft  by  angels  borne,  his  sign  in  Heaven; 
Under  whose  conduct  Michael  soon  reduced 
His  army,  circumfused  on  either  wing, 
Under  their  Head  embodied  all  in  one. 
Before  him  power  divine  his  way  prepared; 
At  his  command  th'  uprooted  hills  retired 
Each  to  his  place,  they  heard  his  voice,  and  went 
Obsequious;  Heaven  his  wonted  face  renewed, 
And  with  fresh  flowerets  hill  and  valley  smiled. 
This  saw  his  hapless  foes,  but  stood  obdured, 
And  to  rebellious  fight  rallied  their  powers, 
Insensate,  hope  conceiving  from  despair. 
In  heavenly  spirits  could  such  perverseness  dwell1? 
But  to  convince  the  proud  what  signs  avail, 
Or  wonders  move  th'  obdurate  to  relent"? 
They,  hardened  more  by  what  might  most  re- 
claim, 

Grieving  to  see  his  glory,  at  the  sight 
Took  envy;  and,  aspiring  to  his  height, 
Stood  re-embattled  fierce,  by  force,  or  fraud 
Weening  to  prosper,  and  at  length  prevail 
Against  God  and  Messiah,  or  to  fall 
In  universal  ruin  last;  and  now 
To  final  battle  drew,  disdaining  flight, 
Or  faint  retreat;  when  the  great  Son  of  God 
To  all  his  host  on  either  hand  thus  spake. 

" '  Stand  still  in  bright  array,  ye  saints,  here 

stand, 

Ye  angels  armed,  this  day  from  battle  rest; 
Faithful  hath  been  your  warfare,  and  of  God 
Accepted,  fearless  in  his  righteous  cause ; 
And  as  ye  have  received,  so  have  ye  done 
Invincibly;  but  of  this  cursed  crew 
The  punishment  to  other  hand  belongs; 
Vengeance  is  his,  or  whose  he  sole  appoints : 
Number  to  this  day's  work  is  not  ordained, 
Nor  multitude;  stand  only,  and  behold 
God's  indignation  on  these  godless  poured 
By  me;  not  you,  but  me,  they  have  despised, 
Yet  envied ;  against  me  is  all  their  rage, 
Because  the  Father,  to  whom  in  Heaven  supreme 
Kingdom,  and  power,  and  glory  appertains, 
Hath  honoured  me  according  to  his  will. 
Therefore  to  me  their  doom  he  hath  assigned 
That  they  may  have  their  wish,  to  try  with  me 
In  battle  which  the  stronger  proves ;  they  all, 
Or  I  alone  against  them ;  since  by  strength 
They  measure  all,  of  other  excellence 
Not  emulous,  nor  care  who  them  excels ; 
Nor  other  strife  with  them  do  I  vouchsafe.' 

"  So  spake  the  Son,  and  into  terror  changed 
His  countenance,  too  severe  to  be  beheld, 
And  fufl  of  wrath  bent  on  his  enemies. 
At  once  the  four  spread  out  their  starry  wings 
With  dreadful  shade  contiguous,  and  the  orbs 
Of  his  fierce  chariot  rblled,  as  with  the  sound 
Of  torrent  floods,  or  of  a  numerous  host. 


50 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  vu. 


He  on  his  impious  foes  right  onward  drove, 
Gloomy  as  night ;  under  his  burning  wheels 
The  steadfast  empyrean  shook  throughout, 
All  but  the  throne  itself  of  God.     Full  soon 
Among  them  he  arrived,  in  his  right  hand 
Grasping  ten  thousand  thunders,  which  he  sent 
Before  him,  such  as  in  their  souls  infixed 
Plagues :  they,  astonished,  all  resistance  lost, 
All  courage ;  down  their  idle  weapons  drop ; 
O'er  shields,  and  helms,  and  helmed  heads  he  rode 
Of  thrones  and  mighty  seraphim  prostrate, 
That  wished  the  mountains  now  might  be  again 
Thrown  on  them,  as  a  shelter  from  his  ire. 
Nor  less  on  either  side  tempestuous  fell 
His  arrows,  from  the  four-fold  visaged  four 
Distinct  with  eyes ;  and  from  the  living  wheels 
Distinct  alike  with  multitude  of  eyes ; 
One  spirit  in  them  ruled,  and  every  eye 
Glared  lightning,  and  shot  forth  pernicious  fire 
Among  th'  accursed,  that  withered  all  their 

strength, 

And  of  their  wonted  vigour  left  them  drained, 
Exhausted,  spiritless,  afflicted,  fallen. 
Yet  half  his  strength  he  put  not  forth,  but  checked 
His  thunder  in  mid  volley ;  for  he  meant 
Not  to  destroy,  but  root  them  out  of  Heaven : 
The  overthrown  he  raised,  and,  as  a  herd 
Of  goats  or  tim'rous  flock  together  thronged, 
Drove  them  before  him  thunderstruck,  pursued 
With  terrors,  and  with  furies,  to  the  bounds 
And  crystal  wall  of  Heaven,  which,  opening  wide, 
Rolled  inward,  and  a  spacious  gap  disclosed 
Into  the  wasteful  deep :  the  monstrous  sight 
Struck  them  with  horror  backward,  but  far  worse 
Urged  them  behind:   headlong  themselves  they 

threw 

Down  from  the  verge  of  Heaven ;  eternal  wrath 
Burnt  after  them  to  the  bottomless  pit. 
Hell  heard  the  unsufferable  noise,  hell  saw 
Heaven  running  from  Heaven,  and  would  have 

fled 

Affrighted ;  but  strict  fate  had  cast  too  deep 
Her  dark  foundations,  and  too  fast  had  bound. 
Nine  days  they  fell :  confounded  Chaos  roared, 
And  felt  tenfold  confusion  in  their  fall 
Through  his  wild  anarchy,  so  huge  a  rout 
Encumbered  him  with  ruin ;  hell  at  last 
Yawning  received  them  whole,  and  on  them  closed ; 
Hell,  their  fit  habitation,  fraught  with  fire 
Unquenchable,  the  house  of  wo  and  pain. 
Disburdened  Heaven  rejoiced,  and  soon  repaired 
Her  mural  breach,  returning  whence  it  rolled. 
Sole  victor,  from  the  expulsion  of  his  foes 
Messiah  his  triumphal  chariot  turned : 
To  meet  him  all  his  saints,  who  silent  stood 
Eyewitnesses  of  his  almighty  acts, 
With  jubilee  advanced;  and,  as  they  went, 
Shaded  with  branching  palm,  each  order  bright 
Sung  triumph,  and  him  sung  victorious  King, 


Son,  Heir,  and  Lord,  to  him  dominion  given, 
Worthiest  to  reign :  he,  celebrated,  rode 
Triumphant  through  mid  Heaven,  into  the  courts 
And  temple  of  his  mighty  Father  throned 
On  high ;  who  into  glory  him  received, 
Where  now  he  sits  at  the  right  hand  of  bliss. 
"  Thus,  measuring  things  in  Heaven  by  things 

on  earth, 

At  thy  request,  and  that  thou  may'st  beware 
By  what  is  past,  to  thee  I  have  revealed 
What  might  have  else  to  human  race  been  hid ; 
The  .discord  which  befell,  and  war  in  Heaven 
Among  the  angelic  powers,  and  the  deep  fall 
Of  those  too  high  aspiring,  who  rebelled 
With  Satan ;  he  who  envies  now  thy  state, 
Who  now  is  plotting  how  he  may  seduce 
Thee  also  from  obedience,  that  with  him 
Bereaved  of  happiness,  thou  may'st  partake 
His  punishment,  eternal  misery ; 
Which  would  be  all  his  solace  and  revenge, 
As  a  despite  done  against  the  most  High, 
Thee  once  to  gain  companion  of  his  wo.  . 
But  listen  not  to  his  temptations,  warn 
Thy  weaker ;  let  it  profit  thee  to  have  heard, 
By  terrible  example,  the  reward 
Of  disobedience ;  firm  they  might  have  stood, 
Yet  fell ;  remember,  and  fear  to  transgress." 


BOOK  VII. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

Raphael,  at  the  request  of  Adam,  relates  how  and  wherefore 
this  world  was  first  created ;  that  God,  after  the  expelling  of 
Satan  and  his  angels  out  of  Heaven,  declared  his  pleasure  to 
create  another  world,  and  other  creatures  to  dwell  therein ; 
sends  his  Son  with  glory,  and  attendance  of  angels,  to  perform 
the  work  of  creation  in  six  days ;  the  angels  celebrate  with 
hymns  the  performance  thereof,  and  his  reascension  into 
Heaven. 


DESCEND  from  Heaven,  Urania,  by  that  name 
If  rightly  thou  art  called,  whose  voice  divine 
Following,  above  the  Olympian  hill  I  soar, 
Above  the  flight  of  Pegasean  wing, 
The  meaning,  not  the  name  I  call :  for  thou 
Nor  of  the  muses  nine,  nor  on  the  top 
Of  old  Olympus  dwellest,  but,  heavenly-born, 
Before  the  hills  appeared,  or  fountain  flowed, 
Thou  with  eternal  Wisdom  didst  converse, 
Wisdom  thy  sister,  and  with  her  didst  play 
In  presence  of  the  Almighty  Father,  pleased 
With  thy  celestial  song.     Up  led  by  thee 
Into  the  Heaven  of  Heavens  I  have  presumed, 
An  earthly  guest,  and  drawn  empyreal  air, 
Thy  tempering :  with  like  safety,  guided  down 
Return  me  to  my  native  element : 
Lest  from  this  flying  steed  unreined  (as  once 
Bellerophon,  though  from  a  lower  clime,) 
Dismounted,  on  the  Aleian  field  I  fall 


BOOK  vn. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


Erroneous  there  to  wander,  and  forlorn. 
Half  yet  remains  urirfuti^,  but  narrower  bound 
Within  the  visible  diurnal  sphere ; 
Standing  on  earth,  not  rapt  above  the  pole, 
More  safe  I  sinjr.  with  mortal  voice  unchanged 
To  hoarse  or  mute,  though  fallen  on  evil  days, 
On  evil  days  though  fallen,  and  evil  tongues; 
In  darkness,  and  with  dangers  compassed  round, 
And  solitude;  yet  not  alone,  while  thou 
Vi.-itrst  my  slumbers  nightly,  or  when  morn 
Purples  the  east ;  still  govern  thou  my  song, 
Urania,  and  fit  audience  find,  though  few. 
But  drive  far  off  the  barbarous  dissonance 
Of  Bacchus  and  his  revellers,  the  race 
Of  that  wild  rout  that  tore  the  Thracian  bard 
In  Rhodope,  where  woods  and  rocks  had  ears 
To  rapture,  till  the  savage  clamour  drowned 
Both  harp  and  voice ;  nor  could  the  muse  defend 
Her  son.     So  fail  not  thou,  who  thee  implores: 
For  thou  art  heavenly,  she  an  empty  dream. 
Say,  goddess,  what  ensued  when  Raphael 
The  affable  archangel,  had  forewarned 
Adam,  by  dire  example,  to  beware 
Apostacy,  by  what  befell  in  Heaven 
To  those  apostates,  lest  the  like  befall 
In  Paradise,  to  Adam  or  his  race, 
Charged  not  to  touch  the  interdicted  tree, 
If  they  transgress  and  slight  that  sole  command, 
So  easily  obeyed  amid  the  choice, 
Of  all  tastes  else  to  please  their  appetite, 
Though  wandering.     He  with  his  consorted  Eve 
The  story  heard  attentive,  and  was  filled 
With  admiration  and  deep  muse,  to  hear 
Of  things  so  high  and  strange,  things  to  their 

thought 

So  unimaginable  as  hate  in  Heaven, 
And  war  so  near  the  peace  of  God  in  bliss. 
With  such  confusion:  but  the  evil,  soon 
Driven  back,  redounded  as  a  flood  on  those 
From  whom  it  sprung,  impossible  to  mix 
With  blessedness.     Whence  Adam  soon  revealed 
The  doubts  that  in  his  heart  arose:  and  now 
Led  on,  yet  sinless,  with  desire  to  know 
What  nearer  might  concern  him ;  how  this  world 
Of  Heaven  and  earth  conspicuous,  first  began ; 
When,  and  whereof  created  ;  for  what  cause; 
What  within  Eden,  or  without,  was  done 
Before  his  memory;  as  one  whose  drought, 
Yet  scarce  allayed,  still  eyes  the  current  stream, 
Whose  liquid  murmur  heard,  new  thirst  excites, 
Proceeded  thus  to  ask  his  heavenly  guest. 

"  Great  things,  and  full  of  wonder  in  our  ears, 
Far  differing  from  this  world,  thou  hast  revealed, 
Divine  interpreter !  by  favour  sent 
Down  from  the  empyrean,  to  forewarn 
Us  timely,  of  what  might  else  have  been  our  loss, 
Unknown,  which  human  knowledge  could  not 

reach. 
For  which  to  the  infinitely  good  we  owe 


Immortal  thanks,  and  his  admonishment 
Receive,  with  solemn  purpose  to  observe 
Immutably  his  sovereign  will,  the  end 
Of  what  we  arc.    But  since  thou  hast  vouchsafed 
Gently,  for  our  instruction,  to  impart 
Things  above  earthly  thought,  whieh  yet  concerned 
Our  knowing,  as  to  highest  wisdom  seemed, 
Deign  to  descend  now  lower,  and  relate 
What  may  no  less,  perhaps,  avail  us,  known; 
How  first  began  this  Heaven  which  we  behold 
Distant  so  high,  with  moving  fires  adorned 
Innumerable;  and  this  which  yields  or  fills 
All  space,  the  ambient  air  wide  interfused, 
Embracing  round  this  florid  earth;  what  cause 
Moved  the  Creator,  in  his  holy  rest 
Through  all  eternity,  so  late  to  build 
In  Chaos,  and  the  work  begun,  how  soon 
Absolved;  if  unforbid  thou  mayest  unfold 
What  we,  not  to  explore  the  secrets,  ask 
Of  his  eternal  empire,  but  the  more 
To  magnify  his  works,  the  more  we  know. 
And  the  great  light  of  day  yet  wants  to  run 
Much  of  his  race,  though  steep;  suspense  in  Hea- 
ven, 

Held  by  thy  voice,  thy  potent  voice,  he  hears, 
And  longer  will  delay  to  hear  thee  tell 
His  generation,  and  the  rising  birth 
Of  nature  from  the  unapparent  deep: 
Or  if  the  star  of  evening  and  the  moon 
Haste  to  thy  audience,  night  with  her  will  bring 
Silence;  and  sleep,  listening  to  thee,  will  watch; 
Or  we  can  bid  his  absence,  till  thy  song 
End,  and  dismiss  thee  ere  the  morning  shine." 

Thus  Adam  his  illustrious  guest  besought: 
And  thus  the  godlike  angel  answered  mild. 

"  This  also  thy  request,  with  caution  asked 
Obtain :  though  to  recount  almighty  works, 
What  words  or  tongue  of  seraph  can  suffice, 
Or  heart  of  man  suffice  to  comprehend  1 
Yet  what  thou  canst  attain,  which  best  may  serve 
To  glorify  the  Maker,  and  infer 
Thee  also  happier,  shall  not  be  withheld 
Thy  hearing;  such  commission  from  above 

have  received,  to  answer  thy  desire 
Of  knowledge  within  bounds;  beyond,  abstain 
To  ask,  nor  let  thine  own  inventions  hope 
Things  not  revealed,  which  th'  invisible  King, 
Only  omniscient,  hath  suppressed  in  night, 
To  none  communicable  in  earth  or  Heaven ; 
Enough  is  left  besides  to  search  and  know. 
But  knowledge  is  as  food,  and  needs  no  les» 
ler  temperance  over  appetite,  to  know 
n  measure  what  the  mind  may  well  contain ; 
)ppresses  else  with  surfeit,  and  soon  turns 
Yisdom  to  folly,  as  nourishment  to  wind. 

Know  then,  that,  after  Lucifer  from  Heaven 
So  call  him,  brighter  once  amidst  the  host 
)f  angels,  than  that  star  the  stars  among) 
•'ell  with  his  flaming  legions  through  the  deep 


52 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  vn. 


Into  his  place,  and  the  great  Son  returned 
Victorious  with  his  saints,  the  omnipotent, 
Eternal  Father,  from  his  throne  beheld 
Their  multitude,  and  to  his  Son  thus  spake. 
"At  least  our  envious  foe  hath  failed,  who 

thought 

All  like  himself  rebellious,  by  whose  aid 
This  inaccessible  high  strength,  the  seat 
Of  Deity  supreme,  us  dispossessed, 
He  trusted  to  have  seized,  and  into  fraud 
Drew  many,  whom  their  place  knows  here  no 

more; 

Yet  far  the  greater  part  have  kept,  I  see, 
Their  station;  Heaven,  yet  populous,  retains 
Number  sufficient  to  possess  her  realms, 
Though  wide,  and  his  highest  temple  to  frequent 
With  ministeries  due,  and  solemn  rites : 
But,  lest  his  heart  exalt  him  in  the  harm 
Already  done,  to  have  dispeopled  Heaven, 
My  damage  fondly  deemed,  I  can  repair 
That  detriment,  if  such  it  be  to  lose 
Self-lost,  and  in  a  moment  will  create 
Another  world,  out  of  one  man  a  race 
Of  men  innumerable,  there  to  dwell, 
Not  here,  till,  by  degrees  of  merit  raised, 
They  open  to  themselves  at  length  the  way 
Up  hither,  under  long  obedience  tried, 
And  earth  be  changed  to  Heaven,  and  Heaven  to 

earth ; 

One  kingdom,  joy  and  union  without  end. 
Meanwhile  inhabit  lax,  ye  powers  of  Heaven ; 
And  thou  my  Word,  begotten  Son,  by  thee 
This  I  perform;  speak  thou,  and  be  it  done! 
My  overshadowing  spirit  and  might  with  thee 
[  send  along;  ride  forth,  and  bid  the  deep 
Within  appointed  bounds  be  Heaven  and  earth, 
Boundless  the  deep,  because  I  AM  who  fill 
Infinitude,  nor  vacuous  the  space. 
Though  I,  uncircumscribed  myself,  retire, 
And  put  not  forth  my  goodness,  which  is  free 
To  act  or  not,  necessity  and  chance 
Approach  not  me,  and  what  I  will  is  fate.' 

"  So  spake  the  Almighty,  and  to  what  he  spake 
His  Word,  the  filial  Godhead,  gave  effect. 
Immediate  are  the  acts  of  God,  more  swift 
Than  time  or  motion,  but  to  human  ears 
Can  not  without  process  of  speech  be  told, 
So  told  as  earthly  notion  can  receive. 
Great  triumph  and  rejoicing  was  in  Heaven, 
When  such  was  heard  declared  the  Almighty's 

will; 

Glory  they  sung  to  the  Most  High,  good  will 
To  future  men,  and  in  their  dwellings  peace- 
Glory  to  him,  whose  just  avenging  ire 
Had  driven  out  the  ungodly  from  his  sight 
And  the  habitations  of  the  just:  to  him 
Glory  and  praise,  whose  wisdom  had  ordained 
Good  out  of  evil  to  create;  instead 
Of  spirits  malign,  a  better  race  to  bring 


^nto  their  vacant  room,,  and  thence  diffuse 
dis  good  to  worlds  and  ages  infinite. 

"  So  sang  the  hierarchies:  meanwhile  the  Son 
On  his  great  expedition  now  appeared, 
Grirt  with  omnipotence,  with  radiance  crowned 
Of  majesty  divine ;  sapience  and  love 
mmense,  and  all  his  Father  in  him  shone. 
About  his  chariot  numberless  were  poured 
Cherub  and  seraph,  potentates  and  thrones, 
And  virtues,  winged  spirits,  and  chariots  winged 
From  the  armoury  of  God,  where  stand  of  old 
Myriads,  between  two  brazen  mountains  lodged 
Against  a  solemn  day,  harnessed  at  hand, 
Celestial  equipage;  and  now  came  forth 
Spontaneous,  for  within  them  spirit  lived, 
Attendant  on  their  Lord :  Heaven  opened  wide 
Ser  ever  during  gates,  harmonious  sound, 
On  golden  hinges  moving,  to  let  forth 
The  King  of  Glory,  in  his  powerful  Word 
And  spirit,  coming  to  create  new  worlds. 
On  heavenly  ground  they  stood:  and  from  the 

shore 

They  viewed  the  vast  immeasurable  abyss 
Outrageous  as  a  sea,  dark,  wasteful,  wild, 
Up  from  the  bottom  turned  by  furious  wind* 
And  surging  waves,  as  mountains,  to  assault 
[leaven's  height,  and  with  the  centre  mix  the  pole. 

"  '  Silence,  ye  troubled  waves,  and  thou  deep 

peace/ 

Said  then  the  omnific  Word,  '  your  discord  end  I' 
Nor  stayed,  but,  on  the  wings  of  cherubim 
Uplifted,  in  paternal  glory  rode 
Far  into  Chaos,  and  the  world  unborn; 
For  Chaos  heard  his  voice :  him  all  his  train 
Followed  in  bright  procession,  to  behold 
Creation,  and  the  wonders  of  his  might. 
Then  stayed  the  fervid  wheels,  and  in  his  hand 
He  took  the  golden  compasses,  prepared 
In  God's  eternal  store,  to  circumscribe 
This  universe,  and  all  created  things : 
One  foot  he  centered,  and  the  other  turned 
Round  through  the  vast  profundity  obscure, 
And  said,  c  Thus  far  extend,  thus  far  thy  bounds, 
This  be  thy  just  circumference,  O  world!' 
Thus  God  the  Heaven  created,  thus  the  earth, 
Matter  unformed  and  void:  darkness  profound 
Covered  the  abyss ;  but  on  the  watery  calm 
His  brooding  wings  the  spirit  of  God  outspread, 
And  vital  virtue  infused,  and  vital  warmth 
Throughout  the  fluid  mass,  but  downward  purged 
The  black,  tartareous,  cold,  infernal  dregs, 
Adverse  to  life :  then  founded,  then  conglobed 
Like  things  to  like,  the  rest  to  several  place 
Disparted,  and  between  spun  out  the  air ; 
And  earth,  self-balanced,  on  her  centre  hung 

"  'Let  there  be  light,'  said  God ;  and  forthwith 

light 

Ethereal,  first  of  things,  quintessence  pure, 
Sprung  from  the  deep,  and,  from  her  native  east, 


BOOK  VH. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


To  journey  through  the  aery  gloom  began, 
Sphered  in  a  radiant  cloud,  for  yet  the  sun 
Was  not;  she  in  a  cloudy  tabernacle 
S ojoumed  the  while.   God  saw  the  light  was  good 
And  light  from  darkness,  by  the  hemisphere, 
Divided :  light  the  day,  and  darkness  night, 
He  named.    Thus  was  the  first  day  even  an 

morn: 

Nor  past  uncelebrated,  nor  unsung 
By  the  celestial  choirs,  when  orient  light 
Exhaling  first  from  darkness  they  beheld ; 
Birthday  of  Heaven  and  earth;  with  joy  and  shou 
The  hollow  universal  orb  they  filled, 
And  touched  their  golden  harps,  and,  hymning 

praised 

God  and  his  works;  Creator  him  they  sung, 
Both  when  first  evening  was,  and  when  first  morn 

"  Again,  God  said,  '  Let  there  be  firmament 
Amid  the  waters,  and  let  it  divide 
The  waters  from  the  waters:'  and  God  made 
The  firmament,  expanse  of  liquid,  pure, 
Transparent,  elemental  air,  diffused 
In  circuit  to  the  uttermost  convex 
Of  this  great  round ;  partition  firm  and  sure, 
The  waters  underneath  from  those  above 
Dividing :  for  as  earth,  so  he  the  world 
Built  on  circumfluous  waters  calm,  in  wide 
Crystalline  ocean,  and  the  loud  misrule 
Of  Chaos  far  removed ;  lest  fierce  extremes 
Contiguous  might  distemper  the  whole  frame : 
And  Heaven  he  named  the  firmament :  so  even 
And  morning  chorus  sung  the  second  day. 

"  The  earth  was  formed,  but  in  the  womb  as  yet 
Of  waters,  embryon  immature  involved, 
Appeared  not :  over  all  the  face  of  earth 
Main  ocean  flowed,  not  idle,  but  with  warm 
Prolific  humour  softening  all  her  globe, 
Fermented  the  great  mother  to  conceive, 
Satiate  with  genial  moisture ;  when  God  said, 
1  Be  gathered  now  ye  waters  under  Heaven 
Into  one  place,  and  let  dry  land  appear.' 
Immediately,  the  mountains  huge  appear 
Emergent,  and  their  broad  bare  backs  upheave 
Into  the  clouds ;  their  tops  ascend  the  sky : 
So  high  as  heaved  the  tumid  hills,  so  low 
Down  sunk  a  hollow  bottom  broad  and  deep, 
Capacious  bed  of  waters :  thither  they 
Hasted  with  glad  precipitance,  uprolled, 
As  drops  on  dust  conglobing  from  the  dry ; 
Part  rise  in  crystal  wall,  or  ridge  direct, 
For  haste;    such  flight  the  great  command  im- 
pressed 

On  the  swift  floods :  as  armies  at  the  call 
Of  trumpet  (for  of  armies  thou  hast  heard) 
Troop  to  their  standard,  so  the  watery  throng, 
Wave  rolling  after  wave,  where  way  they  found, 
If  steep,  with  torrent  rapture,  if  through  plain, 
Soft-ebbing ;  nor  withstood  them  rock  or  hill ; 
But  they,  or  under  ground,  or  circuit  wide 


With  serpent  error  wandering,  found  their  way, 
And  on  the  washy  ooze  deep  channels  wore ; 
Easy,  ere  God  had  bid  the  ground  be  dry, 
All  but  within  those  banks,  where  rivers  now 
Stream,  and  perpetual  draw  their  humid  train. 
The  dry  land,  earth;  and  the  great  receptacle 
Of  congregated  waters,  he  called  seas : 
And  saw  that  it  was  good ;  and  said,  '  Let  the 

earth 

Put  forth  the  verdant  grass,  herb  yielding  seed, 
And  fruit-tree  yielding  fruit  after  her  kind, 
Whose  seed  is  in  herself  upon  the  earth.' 
He  scarce  had  said,  when  the  bare  earth,  till  then 
Desert  and  bare,  unsightly,  unadorned, 
Brought  forth  the  tender  grass,  whose  verdure  clad 
Her  universal  face  with  pleasant  green : 
Then  herbs  of  every  leaf,  that  sudden  flowered 
Opening  their  various  colours,  and  made  gay 
Her  bosom,  smelling  sweet ;   and,  these  scarce 

blown, 
Forth  flourished  thick  the  clustering  vine,  forth 

crept 

The  smelling  gourd,  up  stood  the  corny  reed 
Embattled  in  her  field,  and  the  humble  shrub, 
And  bush  with  frizzled  hair  implicit:  last 
Rose  as  in  dance,  the  stately  trees,  and  spread 
Their  branches  hung  with  copious  fruit,  or  gem'd 
Their  blossoms:  with  high  woods  the  hills  were 

crowned; 

With  tufts  the  valleys,  and  each  fountain  side, 
With  borders  long  the  rivers :  that  earth  now 
Seemed  like  to  Heaven,  a  seat  where  gods  might 

dwell, 

Or  wander  with  delight, 'and  love  to  haunt 
Her  sacred  shades:  though  God  had  yet  not  rained 
Upon  the  earth,  and  man  to  till  the  ground 
Vone  was;  but  from  the  earth  a  dewy  mist 
Went  up,  and  watered  all  the  ground,  and  each 
Plant  of  the  field,  which,  ere  it  was  in  the  earth, 
od  made,  and  every  herb,  before  it  grew 
On  the  green  stem ;  God  saw  that  it  was  good  : 
So  even  and  morn  recorded  the  third  day. 

"  Again  th'  Almighty  spake, ( Let  there  be  lights 
ligh  in  the  expanse  of  Heaven,  to  divide 
The  day  from  night;  and  let  them  be  for  signs, 
^or  seasons,  and  for  days,  and  circling  years  j 
And  let  them  be  for  lights,  as  I  ordain 
Their  office  in  the  firmament  of  Heaven, 
fo  give  light  on  the  earth ;'  and  it  was  so. 
And  God  made  two  great  lights,  great  for  their 

use 

'o  man,  the  greater  to  have  rule  by  day, 
he  less  by  night,  altern ;  and  made  the  stars, 
nd  set  them  in  the  firmament  of  Heaven 
!"<>  illuminate  the  earth  and  rule  the  day 
i  their  vicissitude,  and  rule  the  night, 
Lnd  light  from  darkness  to  divide.    God  saw, 
urveying  his  great  work,  that  it  was  good  : 
For,  of  celestial  bodies,  first  the  sun 


54 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  v/r. 


A  mighty  sphere  he  framed,  unlightsome  first, 

Though  of  ethereal  mould  ;  then  formed  the  moon 

Globose,  and  every  magnitude  of  stars, 

And  sowed  with  stars  the  Heaven,  thick  as  a  field  : 

Of  light  by  far  the  greater  part  he  took, 

Transplanted  from  her  cloudy  shrine,  and  placed 

In  the  sun's  orb,  made  porous  to  receive 

And  drink  the  liquid  light,  firm  to  retain 

Her  gathered  beams,  great  palace  now  of  light. 

Hither,  as  to  their  fountain,  other  stars 

Repairing,  in  their  golden  urns  draw  light, 

And  hence  the  morning  planets  gilds  her  horns; 

By  tincture  or  reflection  they  augment 

Their  small  peculiar,  though  from  human  sight 

So  far  remote,  with  diminution  seen. 

First  in  his  cast  the  glorious  lamp  was  seen, 

Regent  of  day,  and  all  the  horizon  round 

Invested  with  bright  rays,  jocund  to  run 

His  longitude  through  Heaven's  high  road;  the 


Dawn,  and  the  Pleiades,  before  him  danced, 
Shedding  sweet  influence  :  less  bright  the  moon, 
But  opposite  in  levelled  west  was  set, 
His  mirror,  with  full  face  borrowing  her  light 
From  him  ;  for  other  light  she  needed  none 
In  that  aspect,  and  still  that  distance  keeps 
Till  night  ;  then  in  the  east  her  turn  she  shines, 
Revolved  on  Heaven's  great  axle,  and  her  reign 
With  thousand  lesser  lights  dividual  holds, 
With  thousand  thousand  stars,  that  then  appearec 
Spangling  the  hemisphere  :  then,  first  adorned 
With  their  bright  luminaries  that  set  and  rose, 
Glad  evening  and  glad  morn  crowned  the  fourth 

day. 

"  And  God  said,  c  Let  the  waters  generate 
Reptile  with  spawn  abundant,  living  soul  : 
And  let  fowl  fly  above  the  earth,  with  wings 
Displayed  on  the  open  firmament  of  Heaven.' 
And  God  created  the  great  whales,  and  each 
Soul  living,  each  that  crept,  which  plenteously 
The  waters  generated  by  their  kinds, 
And  every  bird  of  wing  after  his  kind  ; 
And  saw  that  it  was  good,  and  blessed  them,  say 

ing, 

'  Be  fruitful,  multiply,  and  in  the  seas, 
And  lakes,  and  running  streams,  the  waters  fill  ; 
And  let  the  fowl  be  multiplied  on  the  earth.' 
Forthwith  the  sounds  and  seas,  each  creek  an 

bay, 

With  fry  innumerable  swarm,  and-  shoals 
Of  fish,  that  with  their  fins  and  shining  scales 
Glide  under  the  green  wave,  in  sculls  that  oft 
Bank  the  mid  sea  :  part  single,  or  with  mate, 
Graze  the  sea  weed,  their  pasture,  and  throng 

groves 

Of  coral  stray,  or.  sporting  with  quick  glance, 
Show  to  the  sun  their  waved  coats  dropt  with  golc 
Or,  in  their  pearly  shells  at  ease,  attend 
Moist  nutriment  ;  or  under  rocks  their  food 


n  jointed  armour  watch :  on  smooth  the  seal, 
Vnd  bended  dolphins  play :  part  huge  of  bulk 
Vallowing  unwieldy,  enormous  in  their  gait, 
'empest  the  ocean:  there  leviathan, 
[ugest  of  living  creatures,  on  the  deep 
tretched  like  a  promontory,  sleeps  or  swims, 
Vnd  seems  a  moving  land,  and  at  his  gills 
)raws  in,  and  at  his  trunk  spouts  out,  a  sea, 
leanwhile  the  tepid  caves,  and  fens,  and  shores, 
'heir  brood  as  numerous  hatch,  from  the  egg  that 

soon 

ursting  with  kindly  rupture,  forth  disclosed 
'heir   callow  young;   but,  feathered   soon  and 

fledged, 

'hey  summed  their  pens,  and,  soaring  th'  air  sub- 
lime, 

ATith  clang  despised  the  ground,  under  a  cloud 
n  prospect ;  there  the  eagle  and  the  stork 
)n  cliffs  and  cedar  tops  their  eyries  build : 
'art  loosely  wing  the  region,  part  more  wise 
n  common,  ranged  in  figure,  wedge  their  way, 
ntelligent  of  seasons,  and  set  forth 
Their  aery  caravan,  high  over  seas 
Hying,  and  over  lands,  with  mutual  wing 
Basing  their  flight :  so  steers  the  prudent  crane 
ler  annual  voyage,  borne  on  winds ;  the  air 
loats  as  they  pass,   fann'd  with  unnumbered 

plumes: 

'rom  branch  to  branch  the  smaller  birds  with  song 
Solaced  the  woods,  and  spread  their  painted  wings 
Till  even,  nor  then  the  solemn  nightingale 

eased  warbling,  but  all  night  tuned  her  soft  lays: 
Dthers  on  silver  lakes  and  rivers  bathed 
Their  downy  breast ;  the  swan  with  arched  neck, 
Between  her  white  wings  mantling  proudly,  rows 
Her  state  with  oary  feet ;  yet  oft  they  quit 
The  dank,  and,  rising  on  stiff  penons,  tower 
The  mid  aerial  sky :  others  on  ground 
Walk'd  firm;  the  crested  cock,  whose  clarion 

sounds 

The  silent  hours,  and  the  other  whose  gay  train 
Adorns  him,  coloured  with  the  florid  hue 
Of  rainbows  and  starry  eyes.     The  waters  thus 
With  fish  replenished,  and  the  air  with  fowl, 
Evening  and  morn  solemnized  the  fifth  day. 

"  The  sixth,  and  of  creation  last,  arose 
With  evening  harps  and  matin,  when  God  said, 
'  Let  the  earth  bring  forth  soul  living  in  her  kind, 
Cattle,  and  creeping  things,  and  beasts  of  the  earth, 
Each  in  their  kind.'     The  earth   obeyed,   and 

straight, 

Opening  her  fertile  womb,  teemed  at  a  birth 
Innumerous  living  creatures,  perfect  forms, 
Limbed  and  full  grown ;  out  of  the  ground  up  rose, 
As  from  his  lair,  the  wild  beast  where  he  wons 
In  forest  wild,  in  thicket,  brake,  or  den; 
Among  the  trees  in  pairs  they  rose,  they  walked ; 
The  cattle  in  the  fields  and  meadows  green; 
Those  rare  and  solitary,  these  in  flocks 


BOOK  vii. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


55 


;rinjr  at  once,  and  in  broad  herds  upsprung. 
The  grassy  clods  now  calved ;  now  half  appeared 
The  tawny  lion,  pawing  to  get  free 
IILs  hinder  parts,  then  springs  as  broke  from  bonds, 
And  rampant  shakes  his brinded  mane;  the  ounce, 
The  libbard,  and  the  tiger,  as  the  mole 
Rising,  the  crumbled  earth  above  them  threw 
In  hillocks:  the  swift  stag  from  under  ground, 
Bore  up  his  branching  head:  scarce  from  his  mould 
Behemoth,  biggest  born  of  earth,  upheaved 
His  vastness :  fleeced  the  flocks  and  bleating  rose, 
As  plants :  ambiguous  between  sea  and  land 
The  river  horse  and  scaly  crocodile. 
At  once  came  forth  whatever  creeps  the  ground, 
Insect  or  worm :  those  waved  their  limber  fans 
For  wings  and  smallest  lineaments  exact, 
In  all  the  liveries  decked  of  summer's  pride, 
With  spots  of  gold  and  purple,  azure  and  green : 
These,  as  a  lino,  their  long  dimension  drew, 
Streaking  the  ground  with  sinuous  trace ;  not  all 
Minims  of  nature ;  some  of  serpent  kind, 
Wondrous  in  length  and  corpulence,  involved 
Their  snaky  folds,  and  added  wings.     First  crept 
The  parsimonious  emmet,  provident 
Of  future,  in  small  room  large  heart  enclosed, 
Pattern  of  just  equality,  perhaps, 
Hereafter,  joined  in  her  popular  tribes 
Of  commonalty :  swarming  next  appeared 
The  female  bee,  that  feeds  her  husband  drone 
Deliciously,  and  builds  her  waxen  cells 
^  With  honey  stored ;  the  rest  are  numberless, 
And  thou  their  natures  know'st,  and  gav'st  them 

names, 

Needless  to  thee  repeated :  nor  unknown 
The  serpent,  subtlest  beast  of  all  the  field, 
Of  huge  extent  sometimes,  with  brazen  eyes 
And  hairy  mane  terrific,  though  to  thee 
Not  noxious,  but  obedient  at  thy  call. 

"  Now  Heaven  in  all  her  glory  shone,  and  rolled 
Her  motions,  as  the  great  first  Mover's  hand 
First  wheeled  their  course :  earth  in  her  rich  attire 
Consummate  lovely  smiled ;  air,  water,  earth, 
By  fowl,  fish,  beast,  was  flown,  was  swum,  was 

walked 

Frequent ;  and  of  the  sixth  day  yet  remained  : 
There  wanted  yet  the  master  work,  the  end 
Of  all  yet  done ;  a  creature,  who,  not  prone 
And  brute  as  other  creatures,  but  endued 
With  sanctity  of  reason,  might  erect 
His  stature,  and,  upright,  with  front  serene, 
Govern  the  rest,  self-knowing,  and  from  thence 

/naninnnis  to  correspond  with  Heaven, 
But  grateful  to  acknowledge  whence  his  good 
Descends,  thither  with  heart,  and  voice,  and  eyes, 
Directed  in  devotion,  to  adore 
And  worship  God  supreme,  who  made  him  chief 
Of  all  his  works  :  therefore  th'  Omnipotent 
Eternal  Father,  (for  where  is  not  he 
Present?)  thus  to  his  Son  audibly  spake 


" '  Let  us  make  now  man  in  our  image,  man 
In  our  similitude,  and  let  them  rule 
Over  the  fish  and  fowl  of  sea  and  air, 
Beast  of  the  field,  and  over  all  the  earth, 
And  every  creeping  thing  that  creeps  the  ground.1 
This  said,  he  formed  thee,  Adam,  thee,  O  man, 
Dust  of  the  ground,  and  in  thy  nostrils  breathed 
The  breath  of  life ;  in  his  own  image  he 
Created  thee,  in  the  image  of  God 
Express,  and  thou  becam'st  a  living  soul. 
Male  he  created  thee,  but  thy  consort 
Female,  for  race;  then  blessed  mankind,  and  said, 
( Be  fruitful,  multiply,  and  fill  the  earth. 
Subdue  it,  and,  throughout,  dominion  hold 
Over  fish  of  the  sea,  and  fowl  of  the  air, 
And  every  living  thing  that  moves  on  the  earth.' 
Wherever  thus  created,  for  no  place 
Is  yet  distinct  by  name,  thence,  as  thou  know'st, 
He  brought  thee  into  this  delicious  grove, 
This  garden,  planted  with  the  trees  of  God, 
Delectable  both  to  behold  and  taste  : 
And  freely  all  their  pleasant  fruit  for  food 
Gave  thee;  all  sorts  are  here  that  all  the  earth 

yields, 

Variety  without  end ;  but  of  the  tree, 
Which,  tasted,  works   knowledge  of  good  and 

evil, 
Thou  may'st  not;  in  the  day  thou  eat'st,  thou 

diest : 

Death  is  the  penalty  imposed ;  beware, 
And  govern  well  thy  appetite,  lest  Sin 
Surprise  thee,  and  her  black  attendant,  Death. 
"  Here  finished  he,  and  all  that  he  had  made 
Viewed,  and  behold  all  was  entirely  good ; 
So  even  and  morn  accomplished  the  sixth  day : 
Yet  not  till  the  Creator  from  his  work 
Desisted,  though  unwearied,  up  returned, 
Up  to  the  Heaven  of  heavens,  his  high  abode, 
Thence  to  behold  this  new  created  world, 
The  addition  of  his  empire,  how  it  showed 
In  prospect  from  his  throne,  how  good,  how  fair, 
Answering  his  great  idea.     Up  he  rode, 
Followed  with  acclamation,  and  the  sound 
Symphonious  of  ten  thousand  harps,  that  tuned 
Angelic  harmonies :  the  earth,  the  air 
Resounded,  (thou  remember'st,  for  thou  heard'st,) 
The  Heavens  and  all  the  constellations  rung, 
The  planets  in  their  stations  listening  stood, 
While  the  bright  pomp  ascended  jubilant. 
Open,  ye  everlasting  gates !  they  sung. 
Open,  ye  Heavens  \  your  living  doors ;  let  in 
The  great  Creator  from  his  work  returned 
Magnificent,  his  six  days'  work,  a  world ; 
Open  and  henceforth  oft ;  for  God  will  deign 
To  visit  oft  the  dwellings  of  just  men, 
Delighted ;  and  with  frequent  intercourse 
Thither  will  send  his  winged  messengers 
On  errands  of  supernal  grace.     So  sung 
The  glorious  train  ascending;  he  through  Heaven, 


5G 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  vin. 


That  opened  wide  her  blazing  portals,  led 

To  God's  eternal  house  direct  the  way ; 

A  broad  and  ample  road,  whose  dust  is  gold 

And  pavement  stars,  as  stars  to  thee  appear, 

Seen  in  the  galaxy,  that  milky  way, 

Which  nightly  as  a  circling  zone  thou  seest 

Powdered  with  stars.     And  now  on  earth  the 

seventh 

Evening  arose  in  Eden,  for  the  sun 
Was  set,  and  twilight  from  the  east  came  on, 
Forerunning  night ;  when  at  the  holy  mount 
Of  Heaven's  high  seated  top,  th'  imperial  throne 
Of  Godhead  fixed  for  ever  firm  and  sure, 
The  filial  power  arrived,  and  sat  him  down 
With  his  great  Father:  for  he  also  went 
Invisible,  yet  stayed  (such  privilege 
Hath  omnipresence,)  and  the  work  ordained, 
Author  and  end  of  all  things ;  and,  from  work 
Now  resting,  blessed  and  hallowed  the  seventh 

day, 

As  resting  on  that  day  from  all  Ms  work, 
But  not  in  silence  holy  kept :  the  harp 
Had  work,  and  rested  not;  the  solemn  pipe 
And  dulcimer,  all  organs  of  sweet  stop, 
All  sounds  on  fret  by  string  or  golden  wire, 
Tempered  soft  tunings,  intermixed  with  voice 
Choral  or  unison :  of  incense  clouds, 
Fuming  from  golden  censers,  hid  the  mount. 
Creation  and  the  six  days'  acts  they  sung: 
Great  are  thy  works,  Jehovah,  infinite 
Thy  power  !  what  thought  can  measure  thee  or 

tongue 

Relate  thee!  greater  now  in  thy  return 
Than  from  the  giant  angels :  thee  that  day 
Thy  thunders  magnified ;  but  to  create 
Is  greater  than  created  to  destroy. 
Who  can  impair  thee,  mighty  King,  or  bound 
Thy  empire  3  easily  the  proud  attempt 
Of  spirits  apostate,  and  their  counsels  vain, 
Thou  hast  repelled,  while  impiously  they  thought 
Thee  to  diminish,  and  from  thee  withdraw 
The  number  of  thy  worshippers.     Who  seeks 
To  lessen  thee,  against  his  purpose  serves 
To  manifest  the  more  thy  might :  his  evil 
Thou  usest,  and  from  thence  Greatest  more  good. 
Witness  this  new  made  world,  another  Heaven 
From  Heaven  gate  not  far,  founded  in  view 
On  the  clear  hyaline,  the  glassy  sea ; 
Of  amplitude  almost  immense,  with  stars 
Numerous,  and  every  star  perhaps  a  world 
Of  destined  habitation ;  but  thou  knowest 
Their  seasons :  among  these  the  seat  of  men, 
Earth,  with  her  nether  ocean  circumfused, 
Their  pleasant  dwelling-place.     Thrice  happy 

men, 

And  sons  of  men,  whom  God  hath  thus  advanced ! 
Created  in  his  image,  there  to  dwell 
And  worship  him,  and  in  reward  to  rule 
Over  his  works,  on  earth,  in  sea,  or  air, 


And  multiply  a  race  of  worshippers 

Holy  and  just :  thrice  happy,  if  they  know 

Their  happiness,  and  persevere  upright ! 

"  So  sung  they,  and  the  empyrean  rung 
With  hallelujahs :  thus  was  sabbath  kept. 
And  thy  request  think  now  fulfilled,  that  asked 
How  first  this  world  and  face  of  things  began, 
And  what  before  thy  memory  was  done 
From  the  beginning ;  that  posterity, 
Informed  by  thee,  might  know :   if  else  thou 

seekest 
Aught,  not  surpassing  human  measure,  say." 


BOOK  VIII. 

THE  ARGUMENT. 

Adam  inquires  concerning  celestial  motions ;  is  doubtfully 
answered,  and  exhorted  to  search  rather  things  more  worthy 
of  knowledge  ;  Adam  assents ;  and,  still  desirous  to  detain 
Raphael,  relates  to  him  what  he  remembered  since  his  own 
creation ;  his  placing  in  Paradise ;  his  talk  with  God  concern- 
ing  solitude  and  fit  society ;  his  first  meeting  and  nuptials  with 
Eve ;  his  discourse  with  the  angel  thereupon ;  who,  after  aM- 
monitions  repeated,  departs. 


THE  angel  ended,  and  in  Adam's  ear 

So  charming  left  his  voice,  that  he  a  while 

Thought  him  still  speaking,  still  stood  fixed  to 

hear; 
Then,  as  new  waked,  thus  gratefully  replied. 

"  What  thanks  sufficient,  or  what  recompense 
Equal  have  I  to  render  thee,  divine 
Historian,  who  thus  largely  hast  allayed 
The  thirst  I  had  of  knowledge,  and  vouchsafed 
This  friendly  condescension  to  relate 
Things,  else  by  me  unsearchable,  now  heard 
With  wonder,  but  delight,  and,  as  is  due, 
With  glory  attributed  to  the  high 
Creator  1  something  yet  of  doubt  remains, 
Which  only  thy  solution  can  resolve. 
When  I  behold  this  goodly  frame,  this  world, 
Of  Heaven  and  earth  consisting,  and  compute 
Their  magnitudes ;  this  earth,  a  spot,  a  grain, 
An  atom,  with  the  firmament  compared 
And  all  her  numbered  stars,  that  seem  to  roll 
Spaces  incomprehensible  (for  such 
Their  distance  argues,  and  their  swift  return 
Diurnal)  merely  to  officiate  light 
Round  this  opacous  earth,  this  punctual- spot, 
One  day  and  night,  in  all  their  vast  survey 
Useless  besides ;  reasoning,  I  oft  admire 
How  nature,  wise  and  frugal,  could  commit 
Such  disproportions,  with  superfluous  hand 
So  many  noble  bodies  to  create, 
Greater  so  manifold,  to  this  one  use, 
For  aught  appears,  and  on  their  orbs  impose 
Such  restless  revolution,  day  by  day 
Repeated ;  while  the  sedentary  earth, 
That  better  might  with  far  less  compass  move, 


BOOK  viir. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


57 


S( T\vd  by  more  noble  than  herself,  attains 
Her  end  without  least  motion,  and  receives, 
As  tribute,  such  a  sumlcss  journey  brought 
Of  incorporeal  speed,  her  warmth  and  light ; 
Speed,  to  describe  whose  swiftness  number  fails." 

So  spake  our  sire,  and  by  his  countenance  seemed 
Entering  on  studious  thoughts  abstruse;  which 

Eve 

Perceiving,  where  she  sat  retired  in  sight, 
With  lowliness  majestic  from  her  seat, 
And  grace  that  won  who  saw  to  wish  her  stay, 
Rose,  and  went  forth  among  her  fruits  and  flowers, 
To  visit  how  they  prospered,  bud  and  bloom, 
Her  nursery ;  they  at  her  coming  sprung, 
And,  touched  by  her  fair  tendance,  gladlier  grew. 
Yet  went  she  not,  as  not  with  such  discourse 
Delighted,  or  not  capable  her  ear 
Of  what  was  high :  such  pleasure  she  reserved, 
Adam  relating,  she  sole  auditress ; 
Her  husband  the  relator  she  preferred 
Before  the  angel,  and  of  him  to  ask 
Chose  rather ;  he,  she  knew,  would  intermix 
Grateful  digressions,  and  solve  high  dispute 
With  conjugal  caresses;  from  his  lip 
Net  words  alone  pleased  her.  O  who  meet  now- 
Such  pairs,  in  love  and  mutual  honour  joined  1 
With  goddess-like  demeanour  forth  she  went; 
Not  unattended,  for  on  her,  as  queen, 
A  pomp  of  winning  graces  waited  still, 
And  from  about  her  shot  darts  of  desire 
Into  all  eyes,  to  wish  her  still  in  sight. 
And  Raphael  now,  to  Adam's  doubt  proposed, 
Benevolent  and  facile  thus  replied. 

"  To  ask  or  search  I  blame  thee  not;  for  Heaven 
Is  as  the  book  of  God  before  thee  set, 
Wherein  to  read  his  wondrous  works,  and  learn 
His  seasons,  hours,  or  days,  or  months,  or  years : 
This  to  attain,  whether  Heaven  move  or  earth, 
Imports  not,  if  thou  reckon  right;  the  rest 
From  man  or  angel  the  great  Architect 
Did  wisely  to  conceal,  and  not  divulge 
His  secrets  to  be  scanned  by  them  who  ought 
Rather  admire;  or,  if  they  list  to  try 
Conjecture,  he  his  fabric  of  the  Heavens 
Hath  left  to  their  disputes,  perhaps  to  move 
His  laughter  at  their  quaint  opinions  wide 
Ilrrraftor.  when  they  come  to  model  Heaven 
And  calculate  the  stars,  how  they  will  wield 
The  mighty  frame,  how  build,  unbuild,  contrive 
To  save  appearances,  how  gird  the  sphere 
With  centric  and  eccentric  scribbled  o'er, 
Cycle  and  epicycle,  orb  in  orb : 
Already  by  thy  reasoning  this  I  guess, 
Who  art  to  lead  thy  offspring,  and  supposest 
That  bodies  bright  and  greater  should  not  serve 
The  less  not  bright,  nor  Heaven  such  journeys 

run, 

Earth  sitting  still,  when  she  alone  receives 
The  benefit .  consider  first,  that  great 


Or  bright  infers  not  excellence :  the  earth, 
Though,  in  comparison  of  Heaven,  so  small, 
Nor  glistering,  may  of  solid  good  contain 
More  plenty  than  the  sun  that  barren  shines, 
Whose  virtue  on  itself  works  no  effect, 
But  in  the  fruitful  earth;  there  first  received, 
His  beams,  unactive  else,  their  vigour  find. 
Yet  not  to  earth  are  those  bright  luminaries 
Officious,  but  to  thee,  earth's  habitant. 
And  for  the  Heaven's  wide  circuit,  let  it  speak 
The  Maker's  high  magnificence,  who  built 
So  spacious,  and  his  line  stretched  out  so  far; 
That  man  may  know  he  dwells  not  in  his  own; 
An  edifice  too  large  for  him  to  fill, 
Lodged  in  a  small  partition,  and  the  rest 
Ordained  for  uses  to  his  Lord  best  known. 
The  swiftness  of  those  circles  attribute, 
Though  numberless,  to  his  omnipotence, 
That  to  corporeal  substances  could  add 
Speed  almost  spiritual:  me  thou  thinkest  not  slow, 
Who  since  the  morning  hour  set  out  from  Heaven 
Where  God  resides,  and  ere  mid-day  arrived 
In  Eden,  distance  inexpressible 
By  numbers  that  have  name.     But  this  I  urge, 
Admitting  motion  in  the  Heavens,  to  show 
Invalid  that  which  thee  to  doubt  it  moved : 
Not  that  I  so  affirm,  though  so  it  seem 
To  thee  who  hast  thy  dwelling  here  on  earth. 
God,  to  remove  his  ways  from  human  sense, 
Placed  Heaven  from  earth  so  far,  that  earthly  sight, 
If  it  presume,  might  err  in  things  too  high, 
And  no  advantage  gain.     What  if  the  sm» 
Be  centre  to  the  world,  and  other  stars, 
By  his  attractive  virtue  and  their  own 
Incited,  dance  about  him  various  rounds? 
Their  wandering  course  now  high,  now  low,  then 

hid, 

Progressive,  retrograde,  or  standing  still, 
In  six  thou  seest ;  and  what  if  seventh  to  these 
The  planet  earth,  so  steadfast  though  she  seem, 
Insensibly  three  different  motions  move1? 
Which  else  to  several  spheres  thou  must  ascribe, 
Moved  contrary  with  thwart  obliquities; 
Or  save  the  sun  his  labour,  and  that  swift 
Nocturnal  and  diurnal  rhomb  supposed, 
Invisible  else  above  all  stars,  the  wheel 
Of  day  and  night ;  which  needs  not  thy  belief, 
If  earth,  industrious  of  herself,  fetch  day 
Travelling  east,  and  with  her  part  averse 
From  the  sun's  beam  meet  night,  her  other  part 
Still  luminous  by  his  ray.     What  if  that  light, 
Sent  from  her  through  the  wide  transpicuous  air, 
To  the  terrestrial  moon  be  as  a  star, 
Enlightening  her  by  day,  as  she  by  night 
This  earth  1  reciprocal,  if  land  be  there, 
Fields  and  inhabitants :  her  spots  thou  seest 
As  clouds,  and  clouds  may  rain,  and  rain  produce 
Fruits  in  her  softened  soil,  for  some  to  eat 
Allotted  there;  and  other  suns  perhaps, 


58 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  vin 


With  their  attendant  moons,  thus  wilt  descry, 
Communicating  male  and  female  light ; 
Which  too  great  sexes  animate  the  world, 
Stored  in  each  orb  perhaps  with  some  that  live. 
For  such  vast  room  in  nature  unpossessed   • 
By  living  soul,  desert  and  desolate, 
Only  to  shine,  yet  scarce  to  contribute 
Each  orb  a  glimpse  of  light,  conveyed  so  far 
Down  to  this  habitable,  which  returns 
Light  back  to  them,  is  obvious  to  dispute. 
But  whether  thus  these  things,  or  whether  not; 
Whether  the  sun,  predominant  in  Heaven, 
Rise  on  the  earth;  or  earth  rise  on  the  sun; 
He  from  the  east  his  flaming  road  begin ; 
Or  she  from  west  her  silent  course  advance, 
With  inoffensive  pace  that  spinning  sleeps 
On  her  soft  axle,  while  she  paces  even, 
And  bears  thee  soft  with  the  smooth  air  along; 
Solicit  not  thy  thoughts. with  matters  hid; 
Leave  them  to  God  above;  him  serve  and  fear; 
Of  other  creatures,  as  him  pleases  best, 
Wherever  placed,  let  him  dispose :  joy  thou 
In  what  he  gives  to  thee,  this  Paradise 
And  thy  fair  Eve ;  Heaven  is  for  thee  too  high 
To  know  what  passes  there;  be  lowly  wise: 
Think  only  what  concerns  thee  and  thy  being; 
Dream  not  of  other  worlds,  what  creatures  there 
Live,  in  what  state,  condition  or  degree; 
Contented  that  thus  far  hath  been  revealed, 
Not  of  earth  only,  but  of  highest  Heaven." 

To  whom  thus  Adam,  cleared  of  doubt,  replied, 
"  How  fully  hast  thou  satisfied  me,  pure 
Intelligence  of  Heaven,  angel  serene  1 
And,  freed  from  intricacies,  taught  to  live 
The  easiest  way,  nor  with  perplexing  thoughts 
To  interrupt  the  sweet  of  life,  from  which 
God  hath  bid  dwell  far  off  all  anxious  cares, 
And  not  molest  us  unless  we  ourselves 
Seek  them  with  wand 'ring  thoughts,  and  notions 

vain. 

But  apt  the  mind  or  fancy  is  to  rove 
Unchecked,  and  of  her  roving  is  no  end; 
Till  warned,  or  by  experience  taught,  she  learn, 
That  not  to  know  at  large  of  things  remote 
From  use,  obscure  and  subtle,  but,  to  know 
That  which  before  us  lies  in  daily  life, 
Is  the  prime  wisdom:  what  is  more,  is  fume, 
Or  emptiness,  or  fond  impertinence, 
And  renders  us,  in  things  that  most  concern, 
Unpractised,  unprepared,  and  still  to  seek. 
Therefore  from  this  high  pitch  let  us  descend 
A  lower  flight,  and  speak  of  things  at  hand 
Useful ;  whence  haply  mention  may  arise 
Of  something  not  unseasonable  to  ask, 
By  sufferance,  and  thy  wonted  favour,  deigned. 
Thee  I  have  heard  relating  what  was  done 
Ere  my  remembrance :  now  hear  me  relate 
My  story,  which  perhaps  thou  hast  not  heard ; 
And  day  is  yet  not  spent;  till  then  thou  seest 


How  subtly  to  detain  thee  I  devise, 
Inviting  thee  to  hear  while  I  relate, 
Fond,  were  it  not  in  hope  of  thy  reply ; 
For  while  1  sit  with  thee,  I  seem  in  Heaven; 
And  sweeter  thy  discourse  is  to  my  ear 
Than  fruits  of  palm-tree  pleasantest  to  thirst 
And  hunger  both,  from  labour,  at  the  hour 
Of  sweet  repast ;  they  satiate,  and  soon  fill, 
Though  pleasant;  but  thy  words,  with  grace  di- 
vine 

Imbued,  bring  to  their  sweetness  no  satiety." 
To  whom  thus  Raphael   answered,  heavenly 

meek: 

"  Nor  are  thy  lips  ungraceful,  sire  of  men, 
Nor  tongue  ineloquent;  for  God  on  thee 
Abundantly  his  gifts  hath  also  poured 
Inward  and  outward  both,  his  image  fair: 
Speaking  or  mute,  all  comeliness  and  grace 
Attends  thee,  and  each  word,  each  motion  forms ; 
Nor  less  think  we  in  Heaven  of  thee  on  earth 
Than  our  fellow-servant,  and  inquire 
Gladly  into  the  ways  of  God  with  man : 
For  God,  we  see,  hath  honoured  thee  and  set 
On  man  his  equal  love:  say  therefore  on; 
For  I  that  day  was  absent,  as  befell, 
Bound  on  a  voyage  uncouth  and  obscure, 
Far  on  excursion  toward  the  gates  of  hell ; 
Squared  in  full  legion  (such  command  we  had) 
To  see  that  none  thence  issued  forth  a  spy, 
Or  enemy,  while  God  was  in  his  work ;  . 
Lest  he,  incensed  at  such  eruption  bold, 
Destruction  with  creation  might  have  mixed; 
Not  that  they  durst  without  his  leave  attempt, 
But  us  he  sends  upon  his  high  behests 
For  state,  as  sovereign  King,  and  to  insure 
Our  prompt  obedience.     Fast  we  found,  fast  shut 
The  dismal  gates,  and  barricadoed  strong; 
But  long  ere  our  approaching  heard  within 
Noise  other  than  the  sound  of  dance  or  song, 
Torment,  and  loud  lament,  and  furious  rage. 
Glad  we  returned  up  to  the  coasts  of  light 
Ere  sabbath  evening :  so  we  had  in  charge. 
But  thy  relation  now ;  for  I  attend, 
Pleased  with  thy  words  no  less  than  thou  with 

mine." 

So  spake  the  godlike  power,  and  thus  our  sire : 
"  For  man  to  tell  how  human  life  began, 
Is  hard;  for  who  himself  beginning  knew 7 
Desire  with  thee  still  longer  to  converse 
Induced  me.    As  new  waked  from  soundest  sleep, 
Soft  on  the  flowery  herb  I  found  me  laid, 
In  balmy  sweat,  which  with  his  beams  the  sun 
Soon  dried,  and  on  the  reeking  moisture  fed. 
Straight  toward  Heaven  my  wondering  eyes  I 

turned 

And  gazed  awhile  the  ample  sky;  till,  raised 
By  quick  instinctive  motion,  up  I  sprung, 
As  thitherward  endeavouring,  and  upright 
Stood  on  my  feet:  about  me  round  I  saw 


BOOK  vin. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


59 


Hill,  dale,  and  shady  woods,  and  sunny  plains, 
And  liquid  lapse  of  murmuring  streams;  by  these, 
Creatures  that  lived  and  moved,  and  walked,  or 

flew; 

Birds  on  the  branches  warbling;  all  things  smiled; 
With  fragrance  and  with  joy  my  heart  o'erflowed. 
Myself  I  then  perused,  and  limb  by  limb 
Surveyed,  and  sometimes  went,  and  sometimes  ran 
With  supple  joints,  as  lively  vigour  led: 
But  who  I  was,  or  where,  or  from  what  cause, 
Knew  not;  to  speak  I  tried,  and  forthwith  spake; 
My  tongue  obeyed,  and  readily  could  name 
Whate'er  I  saw,  '  Thou  sun,'  said  I,  '  fair  light, 
And  thou  enlightened  earth,  so  fresh  and  gay, 
Ye  hills  a iii I  (lairs,  ye  rivers,  woods,  and  plains, 
And  ye  that  live  and  move,  fair  creatures,  tell, 
Tell,  if  ye  saw,  how  came  I  thus,  how  here  1 
Not  of  myself;  by  some  great  Maker  then, 
In  goodness  and  in  power  pre-eminent: 
Tell  me,  how  may  I  know  him,  how  adore,. 
From  whom  I  have  that  thus  I  move  and  live, 
And  feel  that  I  am  happier  than  I  know.' 
While  thus  I  called,  and  strayed,  I  knew  not  whi- 
ther, 

From  where  I  first  drew  air,  and  first  beheld 
This  happy  light,  when,  answer  none  returned, 
On  a  green  shady  bank,  profuse  of  flowers 
Pensive  I  sat  me  down ;  there  gentle  sleep 
First  found  me,  and  with  soft  oppression  seized 
My  drowsed  sense,  untroubled,  though  I  thought 
I  then  was  passing  to  my  former  state 
Insensible,  and  forthwith  to  dissolve: 
When  suddenly  stood  at  my  head  a  dream, 
Whose  inward  apparition  gently  moved 
My  fancy  to  believe  I  yet  had  being, 
And  lived :  one  came,  methought,  of  shape  divine, 
And  said,  (  Thy  mansion  wants  thee  Adam;  rise, 
First  man,  of  men  innumerable  ordained 
First  father!  called  by  thee,  I  come  thy  guide 
To  the  garden  of  bliss,  thy  seat  prepared.' 
So  saying,  by  the  hand  he  took  me  raised, 
And  over  fields  and  waters,  as  in  air 
Smooth  sliding  without  step,  last  led  me  up 
A  woody  mountain ;  whose  high  top  was  plain, 
A  circuit  wide,  enclosed,  with  goodliest  trees 
Planted,  with  walks,  and  bowers,  that  what  I  saw 
Of  earth  before  scarce  pleasant  seemed.     Each 

tree, 

Loaden  with  fairest  fruit  that  hung  to  the  eye 
Tempting,  stirred  in  me  sudden  appetite 
To  pluck  and  eat ;  whereat  I  waked,  and  found 
Before  mine  eyes  all  real,  as  the  dream 
Had  lively  shadowed :  here  had  new  begun 
My  wandering,  had  not  he,  who  was  my  guide 
Up  hither,  from  among  the  trees  appeared, 
Presence  divine.     Rejoicing,  but  with  awe, 
In  adoration  at  his  feet  I  fell 
Submiss :  he  reared  me, c  and  whom  thou  sought'st 
I  am,' 


Said  mildly,  '  Author  of  all  this  thou  seest 
Above,  or  round  about  thee,  or  beneath, 
This  Paradise  I  give  thee,  count  it  thine 
To  till  and  keep,  and  of  the  fruit  to  eat : 
Of  every  tree  that  in  the  garden  grows 
Eat  freely  with  glad  heart;  fear  here  no  dearth: 
But  of  the  tree  whose  operation  brings 
Knowledge  of  good  and  ill,  which  I  have  set 
The  pledge  of  thy  obedience  and  thy  faith, 
Amid  the  garden  by  the  tree  of  life, 
Remember  what  I  warn  thee,  shun  to  taste, 
And  shun  the  bitter  consequence :  for  know, 
The  day  thou  eat'st  thereof,  my  sole  command 
Transgressed,  inevitably  thou  shalt  die, 
From  that  day  mortal,  and  this  happy  state 
Shalt  lose,  expelled  from  hence  into  a  world 
Of  wo  and  sorrow.'    Sternly  he  pronounced 
The  rigid  interdiction,  which  resounds 
Yet  dreadful  in  mine  ear,  though  my  choice 
Not  to  incur;  but  soon  his  clear  aspect 
Returned,  and  gracious  purpose  thus  renewed. 
1  Not  only  these  fair  bounds,  but  all  the  earth 
To  thee  and  to  thy  race  I  give:  as  lords 
Possess  it,  and  all  things  that  therein  live, 
Or  live  in  sea,  or  air ;  beast,  fish,  and  fowl. 
In  sign  whereof  each  bird  and  beast  behold 
After  their  kinds ;  I  bring  them  to  receive 
From  thee  their  names,  and  pay  thee  fealty 
With  low  subjection;  understand  the  same 
Of  fish  within  their  watery  residence, 
Not  hither  summoned,  since  they  can  not  change 
Their  element,  to  draw  the  thinner  air.' 
As  thus  he  spake,  each  bird  and  beast  behold 
Approaching  two  and  two;  these  cowering  low 
With  blandishment;   each  bird  stooped  on  his 

wing. 

I  named  them,  as  they  passed,  and  understood 
Their  nature,  wfch  such  knowledge  God  endued 
My  sudden  apprehension:  but  in  these 
I  found  not  what  methought  I  wanted  still : 
And  to  the  heavenly  vision  thus  presumed. 

"  '  O  by  what  name,  for  thou  above  all  these, 
Above  mankind,  or  aught  than  mankind  higher, 
Surpasseth  far  my  naming,  how  may  I 
Adore  thee,  Author  of  this  universe, 
And  all  this  good  to  man1?  for  whose  well  being 
So  amply,  and  with  hands  so  liberal, 
Thou  hast  provided  all  things:  but  with  me 
I  see  not  who  partakes.     In  solitude 
What  happiness,  who  can  enjoy  alone, 
Or,  all  enjoying,  what  contentment  find  V 
Thus  I  presumptuous;  and  the  vision  bright, 
As  with  a  smile  more  brightened,  thus  replied : 

'"What  call'st  thou  solitude?  is  not  the  earth 
With  various  living  creatures,  and  the  air, 
Replenished,  and  all  these  at  thy  command 
To  come  and  play  before  thee?  knowest  thou  not 
Their  language  and  their  ways  1  they  also  know, 
And  reason  not  contemptibly :  with  these 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  Vin. 


Find  pastime,  and  bear  rule ;  thy  realm  is  large.' 
So  spake  the  universal  Lord,  and  seemed 
So  ordering.    I,  with  leave  of  speech  implored, 
And  humble  deprecation,  thus  replied. 

"'Let  not   my  words  offend  thee,  heavenly 

power: 

My  Maker,  be  propitious  while  I  speak. 
Hast  thou  not  made  me  here  thy  substitute, 
And  these  inferior  far  beneath  me  set  1 
Among  unequals  what  society 
Can  sort,  what  harmony  or  true  delight  1 
Which  must  be  mutual,  in  proportion  due 
Given  and  received ;  but  in  disparity, 
The  one  intense,  the  other  still  remiss, 
Can  not  well  suit  with  either,  but  soon  prove 
Tedious  alike;  of  fellowship  I  speak 
Such  as  I  seek,  fit  to  participate 
All  rational  delight,  wherein  the  brute 
Can  not  be  human  consort ;  they  rejoice 
Each  with  their  kind,  lion  with  lioness; 
So  fitly  them  in  pairs  thou  hast  combined : 
Much  less  can  bird  with  beast,  or  fish  with  fowl 
So  well  converse,  nor  with  the  ox  the  ape : 
Worse  then  can  man  with  beast,  and  least  of  all.' 

"Whereto  th'  Almighty  answered,   not  dis- 


'  A  nice  and  subtle  happiness,  I  see, 

Thou  to  thyself  proposest,  in  the  choice 

Of  thy  associates,  Adam,  and  wilt  taste 

No  pleasure,  though  in  pleasure,  solitary. 

What  think'st  thou  then  of  me,  and  this  my  state? 

Seem  I  to  thee  sufficiently  possessed 

Of  happiness,  or  not?  who  am  alone 

From  all  eternity ;  for  none  I  know 

Second  to  me  or  like,  equal  much  less. 

How  have  I  then  with  whom  to  hold  converse, 

Save  with  the  creatures  which  I  made,  and  those 

To  me  inferior,  infinite  descents*  * 

Beneath  what  other  creatures  are  to  thee  ?' 

"  He  ceased ;  I  lowly  answered.     '  To  attain 
The  height  and  depth  of  thy  eternal  ways 
All  human  thoughts  come  short,  Supreme  of 

things ! 

Thou  in  thyself  art  perfect,  and  in  thee 
Is  no  deficience  found ;  not  so  is  man, 
But  in  degree ;  the  cause  of  his  desire 
By  conversation  with  his  like  to  help, 
Or  solace  his  defects.    No  need  that  thou 
Should'st  propagate,  already  infinite, 
And  through  all  numbers  absolute,  though  one ; 
But  man  by  number  is  to  manifest 
His  single  imperfection,  and  beget 
Like  of  his  like,  his  image  multiplied, 
In  unity  defective,  which  require 
Collateral  love,  and  dearest  amity 
Thou  in  thy  secrecy,  although  alone, 
Best  with  thyself  accompanied,  seek'st  not 
Social  communication ;  yet,  so  pleased, 
Canst  raise  thy  creature  to  what  height  thou  wilt 


Of  union  or  communion,  deified: 

I,  by  conversing,  can  not  these  erect 

From  prone ;  nor  in  their  ways  complacence  find. 

Thus  I  emboldened  spake,  and  freedom  used 

Permissive,  and  acceptance  found ;  which  gained 

This  answer  from  the  gracious  voice  divine. 

"  '  Thus  far  to  try  thee,  Adam,  I  was  pleased; 
And  find  knowing,  not  of  beasts  alone, 
Which  thou  hast  rightly  named,  but  of  thyself ; 
Expressing  well  the  spirit  within  thee  free, 
My  image,  not  imparted  to  the  brute ; 
Whose  fellowship  therefore  unmeet  for  thee 
Good  reason  wast  thou  freely  shouldst  dislike; 
And  be  so  minded  still :  I,  ere  thou  spak'st, 
Knew  it  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone, 
And  no  such  company  as  then  thou  saw'st 
Intended  thee,  for  trial  only  brought, 
To  see  how  thou  could'st  judge  of  fit  and  meet : 
What  next  I  bring  shall  please  thee,  be  assured, 
Thy  likeness,  thy  fit  help,  thy  other  self, 
Thy  wish  exactly  to  thy  heart's  desire.' 

"  He  ended,  or  I  heard  no  more;  for  now 
My  earthly  by  his  Heavenly  overpowered, 
Which  it  had  long  stood  under,  strained  to  th' 

height 

In  that  celestial  colloquy  sublime, 
As  with  an  object  that  excels  the  sense, 
Dazzled  and  spent,  sunk  down,  and  sought  repair 
Of  sleep,  which  instantly  fell  on  me,  called 
By  nature,  as  in  aid,  and  closed  mine  eyes. 
Mine  eyes  he  closed,  but  open  left  the  cell 
Of  fancy,  my  internal  sight,  by  which, 
Abstract  as  in  a  trance,  methought  I  saw, 
Though  sleeping,  where  I  lay,  and  saw  the  shape 
Still  glorious  before  whom  awake  I  stood ; 
Who,  stooping,  opened  my  left  side,  and  took 
From  thence  a  rib,  with  cordial  spirits  warm, 
And  life-blood   streaming  fresh;  wide  was  the 

wound, 

But  suddenly  with  flesh  filled  up  and  healed : 
The  rib  he  formed  and  fashioned  with  his  hands; 
Under  his  forming  hands  a  creature  grew, 
Manlike,  but  different  sex ;  so  lovely  fair, 
That  what  seemed  fair  in  all  the  world,  seemed 

now 

Mean,  or  in  her  summed  up,  in  her  contained 
And  in  her  looks,  which  from  that  time  infused 
Sweetness  into  my  heart,  unfelt  before, 
And  into  all  things  from  her  air  inspired 
The  spirit  of  love  and  amorous  delight. 
She  disappeared,  and  left  me  dark ;  I  waked 
To  find  her,  or  for  ever  to  deplore 
Her  loss,  and  other  pleasures  all  abjure: 
When  out  of  hope,  behold  her,  not  far  off, 
Such  as  I  saw  her  in  my  dream,  adorned 
With  what  all  earth  or  Heaven  could  bestow 
To  make  her  amiable :  on  she  came, 
Led  by  her  Heavenly  Maker,  though  unseen, 
And  guided  by  his  voice ;  nor  uninformed 


BOOK  vin. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


61 


Of  nuptial  sanctity,  and  marriage  rites : 
Grace  was  in  all  her  steps,  Heaven  in  her  eye 
In  every  gesture  dignity  and  love. 
I,  overjoyed,  could  not  forbear  aloud. 
"  '  This  turn  hath  made  amends;  thou  hast  ful 

filled 

Thy  words,  Creator  bounteous  and  benign, 
Giver  of  all  things  fair !  but  fairest  this 
Of  all  thy  gifts !  nor  enviest.     I  now  see 
Bone  of  my  bone,  flesh  of  my  flesh,  myself 
Before  me ;  woman  is  her  name,  of  man 
Extracted-:  for  this  cause  he  shall  forego 
Father  and  mother,  and  to  his  wife  adhere; 
And  they  shall  be  one  flesh,  one  heart,  one  soul.' 
"  She  heard  me   thus,   and,   though   divinely 

brought, 

Yet  innocence  and  virgin  modesty, 
Her  virtue  and  the  conscience  of  her  worth, 
That  would  be  wooed,  and  not  unsought  be  won, 
Not  obvious,  not  obstrusive,  but  retired, 
The  more  desirable ;  or,  to  say  all, 
Nature  herself,  though  pure  of  sinful  thought, 
Wrought  in  her  so,  that,  seeing  me,  she  turned: 
I  followed  her ;  she  what  was  honour  knew, 
And  with  obsequious  majesty  approved 
My  pleaded  reason.     To  the  nuptial  bower 
I  led  her  blushing  like  the  morn :  all  Heaven, 
And  happy  constellations,  on  that  hour 
Shed  their  selectest  influence ;  the  earth 
Gave  sign  of  gratulation,  and  each  hill ; 
Joyous  the  birds ;  fresh  gales  and  gentle  airs 
Whispered  it  to  the  woods,  and  from  their  wings 
Flung  rose,  flung  odours  from  the  spicy  shrub, 
Disporting,  till  the  amorous  bird  of  night 
Sung  spousal,  and  bid  haste  the  evening  star 
On  his  hill  top,  to  light  the  bridal  lamp. 

"  Thus  have  I  told  thee  all  my  state,  and  brought 
My  story  to  the  sum  of  earthly  bliss, 
Which  I  enjoy;  and  must  confess  to  find 
In  all  things  «K,  delight  indeed,  but  such 
As,  used  or  not,  works  in  the  mind  no  change, 
Nor  vehement  desire ;  these  delicacies, 
I  mean  of  taste,  sight,  smell,  herbs,  fruits,  and 

flowers, 

Walks,  and  the  melody  of  birds :  but  here 
Far  otherwise,  transported  I  behold, 
Transported  touch ;  here  passion  first  I  felt, 
Commotion  strange !  in  all  enjoyments  else 
Superior  and  unmoved;  here  only  weak 
Against  the  charm  of  beauty's  powerful  glance. 
Or  nature  failed  in  me,  and  left  some  part 
Not  proof  enough  such  object  to  sustain ; 
Or,  from  my  side  subducting,  took  perhaps 
More  than  enough ;  at  least  on  her  bestowed 
Too  much  of  ornament,  in  outward  show 
Elaborate,  of  inward  less  exact. 
For  well  I  understand  in  the  prime  end 
Of  nature  her  th1  inferior  in  the  mind 
And  inward  faculties,  which  most  excel; 


In  outward  also  her  resembling  less 
His  image  who  made  both,  and  less  expressing 
The  character  of  that  dominion  given 
O'er  other  creatures :  yet  when  I  approach 
Her  loveliness,  so  absolute  she  -seems, 
And  in  herself  complete,  so  well  to  know 
Her  own,  that  what  she  wills  to  do  or  say, 
Seems  wisest,  virtuousest,  discreetest,  best ; 
All  higher  knowledge  in  her  presence  falls 
Degraded ;  wisdom  in  discourse  with  her 
Loses  discountenanced,  and  like  folly  shows ; 
Authority  and  reason  on  her  wait, 
As  one  intended  first,  not  after  made 
Occasionally ;  and,  to  consummate  all, 
Greatness  of  mind,  and  nobleness,  their  seat 
Build  in  her  loveliest,  and  create  an  awe 
About  her,  as  a  guard  angelic  placed." 

To  whom  the  angel,  with  contracted  brow. 
"  Accuse  not  nature,  she  hath  done  her  part ;  **, 
Do  thou  but  thine ;  and  be  not  diffident 
Of  wisdom ;  she  deserts  thee  not,  if  thou 
Dismiss  not  her,  when  most  thou  need'st  her  nigh, 
By  attributing  over  much  to  things 
Less  excellent,  as  thou  thyself  perceiv'st. 
For  what  admirest  thou,  what  transports  thee  so, 
An  outside  1  fair,  no  doubt,  and  worthy  well 
Thy  cherishing,  thy  honouring,  and  thy  love ; 
Not  thy  subjection :  weigh  with  her  thyself; 
Then  value :  oft  times  nothing  profits  more 
Than  self-esteem,  grounded  on  just  and  right 
Well  managed ;  of  that  skill  the  more  thou  know- 

est, 

The  more  she  will  acknowledge  thee  her  head, 
And  to  realities  yield  all  her  shows : 
Made  so  adorn  for  thy  deliget  the  more, 
So  awful,  that  with  honour  thou  may'st  love 
Thy  mate,  who  sees  when  thou  art  seen  least  wise : 
But  if  the  sense  of  touch,  whereby  mankind 
Is  propagated,  seem  such  dear  delight 
Beyond  all  other,  think  the  same  vouchsafed 
To  cattle  and  each  beast ;  which  would  not  be 
To  them  made  common  and  divulged,  if  aught 
Therein  enjoyed  were  worthy  to  subdue 
The  soul  of  man,  or  passion  in  him  move. 
What  higher  in  her  society  thou  find'st 
Attractive,  human,  rational,  love  still ; 
'n  loving  thou  dost  well,  in  passion  not, 
Wherein  true  love  consists  not ;  love  refines 
The  thoughts,  and  heart  enlarges ;  hath  his  seat 
n  reason,  and  is  judicious ;  is  the  scale 
3y  which  to  heavenly  love  thou  may'st  ascend, 
Sot  sunk  in  carnal  pleasure ;  for  which  cause 
Among  the  beasts  no  mate  for  thee  was  found.'* 
To  whom  thus,  half  abashed,  Adam  replied. 
1  Neither  her  outside,  formed  so  fair,  nor  aught 
n  procreation  common  to  all  kinds 
Though  higher  of  the  genial  bed  by  far, 
A.nd  with  mysterious  reverence  I  deem) 
So  much  delights  me,  as  thos-e  graceful  acts, 


62 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  ix. 


Those  thousand  decencies,  that  daily  flow 
From  all  her  words  and  actions,  mixed  with  love 
And  sweet  compliance,  which  declare  unfeigned 
Union  of  mind,  or  in  us  both  one  soul ; 
Harmony  to  behold  in  wedded  pair 
More  grateful  than  harmonious  sound  to  the  ear. 
Yet  these  subject  not ;  I  to  thee  disclose 
What  inward  thence  I  feel,  not  therefore  foiled, 
Who  meet  with  various  objects,  from  the  sense 
Variously  representing :  yet,  still  free, 
Approve  the  best,  and  follow  what  I  approve. 
To  love  thou  blam'st  me  not,  for  love,  thou  say'st, 
Leads  up  to  Heaven,  is  both  the  way  and  guide : 
Bear  with  me  then,  if  lawful  what  I  ask : 
Love  not  the  heavenly  spirits,  and  how  their  love 
Express  they  1  by  looks  only  1  or  do  they  mix 
Irradiance,  virtual  or  immediate  touch  1" 

To  whom  the  angel,  with  a  smile  that  glowed 
Celestial  rosy  red,  love's  proper  hue, 
Answered.     ' '  Let  it  suffice  thee  that  thou  knowest 
Us  happy,  and  without  love  no  happiness. 
Whatever  pure  thou  in  the  body  enjoy 'st, 
(And  pure  thou  wert  created)  we  enjoy 
In  eminence,  and  obstacle  find  none 
Of  membrane,  joint,  or  limb,  exclusive  bars ; 
Easier  than  air  with  air,  if  spirits  embrace, 
Total  they  mix,  union  of  pure  with  pure 
Desiring ;  nor  restrained  conveyance  need, 
As  flesh  to  mix  with  flesh,  or  soul  with  soul. 
But  I  can  now  no  more;  the  parting  sun 
Beyond  the  earth's  green  cape  and  verdant  isles 
Hesperean  sets,  my  signal  to  depart. 
Be  strong,  live  happy,  and  love !  but,  first  of  all, 
Him,  whom  to  love  is  to  obey,  and  keep 
His  great  command ;  take  heed  lest  passion  sway 
Thy  judgment  to  do  aught,  which  else  free  will 
Would  not  admit :  thine,  and  of  all  thy  sons, 
The  weal  or  wo  in  thee  is  placed ;  beware ! 
I  in  thy  persevering  shall  rejoice, 
And  all  the  blest :  stand  fast ;  to  stand  or  fall 
Free  in  thine  own  arbitrement  it  lies. 
Perfect  within,  no  outward  aid  require ; 
And  all  temptation  to  transgress,  repel." 

So  saying,  he  arose ;  whom  Adam  thus 
Followed  with  benediction.     "  Since  to  part, 
Go,  heavenly  guest,  ethereal  messenger, 
Sent  from  whose  sovereign  goodness  I  adore ! 
Gentle  to  me  and  affable  hath  been 
Thy  condescension,  and  shall  be  honoured  ever 
With  grateful  memory :  thou  to  mankind 
Be  good  and  friendly  still,  and  oft  return." 
So  parted  they ;  the  angel  up  to  Heaven 
From  the  thick  shade,  and  Adam  to  his  bower. 


BOOK  IX. 

THE  ARGUMENT. 

Satan,  having  compassed  the  earth,  with  meditated  gu 
returns,  as  a  mist  by  night,  into  Paradise ;  enters  into  the  ser 


ent  sleeping.  Adam  and  Eve  in  the  morning  go  forth  to 
icir  labours,  which  Eve  proposes  to  divide  in  several  places, 
ach  labouring  apart ;  Adam  consents  not,  alleging  the  dan- 
er,  lest  that  enemy,  of  whom  they  were  forewarned,  should 
ttempt  her,  found  alone;  Eve,  teath-to  be  thought  not  cir- 
umspect  or  firm  enough,  urges  her  going  apart,  the  rather 
esirous  to  make  trial  of  her  strength ;  Adam  at  last  yields ; 
le  serpent  finds  her  alone ;  his  subtle  approach,  first  gazing, 
len  speaking;  with  much  flattery  extolling  Eve  above  all 
ther  creatures.  Eve,  wondering  to  hear  the  serpent  speak, 
ks  how  he  attained  to  human  speech  and  such  understand- 
g  not  till  now;  the  serpent  answers,  that  by  tasting  of  a  certain 
ree  in  the  garden  he  attained  both  to  speech  and  reason,  till 
len  void  of  both  ;  Eve  requires  him  to  bring  her  to  that  tree, 
nd  finds  it  to  be  the  tree  o'f  knowledge  forbidden :  the  ser- 
ent,  now  grown  bolder,  with  many  wiles  and  arguments  in- 
uces  her  at-  length  to  eat ;  she,  pleased  with  the  taste,  delibe- 
ates  a  while  whether  to  impart  thereof  to  Adam  or  not ;  at  last 
rings  him  of  the  fruit ;  relates  what  persuaded  her  to  eat 
hereof;  Adam,  at  first  amazed,  but  perceiving  her  lost,  re- 
ives, through  vehemence  of  love,  to  perish  with  her ;  and, 
xtenuating  the  trespass,  eats  also  of  the  fruit;  the  effects 
hereof  in  them  both;  they  seek  to  cover  their  nakedness; 
aen  fall  to  variance  and  accusation  of  one  another. 


more  of  talk,  where  God  or  angel  guest 
With  man,  as  with  his  friend,  familiar  used 
To  sit  indulgent,  and  with  him  partake 
lural  repast :  permitting  him  the  while 
Venial  discourse  unblamed :  I  now  must  change 
Those  notes  to  tragic ;  foul  distrust,  and  breach 
Disloyal ;  on  the  part  of  man,  revolt, 
And  disobedience :  on  the  part  of  Heaven, 
!^ow  alienated,  distance  and  distaste, 
Anger  and  just  rebuke,  and  judgment  given, 
That  brought  into  this  world  a  world  of  wo, 
Sin  and  her  shadow  Death,  and  Misery,     . 
Death's  harbinger:  sad  task!  yet  argument 
S"ot  less,  but  more  heroic  than  the  wrath 
Of  stern  Achilles  on  his  foe  pursued 
Thrice  fugitive  about  Troy  wall ;  or  rage 
Of  Turnus  for  Lavinia  disespoused ; 
Of  Neptune's  ire,  or  Juno's,  that  so  long 
Perplexed  the  Greek,  and  Cytherea's  son; 
[f  answerable  style  I  can  obtain 
Of  my  celestial  patroness,  who  deigns 
Her  nightly  visitation  unimplored, 
And  dictates  to  me  slumbering,  or  inspires  • 
Easy  my  unpremeditated  verse : 
Since  first  this  subject  for  heroic  song 
Pleased  me,  long  choosing,  and  beginning  late ; 
Not  sedulous  by  nature  to  indite 
Wars,  hitherto  the  only  argument 
Heroic  deemed ;  chief  mastery  to  dissect 
With  long  and  tedious  havoc,  fabled  knights 
In  battles  feigned ;  the  better  fortitude 
Of  patience  and  heroic  martyrdom 
Unsung ;  or  to  describe  races  and  games, 
Or  tilling  furniture,  emblazoned  shields, 
Impresses  quaint,  caparisons  and  steeds ; 
Bases  and  tinsel  trappings,  gorgeous  knights 
At  joust  and  tournament ;  then  marshalled  feast 
Served  up  in  hall  with  sewers,  and  seneschals ; 


BOOK  ix. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


G3 


The  skill  of  artifice  or  office  mean, 
Not  that  which  justly  gives  heroic  name 
To  person  or  to  poem.     Me  of  these 
Nor  skilled  nor  studious,  higher  argument 
Remains,  sufficient  of  itself  to  raise 
That  name,  unless  an  age  too  late,  or  cold 
Climate,  or  years,  damp  my  intended  wing 
Depressed ;  and  much  they  may,  if  all  be  mine, 
Not  hers,  who  brings  it  nightly  to  my  ear. 

The  sun  was  sunk,  and  after  him  the  star 
Of  Hesperus,  whose  office  is  to  bring 
Twilight  upon  the  earth,  short  arbiter 
'Twixt  day  aTid  night,  and  now  from  end  to  end 
Night's  hemisphere  had  veiled  the  horizon  round 
When  Satan,  who  late  fled  before  the  threats 
Of  Gabriel  out  of  Eden,  now  improved 
In  meditated  fraud  and  malice,  bent 
On  man's  destruction,  maugre  what  might  hap 
Of  heavier  on  himself,  fearless  returned. 
By  night  he  fled,  and  at  midnight  returned 
From  compassing  the  earth,  cautious  of  day, 
Since  Uriel,  regent  of  the  sun,  descried 
His  entrance,  and  forewarned  the  cherubim 
That  kept  their  watch;  thence,  full  of  anguish 

driven, 

The  space  of  seven  continued  night*  he  rode 
With  darkness;  thrice  the  equinoctial  line 
He  circled ;  four  times  crossed  the  car  of  night 
From  pole  to  pole,  traversing  each  colure; 
On  the  eighth  returned,  and,  on  the  coast  averse 
From  entrance  or  cherubic  watch,  by  stealth 
Found  unsuspected  way.    There  was  a  place, 
Now  not,  though  sin,  not  time,  first  wrought  the 

change, 

Where  Tigris,  at  the  foot  of  Paradise, 
Into  a  gulf  shot  under  ground,  till  part 
Rose  up  a  fountain  by  the  tree  of  life; 
In  with  the  river  sunk,  and  with  it  rose 
Satan,  involved  in  rising  mist,  then  sought 
Where  to  lie  hid;  sea  he  had  searched  and  land, 
From  Eden  over  Pontus,  and  the  pool- 
Mseotis,  up  beyond  the  river  Ob ; 
Downward  as  far  antarctic ;  and  in  length 
West  from  Orontes  to  the  ocean  barred 
At  Darien;  thence  to  the  land  where  flows 
Ganges  and  Indus:  thus  the  orb  he  roamed 
With  narrow  search,  and.  with  inspection  deep, 
Considered  every  creature,  which  of  all 
Most  opportune  might  serve  his  wiles,  and  found 
The  serpent  subtlest  beast  of  all  the  field. 
Him,  after  long  debate,  irresolute 
Of  thoughts  resolved,  his  final  sentence  chose 
Fit  vessel,  fittest  imp  of  fraud  in  whom 
To  enter,  and  his  dark  suggestions  hide 
From  sharpest  sight:  for,  in  the  wily  snake, 

!     Whatever  sleights  none  would  suspicious  mark, 
As  from  his  wit  and  native  subtlety 
Proceeding,  which,  in  other  beasts  observed, 
Doubt  might  beget  of  diabolic  power 


Active  within,  beyond  the  sense  of  brute. 
Thus  he  resolved,  but  first,  from  inward  grief, 
His  bursting  passion  into  plaints  thus  poured. 

"  O  earth,  how  like  to  Heaven,  if  not  preferred 
More  justly,  seat  worthier  of  gods,  as  built 
With  second  thoughts,  reforming  what  was  old! 
For  what  God,  after- better,  worse  would  build'? 
Terrestrial  Heaven,  danced  round  by  other  Hea- 
vens 

That  sliine,  yet  bear  their  bright  officious  lamps, 
Light  above  light,  for  thee  alone,  as  seems, 
In  thee  concent'ring  all  their  precious  beams 
Of  sacred  influence !  As  God  in  Heaven 
Is  centre,  yet  extends  to  all,  so  thou, 
Centering,  receivest  from  all  those  orbs;  in  thee, 
Not  in  themselves,  all  their  known  virtue,  appears 
Productive  in  herb,  plant,  and  nobler  birth 
Of  creatures  animate  with  gradual  life 
Of  growth,  sense,  reason,  all  summed  up  in  man. 
With  what  delight  could  I  have  walked  thee  round, 
If  1  could  joy  in  aught,  sweet  interchange 
Of  hill  and  valley,  rivers,  woods,  and  plains, 
Now  land,  now  sea,  and  shores  with  forest  crowned, 
Rocks,  dens,  and  caves!  but  I  in  none  of  these 
Find  place  or  refuge;  and  the  more  I  see 
Pleasures  about  me,  so  much  more  I  feel 
Torment  within  me,  as  from  the  hateful  siege 
Of  contraries;  all  good  to  me  becomes 
Bane,  and  in  Heaven  much  worse  would  be  my 

state. 

But  neither  here  seek  I,  no  nor  in  Heaven 
To  dwell,  unless  by  mastering  Heaven's  Supreme ; 
Nor  hope  to  be  myself  less  miserable 
By  what  I  seek,  but  others  to  make  such 
As  I,  though  thereby  worse  to  me  redound : 
For  only  in  destroying  I  find  ease 
To  my  relentless  thoughts ;  and,  him  destroyed, 
Or  won  to  what  may  work  his  utter  loss, 
For  whom  all  this  was  made,  all  this  will  soon 
Follow,  as  to  him  linked  in  weal  or  wo; 
In  wo  then;  that  destruction  wide  may  rage: 
To  me  shall  be  the  glory  sole  among 
The  infernal  powers,  in  one  day  to  have  marred 
What  he,  Almighty  styled,  six  nights  and  days 
Continued  making,  and  who  knows  how  long 
Before  had  been  contriving  1  though  perhaps 
Not  longer  than  since  I,  in  one  night,  freed 
From  servitude  inglorious  well  nigh  half 
The  angelic  name,  and  thinner  left  the  throng 
Of  his  adorers:  he,  to  be  avenged, 
And  to  repair  his  numbers  thus  impaired. 
Whether  such  virtue  spent  of  old  now  failed 
More  angels  to  create,  if  they  at  least 
Are  his  created,  or  to  spite  us  more, 
Determined  to  advance  into  our  room 
A  creature  formed  of  earth,  and  him  endow, 
Exalted  from  so  base  original, 
With  Heavenly  spoils,  our  spoils:  what  he  de- 
creed 


frl 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  ix 


He  effected;  man  he  made,  and  for  him  built 
Magnificent  this  world,  and  earth  his  seat, 
Him  lord  pronounced;  and,  O  indignity! 
Subjected  to  his  service  angel  wings, 
And  flaming  ministers,  to  watch  and  tend 
Their  earthly  charge:  of  these  the  vigilance 
I  dread ;  and,  to  elude,  thus  wrapt  in  mist 
Of  midnight  vapour,  glide  obscure,  and  pry 
In  every  bush  and  brake,  where  hap  may  find 
The  serpent  sleeping,  in  whose  mazy  folds 
To  hide  me,  and  the  dark  intent  I  bring. 
Of  foul  descent !  that  I,  who  erst  contended 
With  gods  to  sit  the  highest,  am  now  constrained 
Into  a  beast,  and,  mixed  with  bestial  slime, 
This  essence  to  incarnate  and  imbrute, 
That  to  the  height  of  Deity  aspired! 
But  what  will  not  ambition  and  revenge 
Descend  to*?  who  aspires,  must  down  as  low 
As  high  he  soared,  obnoxious  first  or  last 
To  basest  things.   Revenge,  at  first,  though  sweet, 
Bitter  ere  long,  back  on  itself  recoils ; 
Let  it ;  I  reck  not,  so  it  light  well  aimed, 
Since  higher  I  fall  short,  on  him  who  next 
Provokes  my  envy,  this  new  favourite 
Of  Heaven,  this  man  of  clay,  son  of  despite, 
Whom,  us  the  more  to  spite,  his  Maker  raised 
From  dust:  spite  then  with  spite  is  best  repaid." 

So  saying,  through  each  thicket  dank  or  dry, 
Like  a  black  mist  low  creeping,  he  held  on 
His  midnight  search,  where  soonest  he  might  find 
The  serpent:  him  fast  sleeping  soon  he  found 
In  labyrinth  of  many  a  round  self-rolled, 
His  head  the  midst,  well  stored  with  subtle  wiles : 
Nor  yet  in  horrid  shade  or  dismal  den, 
Nor  nocent  yet,  but  on  the  grassy  herb 
Fearless  unfeared  he  slept;  in  at  his  mouth 
The  Devil  entered,  and  his  brutal  sense, 
In  heart  or  head,  possessing,  soon  inspired, 
With  act  intelligential;  but  his  sleep 
Disturbed  not,  waiting  close  th'  approach  of  morn. 

Now  when  as  sacred  light  began  to  dawn 
In  Eden  on  the  humid  flowers,  that  breathed 
Their  morning  incense,  when  all  things  that 

breathe 

From  the  earth's  great  altar  send  up  silent  praise 
To  the  Creator,  and  his  nostrils  fill 
With  grateful  smell,  forth  came  the  human  pair, 
And  joined  their  vocal  worship  to  the  choir 
Of  creatures  wanting  voice :  that  done,  partake 
The  season,  prime  for  sweetest  scents  and  airs; 
Then  commune  how  that  day  they  best  may  ply 
Their  growing  work;  for  much  their  work  outgrew 
The  hands'  despatch  of  two  gardening  so  wide, 
And  Eve  first  to  her  husband  thus  began. 

"  Adam,  well  may  we  labour  still  to  dress 
This  garden,  still  to  tend  plant,  herb  and  flower, 
Our  pleasant  task  enjoined;  but,  till  more  hands 
Aid  us,  the  work  under  our  labour  grows, 
Luxurious  by  restraint ;  what  we  by  day 


Lop  overgrown,  or  prune,  or  prop,  or  bind, 
One  night  or  two  with  wanton  growth  derides, 
Tending  to  wild.     Thou  therefore  now  advise, 
Or  bear  what  to  my  mind  first  thoughts  present : 
Let  us  divide  our  labours ;  thou  where  choice 
Leads  thee,  or  where  most  needs,  whether  to  wind 
The  woodbine  round  this  arbour,  or  direct 
The  clasping  ivy  where  to  climb;  while  I, 
In  yonder  spring  of  roses  intermixed 
With  myrtle,  find  what  to  redress  till  noon ; 
For  while  so  near  each  other  thus  all  day 
Our  task  we  choose,  what  wonder  if  so  near 
Looks  intervene  and  smiles,  or  object  new 
Casual  discourse  draw  on,  which  intermits 
Our  day's  work,  brought  to  little,  though  begun 
Early,  and  the  hour  of  supper  comes  unearned?' 

To  whom  mild  answer  Adam  thus  returned: 
"  Sole  Eve,  associate  sole,  to  me  beyond 
Compare  above  all  living  creatures  dear, 
Well  hast  thou  motioned,  well  thy  thoughts  em- 
ployed, 

How  we  might  best  fulfil  the  work  which  here 
God  hath  assigned  us,  nor  of  me  shalt  pass 
Unpraised :  for  nothing  lovelier  can  be  found 
In  woman,  than  to  study  household  good, 
And  good  wor-ks  in  her  husband  to  promote. 
Yet  not  so  strictly  hath  our  Lord  imposed 
Labour,  as  to  debar  us  when  we  need 
Refreshment,  whether  food,  or  talk  between, 
Food  of  the  mind,  or  this  sweet  intercourse 
Of  looks  and  smiles:  for  smiles  from  reason  flow, 
To  brute  denied,  and  are  of  love  the  food ; 
Love,  not  the  lowest  end  of  human  life. 
For  not  to  irksome  toil,  but  to  delight 
He  made  us,  and  delight  to  reason  joined. 
These  paths  and  bowers  doubt  not  but  our  joint 

hands 

Will  keep  from  wilderness  with  ease,  as  wide 
As  we  need  walk,  till  younger  hands  ere  long 
Assist  us;  but  if  much  converse  perhaps 
Thee  satiate,  to  short  absence  I  could  yield ; 
For  solitude  sometimes  is  best  society, 
And  short  retirement  urges  sweet  return. 
But  other  doubt  possesses  me,  lest  harm 
Befall  thee  severed  from  me;  for  thou  knowest 
What  hath  been  warned  us,  what  malicious  foe, 
Envying  our  happiness,  and  of  his  own 
Despairing,  seeks  to  work  us  wo  and  shame 
By  sly  assault ;  and  somewhere  nigh  at  hand 
Watches,  no  doubt,  with  greedy  hope  to  find 
His  wish  and  best  advantage,  us  asunder, 
Hopeless  to  circumvent  us  joined,  where  each 
To  other  speedy  aid  might  lend  at  need : 
Whether  his  first  design  be  to  withdraw 
Our  fealty  from  God,  or  to  disturb 
Conjugal  love,  than  which  perhaps  no  bliss 
Enjoyed  by  us  excites  his  envy  more ; 
Or  this,  or  worse,  leave  not  the  faithful  side 
That  gave  thee  being,  still  shades  thee  and  protects. 


BOOK  rx. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


G5 


The  wife,  where  danger  or  dishonour  lurks, 
Safest  and  seemliest  by  her  husband  stays, 
Who  guards  her,  or  with  her  the  worst  endures." 
To  whom  the  virgin  majesty  of  Eve, 
As  one  who  loves,  and  some  unkindness  meets, 
With  sweet  austere  composure  thus  replied. 
"  Offspring  of  Heaven  and  earth,  and  all  earth's 

lord, 

That  such  an  enemy  we  have,  who  seeks 
Our  ruin,  both  by  thee  informed  I  learn 
And  from  the  parting  angel  overheard, 
As-  in  a  shady  nook  I  stood  behind, 
Just  then  returned  at  shut  of  evening  flowers. 
But  that  thou  shouldst  my  firmness  therefore  doubt 
To  God  or  thee,  because  we  have  a  foe 
May  tempt  it.  I  expected  not  to  hear. 
His  violence  thuii  fearest  not,  being  such 
As  we,  not  capable  of  death  or  pain, 
Can  eithe'r  not  receive,  or  can  repel. 
His  fraud  is  then  thy  fear,  which  plain  infers 
Thy  equal  fear  that  my  firm  faith  and  love 
Can  by  his  fraud  be  shaken  or  seduced ; 
Thoughts,  which  how  found  they  harbour  in  thy 

breast. 
Adam,  misthought  of  her  to  thee  so  dear?" 

To  whom  with  healing  words  Adam  replied. 
"  Daughter  of  God  and  man,  immortal  Eve! 
For  such  thou  art,  from  sin  and  blame  entire ; 
Not  diffident  of  thee  do  I  dissuade 
Thy  absence  from  my  sight,  but  to  avoid 
Th'  attempt  itself  intended  by  our  foe. 
For  he  who  tempts,  tho'  in  vain,  at  least  asperses 
The  tempted  with  dishonour  foul,  supposed 
Not  incorruptible  of  faith,  not  proof 
Against  temptation :  thou  thyself  with  scorn 
And  anger  wouldst  resent  the  offered  wrong, 
Though  ineffectual  found ;  misdeem  not  then, 
If  such  affront  I  labour  to  avert 
From  thee  alone,  which  on  us  both  at  once 
The  enemy,  though  bold,  will  hardly  dare, 
Or  daring,  first  on  me  the  assault  shall  light. 
Nor  thou  his  malice  and  false  guile  contemn ; 
Subtle  he  needs  must  be,  who  could  seduce 
Angels  :  nor  think  superfluous  others'  aid. 
I  from  the  influence  of  thy  looks  receive 
Access  in  every  virtue ;  in  thy  sight 
More  wise,  more  watchful,  stronger,  if  need  were 
Of  outward  strength;  while  shame,  thou  looking 

on, 

Shame  to  be  overcome  or  overreached, 
Would  utmost  vigour  raise,  and  raised  unite. 
Why  should'st  not  thou  like  sense  within  thee 

feel 

When  I  am  present,  and  thy  trial  choose 
With  me,  best  witness  of  thy  virtue  tried?" 

So  spake  domestic  Adam  in  his  care 
And  matrimonial  love;  but  Eve,  who  thought 
Less  attributed  to  her  faith  sincere, 
Thus  her  rrplv  with  accents  sweet  renewed. 
7 


"If  this  be  our  condition  thus  to  dwell 
In  narrow  circuit  straitened  by  a  foe, 
Subtle  or  violent,  we  not  endued 
Single  with  light  defence,  wherever  met, 
How  are  we  happy,  still  in  fear  of  harm'? 
But  harm  precedes  not  sin :  only  our  foe, 
Tempting,  affronts  us  with  his  foul  esteem 
Of  our  integrity ;  his  foul  esteem 
Sticks  no  dishonour  on  our  front,  but  turns 
Foul  on  himself;  then  wherefore  shunned  or  feared 
By  us?  who  rather  double  honour  gain 
From  his  surmise  proved  false,  find  peace  within, 
Favour  from  Heaven,  our  witness,  from  th'  event. 
And  what  is  faith,  love,  virtue,  unassayed 
Alone,  without  exterior  help  sustained  1 
Let  us  not  then  suspect  our  happy  state 
Left  so  imperfect  by  the  Maker  wise, 
As  not  secure  to  single  or  combined. 
Frail  is  our  happiness,  if  this  be  so, 
And  Eden  were  no  Eden,  thus  exposed." 

To  whom  thus  Adam  fervently  replied. 
"  O  woman,  best  are  all  things  as  the  will 
Of  God  ordained  them;  his  creating  hand 
Nothing  imperfect  or  deficient  left 
Of  all  that  he  created,  much  less  man, 
Or  aught  that  might  his  happy  state  secure, 
Secure  from  outward  force ;  within  himself 
The  danger  lies,  yet  lies  within  his  power; 
Against  his  will  he  can  receive  no  harm. 
But  God  left  free  the  will ;  for  what  obeys 
Reason  is  free ;  and  reason  has  made  right, 
But  bid  her  well  beware,  and  still  erect, 
Lest,  by  some  fair-appearing  good  surprised, 
She  dictate  false,  and  misinform  the  will 
To  do  what  God  expressly  hath  forbid. 
Not  then  mistrust  but  tender  love  enjoin:-:. 
That  I  should  mind  thee  oft,  and  mind  thou  me. 
Firm  we  subsist,  yet  possible  to  swerve 
Since  reason  not  impossibly  may  meet 
Some  specious  object  by  the  foe  suborned, 
And  fall  into  deception  unaware, 
Not  keeping  strictest  watch  as  she  was  warned. 
Seek  not  temptation  then,  which  to  avoid 
Were  better,  and  most  likely  if  from  me 
Thou  sever  not:  trial  will  come  unsought. 
Would'st  thou  approve  thy  constancy,  approve 
First  thy  obedience;  the  other  who  can  know, 
Not  seeing  thee  attempted,  who  attest  1 
But  if  thou  think  trial  unsought  may  find 
Us  both  securer  than  thus  warned  thou  seem'st, 
Go:  for  thy  stay,  not  free,  absents  thee  more; 
Go,  in  thy  native  innocence,  rely 
On  what  thou  hast  of  virtue ;  summon  all ! 
For  God  towards  thee  hath  done   his  part,  do 
thine.' 

So  spake  the  patriarch  of  mankind ;  but  Eve 
Persisted,  yet  submiss,  though  last  replied. 

"  With   thy  permission  then,  and  thus  fore- 
warned, 


66 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  ix. 


Chiefly  by  what  thy  own  last  reasoning  words 

Touched  only,  that  our  trial,  when  least  sought, 

May  find  us  both  perhaps  far  less  prepared, 

The  willinger  I  go,  nor  much  expect 

A  foe  so  proud  will  first  the  weaker  seek ; 

So  bent,  the  more  shall  shame  him  his  repulse." 

Thus  saying,  from  her  husband's  hand  her  hand 
Soft  she  withdrew,  and,  like  a  wood-nymph  light 
Oread  or  dryad,  or  of  Delia's  train, 
Betook  her  to  the  groves;  but  Delia's  self 
In  gait  surpassed,  and  goddess-like  deport, 
Though  not  as  she  with  bow  and  quiver  armed, 
But  with  such  gardening  tools  as  art,  yet. rude, 
Guiltless  of  fire,  had  formed,  or  angels  brought. 
To  Pales,  or  Pomona,  thus  adorned, 
Likest  she  seemed  Pomona,  when  she  fled 
Vertumnus,  or  to  Ceres  in  her  prime, 
Yet  virgin  of  Proserpina  from  Jove. 
Her  long  with  ardent  look  his  eye  pursued 
Delighted,  but  desiring  more  her  stay. 
Oft  he  to  her  his  charge  of  quick  return 
Repeated;  she  to  him  as  oft  engaged 
To  be  returned  by  noon  amid  the  bower, 
And  all  things  in  best  order  to  invite 
Noontide  repast,  or  afternoon's  repose. 
O.much  deceived,  much  failing,  hapless  Eve, 
Of  thy  presumed  return !  event  perverse ! 
Thou  never  from  that  hour  in  Paradise 
Found'st  either  sweet  repast,  or  sound  repose ; 
Such    ambush,    hid   among  sweet  flowers    and 

shades, 

"Waited  with  hellish  rancour  imminent 
To  intercept  thy  way,  or  send  thee  back 
Despoiled  of  innocence,  of  faith,  of  bliss  ! 
For  now,  and  since  first  break  of  dawn,  the  fiend, 
Mere  serpent  in  appearance,  forth  was  come, 
And  on  his  quest,  where  likeliest  he  might  find 
The  only  two  of  mankind,  but  in  them 
The  whole  included  race,  his  purposed  prey, 
In  bower  and  field  he  sought,  where  any  tuft 
Of  grove  or  garden-plot  more  plesarit  lay, 
Their  tendance,  or  plantation  of  delight; 
By  fountain  or  by  shady  rivulet 
He  sought  them  both,  but  wished  his  hap  might 

find 

Eve  separate ;  he  wished,  but  not  with  hope 
Of  what  so  seldom  chanced ;  when  to  his  wish, 
Beyond  his  hope,  Eve  separate  he  spies, 
Veiled  in  a  cloud  of  fragrance,  where  she  stood, 
Half  spied,  so  thick  the  roses  blushing  round 
About  her  glowed,  oft  stooping  to  support 
Each  flower  of  slender  stalk,  whose  head ,  though  gay 
Carnation,  purple,  azure,  or  specked  with  gold, 
Hung  drooping  unsustained ;  them  she  upstays 
Gently  with  myrtle  band,  mindless  the  while 
Herself,  though  fairest  unsupported  flower, 
From  her  best  prop  so  far,  and  storm  so  nigh. 
Nearer  he  drew,  and  many  a  walk  traversed 
Of  stateliest  covert,  cedar,  pine,  or  palm ; 


Then  voluble  and  bold,  now  hid,  now  seen, 
Among  thick-woven  arborets  and  flowers 
Imbordered  on  each  bank,  the  hand  of  Eve : 
Spot  more  delicious  than  those  gardens  feigned 
Or  of  revived  Adonis,  or  renowned 
Alcinous,  host  of  old  Laertes'  son ; 
Or  that,  not  mystic,  where  the  sapient  king 
Held  dalliance  with  his  fair  Egyptian  spouse. 
Much  he  the  place  admired,  the  person  more. 
As  one  who,  long  in  populous  city  pent, 
Where  houses  thick  and  sewers  annoy  the  air, 
Forth  issuing  on  a  summer's  morn,  to  breathe 
Among  the  pleasant  villages  and  farms 
Adjoined,  from  each  thing  met  conceives  delight ; 
The  smell  of  grain,  or  tedded  grass,  or  kine, 
Or  dairy,  each  rural  sight,  each  rural  sound ; 
If  chance  with  nymph-like  step  fair  virgin  pass, 
What  pleasing  seemed,  for  her  now  pleases  more ; 
She  most,  and  in  her.  look  sums  all  delignt : 
Such  pleasure  took  the  serpent  to  behold 
This  flowery  plat,  the  sweet  recess  of  Eve 
Thus  early,  thus  alone ;  her  heavenly  form 
Angelic,  but  more  soft,  and  feminine, 
Her  graceful  innocence,  her  every  air 
Of  gesture,  or  least  action,  overawed 
His  malice,  and  with  rapine  sweet  bereaved 
His  fierceness  of  the  fierce  intent  it  brought ; 
That  space  the  evil-one  abstracted  stood 
From  his  own  evil,  and  for  the  time  remained 
Stupidly  good,  of  enmity  disarmed, 
Of  guile,  of  hate,  of  envy,  of  revenge : 
But  the  hot  hell  that  always  in  him  burns, 
Though  in  mid  Heaven,  soon  ended  his  delight, 
And  tortures  him  now  more,  the  more  he  sees 
Of  pleasure,  not  -for  him  ordained  :  then  soon 
Fierce  hate  he  recollects,  and  all  his  thoughts 
Of  mischief  gratulating,  thus  excites. 

"  Thoughts,  whither  have  ye  led  me !  with  what 

sweet 

Compulsion  thus  transported,  to  forget 
WTiat  hither  brought  us ;  hate,  not  love,  nor  hope 
Of  Paradise  for  hell,  hope  there  to  taste 
Of  pleasure,  but,  all  pleasure  to  destroy, 
Save  what  is  in  destroying :  other  joy 
To  me  is  lost.     Then  let  me  not  let  pass 
Occasion  which  now  smiles ;  behold  alone 
The  woman,  opportune  to  all  attempts, 
Her  husband,  for  I  view  far  round,  not  nigh, 
Whose  higher  intellectual  more  I  shun, 
And  strength,  of  courage  haughty,  and  of  limb 
Heroic  built,  though  of  terrestrial  mould ; 
Foe  not  informidable !  exempt  from  wound, 
I  not ;  so  much  hath  hell  debased,  and  pain 
Enfeebled  me,  to  what  I  was  in  Heaven. 
She  fair,  divinely  fair,  fit  love  for  gods ! 
Not  terrible,  though  terror  be  in  love 
And  beauty,  not  approached  by  stronger  hate, 
Hate  stronger,  under  show  of  love  well  feigned  j 
The  way  which  to  her  ruin  now  I  tend." 


BOOK  rx. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


So  spake  the  enemy  of  mankind,  enclosed 
In  serpent,  inmate  bad  !  and  toward  Eve 
Addressed  his  wn y  :  not  with  indented  wave, 
Prone  on  the  ground,  as  since :  but  on  his  rear, 
Circular  base  of  rising  folds,  that  towered 
Fold  above  fold,  a  surging  maze !  his  head 
Crested  aloft,  and  carbuncle  his  eyes ; 
With  burnished  neck  of  verdant  gold,  erect 
Amidst  his  circling  spires,  that  on  the  grass 
Floated  redundant ;  pleasing  was  his  shape, 
And  lovely ;  never  since  of  serpent  kind 
Lovelier ;  not  those  that  in  Illyria  changed 
Hermione  and  Cadmus,  or  the  god 
In  Epidaurus ;  nor  to  which  transformed 
Arnmonian  Jove,  or  Capitoline  was  seen ; 
He  with  Olympias,  this  with  her  who  bore 
Scipio,  the  height  of  Rome.     With  tract  oblique 
At  first,  as  our  who  sought  access,  but  feared 
To  interrupt,  sidelong  he  works  his  way. 
As  when  a  ship,  by  skilful  steersman  wrought, 
Nigh  river's  mouth  or  foreland,  where  the  wind 
Veers  oft,  as  oft  so  steers,  and  shifts  her  sails ; 
So  varied  he,  and  of  his  tortuous  train 
Curled  many  a  wanton  wreath  in  sight  of  Eve, 
To  lure  her  eye ;  she,  busied,  heard  the  sound 
Of  rustling  leaves,  but  minded  not,  as  used 
To  such  disport  before  her  through  the  field, 
From  every  beast,  more  duteous  at  her  call, 
Than  at  Circean  call  the  herd  disguised. 
He,  bolder  now,  uncalled  before  her  stood, 
But  as  in  gaze  admiring:  oft  he  bowed 
His  turret  crest,  and  sleek  enamelled  neck, 
Fawning,  and  licked  the  ground  whereon  she  trod. 
His  gentle  dumb  expression  turned  at  length 
The  eye  of  Eve  to  mark  his  play ;  he,  glad 
Of  her  attention  gained,  with  serpent  tongue 
Organic,  or  impulse  of  vocal  air. 
His  fraudulent  temptation  thus  began. 

"  Wonder  not,  sovereign  mistress,  if  perhaps 
Thou  canst,  who  art  sole  wonder !  much  less  arm 
Thy  looks,  the  Heaven  of  mildness,  with  disdain, 
Displeased  that  I  approach  thee  thus,  and  gaze 
Insatiate ;  I  thus  single,  nor  have  feared 
Thy  awful  brow,  more  awful  thus  retired. 
Fairest  resemblance  of  thy  Maker  fair, 
Thee  all  things  living  gaze  on,  all  things  thine 
By  fjift,  and  thy  celestial  beauty  adore 
With  ravishment  l>eheld,  there  best  beheld 
Where  universally  admired ;  but  here 
In  this  enclosure  wild,  these  beasts  among, 
Beholders  rude,  and  shallow  tp  discern 
Half  what  In  thee  is  fair,  one  man  except, 


Though  at  the  voice  much  marvelling ;  at  length, 
Not  unamazed,  she  thus  in  answer  spake. 

"  What  may  tlu's  meanl  language  of  man  pro~ 

nounced 

By  tongue  of  brute,  and  human  sense  expressed  1 
The  first,  at  least,  of  these  I  thought  denied 
To  beasts,  whom  God,  on  their  creation-day, 
Created  mute  to  all  articulate  sound ; 
The  latter  I  demur ;  for  in  their  looks 
Much  reason,  and  in  their  actions,  oft  appears. 
Thee,  serpent,  subtlest  beast  of  all  the  field 
I  knew,  but  not  with  human  voice  endued ; 
Redouble  then  this  miracle,  and  say, 
How  cam'st  thou  speakable  of  mute,  and  now 
To  me  so  friendly  grown  above  the  rest 
Of  brutal  kind,  that  daily  are  in  sight  1 
Say,  for  such  wonder  claims  attention  due." 

To  wnom  the  guileful  tempter  thus  replied. 
"  Empress  of  this  fair  world,  resplendent  Eve ! 
Easy  to  me  it  is  to  tell  thee  all 
What  thou  commandest,  and  right  thou  shouldst 

be  obeyed ; 
I  was  at  first  as  other  beasts  that  graze 
The  trodden  herb,  of  abject  thoughts  and  low, 
As  was  my  food ;  nor  aught  but  food  discerned 
Or  sex,  and  apprehended  nothing  high : 
Till,  on  a  day  roving  the  field,  I  chanced 
A  goodly  tree  far  distant  to  behold, 
Loaden  with  fruit  of  fairest  colours  mixed, 
Ruddy  and  gold :  I  nearer  drew  to  gaze ; 
When  from  the  boughs  a  savoury  odour  blown, 
Grateful  to  appetite,  more  pleased  my  sense 
Than  smell  of  sweetest  fennel,  or  the  teats 
Of  ewe  or  goat  dropping  with  milk  at  even, 
Unsucked  of  lamb  or  kid,  that  tend  their  play. 
To  satisfy  the  sharp  desire  I  had 
Of  tasting  those  fair  apples,  I  resolved 
Not  to  defer ;  hunger  and  thirst  at  once, 
Powerful  persuaders,  quickened  at  the  scent 
Of  that  alluring  fruit,  urged  me  so  keen. 
About  the  mossy  trunk  I  wound  me  soon, 
For,  high  from  ground,  the  branches  would  re- 
quire 

Thy  utmost  reach  or  Adam's :  round  the  tree 
All  other  beasts  that  saw,  with  like  desire 
ponging  and  envying  stood,  but  could  not  reach. 
Amid  the  tree  now  got,  where  plenty  hung 
Tempting  so  nigh,  to  pluck  and  eat  my  fill 

spared  not ;  for  such  pleasure  till  that  hour, 
At  feed  or  fountain  never  had  I  found. 
Sated  at  length,  ere  long  I  might  perceive 
Strange  alteration  in  me,  to  degree 


Who  sees  thee  1  (and  what  is  one  1)  who  should'st  Of  reason  in  my  inward  powers,  and  speech 


be  seen 

A  goddess  among  gods,  adored  and  served 
By  angels  numberless,  thy  daily  train." 

So  glozed  the  tempter,  and  his  proem  tuned : 
Into  the  heart  of  Eve  his  words  made  way 


Wanted  not  long,  though  to  this  shtpe  retained. 
Thenceforth  to  speculations  high  or  deep 
I  turned  my  thoughts,  and  with  capacious  mind 
|  Considered  all  things  visible  in  Heaven, 
I  Or  earth,  or  middle,  all  things  fair  and  good  ; 


68 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  xt. 


But  all  that  fair  and  good  in  thy  divine 
Semblance,  and  in  thy  beauty's  heavenly  ray, 
United  I  beheld ;  no  fair  to  thine 
Equivalent  or  second,  which  compelled 
Me  thus,  though  importune  perhaps,  to  come 
And  gaze,  and  worship  thee,  of  right  declared 
Sovereign  of  creatures,  universal  dame!" 

So  talked  the  spirited,  sly  snake ;  and  Eve, 
Yet  more  amazed,  unwary  thus  replied. 
"  Serpent,  thy  overpraising  leaves  in  doubt 
The  virtue  of  that  fruit,  in  thee  first  proved  : 
But  say,  where  grows  the  tree  1  from  hence  how 

far? 

For  many  are  the  trees  of  God  that  grow 
In  Paradise,  and  various,  yet  unknown 
To  us ;  in  such  abundance  lies  our  choice, 
As  leaves  a  greater  store  of  fruit  untouched, 
Still  hanging  incorruptible,  till  men 
Grow  up  to  their  provision,  and  more  hands 
Help  to  disburden  Nature  of  her  birth." 

To  whom  the  wily  adder,  blithe  and  glad 
"  Empress,  the  way  is  ready,  and  not  long ; 
Beyond  a  row  of  myrtles,  on  a  flat, 
Fast  by  a  fountain,  one  small  thicket  past 
Of  blowing  myrrh  and  balm  *  if  thou  accept 
My  conduct,  I  can  bring  thee  thither  soon." 

"Lead  then,"  said  Eve.    He,  leading,  swiftly 

rolled 

In  tangles,  and  made  intricate  seem  straight, 
To  mischief  swift.     Hope  elevates,  and  joy 
Brightens  his  crest ;  as  when  a  wandering  fire, 
Compact  of  unctuous  vapour,  which  the  night 
Condenses,  and  the  cold  environs  round, 
Kindled  through  agitation  to  a  flame, 
Which  oft,  they  say,  some  evil  spirit  attends, 
Hovering  and  blazing  with  delusive  light, 
Misleads  the  amazed  night  wanderer  from  his  way 
To  bogs  and  mires,  and  oft  through  pond  or  pool; 
There  swallowed  up  and  lost,  from  succour  far. 
So  glistered  the  dire  snake,  and  into  fraud 
Led  Eve,  otir  credulous  mother  to  the  tree 
Of  prohibition,  root  of  all  our  wo  ; 
Which  when  she  saw,  thus  to  her  guide  she  spake. 
"  Serpent,  we  might  have  spared  our  coming  hither, 
Fruitless  to  me,  though  fruit  be  here  to  excess, 
The  credit  of  whose  virtue  rests  with  thee ; 
Wondrous  indeed,  if  cause  of  such  effects. 
But  of  this  tree  we  may  not  taste  nor  touch  j 
God  so  commanded,  and  left  that  command 
Sole  daughter  of  his  voice;  the  rest,  we  live 
Law  to  ourselves ;  our  reason  is  our  law." 

To  whom  the  tempter  guilefully  replied. 
"  Indeed !  hath  God  then  said  that  of  the  fruit 
Of  all  these  garden  trees  ye  shall  not  eat, 
Yet  lords  declared  of  all  in  earth  or  air  ?" 

To  whom  thus  Eve,  yet  sinless.    "  Of  the  fruit 
Of  each  tree  in  the  garden  we  may  eat ; 
But  of  the  fruit  of  this  fair  tree  amidst 


The  garden,  God  hath  said,  '  Ye  shall  not  eat 
Thereof,  nor  shall  ye  touch  it,  lest  ye  die.'" 
She  scarce  had  said,  though  brief,  when  now 

more  bold 

The  tempter,  but  with  show  of  zeal  and  love 
To  man,  and  indignation  at  his  wrong, 
New  parts  put  on;  and,  as  to  passion  moved, 
Fluctuates  disturbed,  yet  comely  and  in  act 
Raised,  as  of  some  great  matter  to  begin. 
As  when  of  old  some  orator  renowned, 
In  Athens  or  free  Rome,  where  eloquence 
Flourished,  since  mute,  to  some  great  cause  ad- 
dressed, 

Stood  in  himself  collected ;  while  each  part, 
Motion,  each  act,  won  audience  ere  the  tongue; 
Sometimes  in  height  began,  as  no  delay 
Of  preface  brooking,  through  his  zeal  of  right : 
So  standing,  moving,  or  to  height  up  grown, 
The  tempter,  all  impassioned,  thus  began. 

"  O  sacred,  wise,  and  wisdom-giving  plant, 
Mother  of  science !  now  I  feel  thy  power 
Within  me  clear,  not  only  to  discern 
Things  in  their  causes,  but  to  trace  the  ways 
Of  highest  agents,  deemed  however  wise. 
Ctueen  of  this  universe !  do  not  believe 
Those  rigid  threats  of  death ;  ye  shall  not  die : 
How  should  ye?  by  the  fruit?  it  gives  you  life 
To  knowledge:  by  the  threatened  look  on  me, 
Me  who  have  touched  and  tasted,  yet  both  live, 
And  life  more  perfect  have  attained  than  fate 
Meant  me,  by  venturing  higher  than  my  lot. 
Shall  that  be  shut  to  man,  which  to  the  beast 
Is  open  ?  or  will  God  incense  his  ire 
For  such  a  petty  trespass?  and  not  praise 
Rather  your  dauntless  virtue,  whom  the  pain 
Of  death  denounced,  whatever  thing  death  be, 
Deterred  not  from  achieving  what  might  lead 
To  happier  life,  knowledge  of  good  and  evil; 
Of  good,  how  just?  of  evil,  if  what  is  evil 
Be  real,  why  not  known,  since  easier  shunned  ? 
God  therefore  can  not  hurt  ye,  and  be  just ; 
Not  just,  not  God ;  not  feared  then,  nor  obeyed: 
Your  fear  itself  of  death  removes  the  fcar. 
Why  then  was  this  forbid?  Why,  but  to  awe? 
Why,  but  to  keep  ye  low  and  ignorant, 
His  worshippers  ?    He  knows  that  in  the  day 
Ye  eat  thereof,  your  eyes  that  seem  so  clear, 
Yet  are  but  dim,  shall  perfectly  be  then 
Opened  and  cleared,  and  ye  shall  be  as  gods, 
Knowing  both  good  and  evil,  as  they  know. 
That  ye  shall  be  as  gods,  since  I  as  man, 
Internal  man,  is  but  proportion  meet;  • 
I,  of  brute,  human;  ye,  of  human,  gods. 
So  ye  shall  die  perhaps,  by  putting  off 
Human,  to  put  on  gods;  death  to  be  wished, 
Though  threatened,  which  no  worse  than  this  can 

bring. 
And  what  are  gods,  that  man  may  not  become 


BOOK  ix. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


As  they,  participating  godlike  food  1 

-Is  arc  first,  and  that  advantage  use 
On  our  belief,  that  all  from  them  proceeds : 
I  question  it ;  for  this  fair  earth  I  see, 
Warmed  by  the  sun,  producing  every  kind ; 
Them,  nothing-,  if  they  all  things,  who  enclosed 
Knowledge  of  good  and  evil  in  this  tree, 
That  whoso  eats  thereof,  forthwith  attains 
Wisdom  without  their  leave  1  and  wherein  lies 
The  offence,  that  man  should  thus  attain  to  know? 
What  can  your  knowledge  hurt  him,  or  this  tree 
Impart  against  his  will,  if  all  be  his  ? 
Or  is  it  envy  1  and  can  envy  dwell 
In  heavenly  breasts  1  These,  these  and  many  more 
Causes  import  your  need  of  tlu's  fair  fruit. 
Goddess  humane,  reach  then,  and  freely  taste !" 

He  ended ;  and  his  words,  replete  with  guile, 
Into  her  heart  too  easy  entrance  won: 
Fixed  on  the  fruit  she  gazed,  which  to  behold 
Might  tempt  alone ;  and  in  her  ears  the  sound 
Yet  rung  of  his  persuasive  words,  impregned 
With  reason,  to  her  seeming,  and  with  truth : 
Meanwhile  the  hour  of  noon  drew  on,  and  waked 
An  eager  appetite,  raised  by  the  smell 
So  savoury  of  that  fruit,  with  which  desire, 
Inclinable  now  grown  to  touch  or  taste, 
Solicited  her  longing  eye ;  yet  first 
Pausing  a  while,  thus  to  herself  she  mused. 

"  Great  are  thy  virtues,  doubtless,  best  of  fruits, 
Though  kept  from  man,  and  worthy  to  be  admired : 
Whose  taste,  too  long  forborne,  at  first  assay 
Gave  elocution  to  the  mute,  and  taught 
The  tongue  not  made  for  speech,  to  speak  thy 

praise : 

Thy  praise  he  also,  who  forbids  thy  use, 
Conceals  not  from  us,  naming  thee  the  tree 
Of  knowledge,  knowledge  both  of  good  and  evil; 
Forbids  us  then  to  taste !  but  his  forbidding 
Commends  thce  more,  while  it  infers  the  good 
By  thee  communicated,  and  our  want: 
For  good  unknown,  sure  is  not  had ;  or,  had 
And  yet  unknown,  is  as  not  had  at  all. 
In  plain  then,  what  forbids  he  but  to  know, 
Forbids  us  good,  forbids  us  to  be  wise  1 
Such  prohibitions  bind  not.     But,  if  death 
Bind  us  with  after-bands,  what  profits  then 
Our  inward  freedom?    In  the  day  we  eat 
Of  this  fair  fruit,  our  doom  is,  we  shall  die. 
How  dies  the  serpent  1  he  hath  eaten  and  lives, 
And  knows,  and  speaks,  and  reasons,  and  discerns, 
Irrational  till  then.     For  us  alone 
Was  death  invented  1  or  to  us  denied 
This  intellectual  food,  for  beasts  reserved  1 
For  beasts  it  seems :  yet  that  one  beast  which  first 
I  lath  tasted,  envies  not,  but  brings  with  joy 
The  good  befallen  him,  author  unsuspect, 
Friendly  to  man,  far  from  deceit  or  guile. 
What  fear  I  then?  rather,  what  know  to  fear 
lTn,).-r  this  ignorance  of  good  and  evil, 


Of  God  or  death,  of  law  or  penalty? 

Here  grows  the  cure  of  all,  this  fruit  divine, 

Fair  to  the  eye,  inviting  to  the  taste, 

Of  virtue  to  make  wise:  what  hinders  then 

To  reach,  and  feed  at  once  both  body  and  mind?" 

So  saying,  her  rash  hand  in  evil  hour 
Forth  reaching  to  the  fruit,  she  plucked,  she  eat ! 
Earth  felt  the  wound;  and  Nature  from  her  seat, 
Sighing  through  all  her  works,  gave  signs  of  wo, 
That  all  was  lost.     Back  to  the  thicket  slunk 
The  guilty  serpent;  and  well  might;  for  Eve, 
Intent  now  wholly  on  her  taste,  naught  else 
Regarded;  such  delight  till  then,  as  seemed, 
In  fruit  she  never  tasted,  whether  true 
Or  fancied  so,  through  expectation  high 
Of  knowledge,  nor  was  Godhead  from  her  thought. 
Greedily  she  ingorged  without  restraint, 
And  knew  not  eating  death :  satiate  at  length, 
And  heightened  as  with  wine,  jocund  and  boon, 
Thus  to  herself  she  pleasingly  began. 

"  O  sovereign,  virtuous,  precious  of  all  trees 
In  Paradise!  of  operation  blest 
To  sapience,  hitherto  obscured,  infamed, 
And  thy  fair  fruit  let  hang,  as  to  no  end 
Created ;  but  henceforth  my  early  care, 
Not  without  song,  each  morning,  and  due  praise, 
Shall  tend  thce,  and  the  fertile  burden  ease 
Of  thy  full  branches  offered  free  to  all; 
Till,  dieted  by  thee,  I  grow  mature 
In  knowledge,  as  the  gods,  who  all  things  know; 
Though  others  envy  what  they  can  not  give: 
For,  had  the  gift  been  theirs,  it  had  not  here 
Thus  grown.    Experience,  next  to  thee  I  owe, 
Best  guide;  not  following  thee,  I  had  remained 
In  ignorance ;  thou  openest  wisdom's  way, 
And  giv'st  access,  though  secret  she  retire. 
And  I  perhaps  am  secret :  Heaven  is  high, 
High,  and  remote  to  see  from  thence  distinct 
Each  thing  on  earth;  and  other  care,  perhaps, 
May  have  diverted  from  continual  watch 
Our  great  Forbidder,  safe  with  all  his  spies 
About  him.     But  to  Adam  in  what  sort 
Shall  I  appear?  shall  I  to  make  him  known 
As  yet  my  change,  and  give  him  to  partake 
Full  happiness  with  me,  or  rather  not, 
But  keep  the  odds  of  knowledge  in  my  power 
Without  copartner?  so  to  add  what  wants 
In  female  sex,  the  more  to  draw  his  love, 
And  render  me  more  equal ;  and  perhaps, 
A  thing  not  undesirable,  sometime 
Superior;  for,  inferior,  who  is  free? 
This  may  be  well:  but  what  if  God  have  seen, 
And  death  ensue?  then  I  shall  be  no  more! 
And  Adam,  wedded  to  another  Eve, 
Shall  live  with  her  enjoying,  I  extinct ; 
A  death  to  think !  Confirmed  then  I  resolve, 
Adam  shall  share  with  me  in  bliss  or  wo: 
So  dear  I  love  him,  that  with  him  all  deaths 
I  could  endure,  without  him  live  no  life," 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  XI, 


So  saying,  from  the  tree  her  steps  she  turned ; 
But  first  low  reverence  done,  as  to  the  power 
That  dwelt  within,  whose  presence  had  infused 
Into  the  plant  sciential  sap,  derived 
From  nectar,  drink  of  gods.     Adam,  the  while, 
Waiting  desirous  her  return,  had  wove 
Of  choicest  flowers  a  garland,  to  adorn 
Her  tresses,  and  her  rural  labours  crown; 
As  reapers  oft  are  wont  their  harvest  queen. 
Great  joy  he  promised  to  his  thoughts,  and  new 
Solace  in  her  return,  so  long  delayed: 
Yet  oft  his  heart,  divine  of  something  ill, 
Misgave  him  ;  he  the  faltering  measure  felt ; 
And  forth  to  meet  her  went,  the  way  she  took 
That  morn  when  first  they  parted ;  by  the  tree 
Of  knowledge  he  must  pass  j  there  he  her  met, 
Scarce  from  the  tree  returning ;  in  her  hand 
A  bough  of  fairest  fruit,  that  downy  smiled, 
New  gathered,  and  ambrosial  smell  diffused. 
To  him  she  hasted,  in  her  face  excuse 
Came  prologue,  and  apology  too  prompt ; 
Which,  with  bland  words  at  will,  she  thus  ad- 
dressed. 

"  Hast  thou  not  wondered,  Adam,  at  my  stay? 
Thee  I  have  missed,  and  thought  it  long,  deprived 
Thy  presence ;  agony  of  love  till  now 
Not  felt,  nor  shall  be  twice ;  for  never  more 
Mean  I  to  try,  what  rash  untried  I  sought, 
The  pain  of  absence  from  thy  sight.    But  strange 
Hath  been  the  cause,  and  wonderful  to  hear : 
This  tree  is  not,  as  we  are  told,  a  tree 
Of  danger  tasted,  nor  to  evil  unknown 
Opening  the  way,  but  of  divine  effect 
To  open  eyes,  and  make  them  gods  who  taste ; 
And  hath  been  tasted  such :  the  serpent  wise, 
Or  not  restrained  as  we,  or  not  obeying, 
Hath  eaten  of  the  fruit,  and  is  become, 
Not  dead,  as  we  are  threatened,  but  thenceforth 
Endued  with  human  voice  and  human  sense, 
Reasoning  to  .admiration ;  and  with  me 
Persuasively  hath  so  prevailed,  that  I 
Have  also  tasted,  and  have  also  found 
The  effects  to  correspond ;  opener  mine  eyes, 
Dim  erst,  dilated  spirits,  ampler  heart, 
And  growing  up  to  Godhead ;  which  for  thee 
Chiefly  I  sought,  without  thee  can  despise. 
For  bliss,  as  thou  hast  part,  to  me  is  hjiss ; 
Tedious,  unshared  with  thee,  and  odious  soon. 
Thou  therefore  also  taste,  that  equal  lot 
May  join  us,  equal  joy,  as  equal  love ; 
Lest,  thou  not  tasting,  different  degree 
Disjoin  us,  and  I  then  too  late  renounce 
Deity  for  thee,  when  fate  will  not  permit." 

Thus   Eve  with  countenance  blithe  her  story 

told; 

But  in  her  cheek  distemper  flushing  glowed. 
On  the  other  side,  Adam,  soon  as  he  heard 
The  fatal  trespass  done  by  Eve,  amazed, 
Astonished  stood  and  blank,  while  horror  chill 


Ran  through  his  veins,  and  all  his  joints  relaxed; 
From  his  slack  hand  the  garland  wreathed  for  Eve 
Down  dropt,  and  all  the  faded  roses  shed : 
Speechless  he  stood  and  pale,  till  thus  at  length 
First  to  himself  he  inward  silence  broke. 

"  O  fairest  of  creation,  last  and  best 
Of  all  God's  works,  creature  in  whom  excelled 
Whatever  can  to  sight  or  thought  be  formed, 
Holy,  divine,  good,  amiable, or  sweet! 
How  art  thou  lost !  how  on  a  sudden  lost, 
Defaced,  deflowered,  and  now  to  death  devote ! 
Rather,  how  hast  thou  yielded  to  transgress 
The  strict  forbiddance,  how  to  violate 
The  sacred  fruit  forbidden !  some  cursed  fraud 
Of  enemy  hath  beguiled  thee,  yet  unknown, 
And  me  with  thee  hath  ruined ;  for  with  thee 
Certain  my  resolution  is  to  die: 
How  can  I  live  without  thee !  how  forego 
The  sweet  converse,  and  love  so  dearly  joined, 
To  live  again  in  these  wild  woods  forlorn  ! 
Should  God  create  another  Eve,  and  I 
Another  rib  afford,  yet  loss  of  thee 
Would  never  from  heart :  no,  no !  I  feel 
The  link  of  nature  draw  me :  flesh  of  flesh, 
Bone  of  my  bone  thou  art,  and  from  thy  state 
Mine  never  shall  be  parted,  bliss  or  wo." 

So  having  said,  as  one  from  sad  dismay 
Recomforted,  and,  after  thoughts  disturbed, 
Submitting  to  what  seemed  remediless, 
Thus  in  calm  mood  his  words  to  Eve  he  turned. 

"  Bold  deed  thou  hast  presumed,  adventurous 

Ever 

And  peril  great  provoked,  who  thus  hast  dared, 
Had  it  been  only  coveting  to  eye 
That  sacred  fruit,  sacred  to  abstinence, 
Much  more  to  taste  it  under  ban  to  touch. 
But  past  who  can  recall,  or  done  undo? 
Not  God  omnipotent,  nor  Fate ;  yet  so 
Perhaps  thou  shalt  not  die,  perhaps  the  fact 
Is  not  so  heinous  now,  foretasted  fruit, 
Profaned  first  by  the  serpent,  by  him  first    • 
Made  common  and  unhallowed,  ere  our  taste; 
Nor  yet  on  him  found  deadly ;  he  yet  lives ; 
Lives,  as  thou  saidst,  and  gains  to  live,  as  man, 
Higher  degree  of  life,  inducement  strong 
To  us,  as  likely  tasting  to  attain 
Proportional  ascent,  which  can  not  be 
But  to  be  gods,  or  angels,  demi-gods. 
Nor  can  I  think  that  God  Creator  wise, 
Though  threatening,  will  in  earnest  so  destroy 
Us  his  prime  creatures,  dignified  so  high, 
Set  over  all  his  works,  which  in  our  fall, 
For  us  created,  needs  with  us  must  fail, 
Dependent  made  ;  so  God  shall  uncreatc, 
Be  frustrate,  do,  undo,  and  labour  lose; 
Not  well  conceived  of  God,  who,  though  his  power 
Creation  could  repeat,  yet  would  be  loath 
Us  to  abolish,  lest  the  adversary 
Triumph,  and  say ;  '  Fickle  their  state  whom  God 


BOOK  ix. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


7J 


Most  favours;  who  can  please  him  long!  Me  first 
1  le  ruined,  now  mankind ;  whom  will  he  next?" 
Matter  of  scorn,  not  to  be  given  the  foe. 
However  I  with  thee  have  fixed  my  lot, 
Certain  to  undergo  like  doom :  if  death 
Consort  with  thee,  death  is  to  me  as  life; 
So  forcible  within  my  heart  I  feel 
The  bond  of  nature  draw  me  to  my  own; 
My  own  in  thee,  for  what  thou  art  is  mine; 
Our  state  can  not  be  severed ;  we  are  one, 
One  flesh;  to  lose  thee  were  to  lose  myself." 

So  Adam ;  and  thus  Eve  to  him  replied. 
"  O  glorious  trial  of  exceeding  love, 
Illustrious  .evidence,  example  high! 
Engaging  me  to  emulate ;  but,  short 
Of  thy  perfection,  how  shall  I  attain, 
Adam!  from  whose  dear  side  I  boast  me  sprung, 
And  gladly  of  our  union  hear  thee  speak, 
One  heart,  one  soul  in  both ;  whereof  good  proof 
This  day  affords,  declaring  thee  resolved, 
Rather  than  death,  or  aught  than  death  more 

dread, 

Shall  separate  us,  linked  in  love  so  dear, 
To  undergo  with  me  one  guilt,  one  crime, 
If  any  be,  of  tasting  this  fair  fruit, 
Whose  virtue  (for  of  good  still  good  proceeds. 
Direct,  or  by  occasion)  hath  presented 
This  happy  trial  of  thy  love,  which  else 
So  eminently  never  had  been  known. 
Were  it  I  thought  death  menaced  would  ensue 
This  my  attempt,  I  would  sustain  alone 
The  worst,  and  not  persuade  thee,  rather  die 

;i'd,  than  oblige  thee  with  a  fact 
Pernicious  to  thy  peace ;  chiefly  assured 
Remarkably  so  late  of  thy  so  true, 
So  faithful  love  unequalled ;  but  I  feel 
Far  otherwise  the  event ;  not  death,  but  life 
Augmented,  opened  eyes,  new  hopes,  new  joys, 

-o  divine,  that  what  of  sweet  before 
Had  touched  my  sense.  Hat  seems  to  this,  and  harsh. 
On  my  experience,  Adam,  freely  taste, 
And  fear  of  death  deliver  to  the  winds." 

So  saying,  she  embraced  him,  and  for  joy 
Tenderly  wept ;  much  won  that  he  his  love 
Had  so  ennobled,  a.s  of  choice  to  incur 
Divine  displeasure  for  her  sake,  or  death 
In  rrcomj>ense  (for  such  compliance  bad 
Such  recompense  best  merits)  from  the  bough 
She  gave  him  of  that  fair  enticing  fruit 
With  liberal  hand :  he  scrupled  not  to  eat, 
A  ii'iinst  his  better  knowledge ;  not  deceived, 
But  fondly  overcome  with  female  charm. 
Earth  trembled  from  her  entrails,  as  again 
In  pangs;  and  Nature  gave  a  second  groan; 
Sky  lowered ;  and,  muttering  thunder,  some  sad 

drops 

Wept  at  completing  of  the  mortal  sin 
Original :  while  Adam  took  no  thought, 
Eating  his  fill ;  nor  Eve  to  iterate 


Her  former  trespass  feared,  the  more  to  sooth 
Him  with  her  loved  society;  that  now, 
As  with  new  wine  intoxicated  both, 
They  swim  in  mirth,  and  fancy  that  they  feel 
Divinity  within  them  breeding  wings, 
Wherewith  to  scorn  the  earth :  but  that  false  fruit 
Far  other  operation  first  displayed, 
Carnal  desire  inflaming ;  he  on  Eve 
Began  to  cast  lascivious  eyes ;  she  him 
As  wantonly  repaid;  in  lust  they  burn : 
Till  Adam  thus  'gan  Eve  to  dalliance  move. 
"  Eve,  now  I  see  thou  art  exact  of  taste, 
And  elegant,  of  sapience  no  small  part ; 
Since  to  each  meaning  savour  we  apply, 
And  palate  called  judicious;  I  the  praise 
Yield  thee,  so  well  this  day  thou  hast  purveyed. 
Much  pleasure  we  have  lost,  while  we  abstained 
From  this  delightful  fruit,  nor  known  till  now 
True  relish,  tasting ;  if  such  pleasure  be 
In  things  to  us  forbidden,  it  might  be  wished, 
For  this  one  tree  had  been  forbidden  ten. 
But  come,  so  well  refreshed,  now  let  us  play, 
As  meet  is,  after  such  delicious  fare, 
For  never  did  thy  beauty,  since  the  day 
I  saw  thee  first  and  wedded  thee,  adorned 
With  all  perfections,  so  inflame  my  sense 
With  ardour  to  enjoy  thee,  fairer  now 
Than  ever;  bounty  of  this  virtuous  tree!" 

So  said  he,  and  forbore  not  glance  or  toy 
Of  amorous  intent,  well  understood 
Of  Eve,  whose  eye  darted  contagious  fire, 
Her  hand  he  seized,  and  to  a  shady  bank, 
Thick  overhead  with  verdant  roof  embowered, 
He  led  her,  nothing  loath ;  flowers  were  the  couch, 
Pansies,  and  violets,  and  asphodel, 
And  hyacinth,  earth's  freshest  softest  lap. 
There  they  their  fill  of  love  and  love's  disport 
Took  largely,  of  their  mutual  guilt  the  seal, 
The  solace  of  their  sin  ;  till  dewy  sleep 
Oppressed  them,  wearied  with  their  amorous  play. 
Soon  as  the  force  of  that  fallacious  fruit, 
That  with  exhilarating  vapour  bland 
About  their  spirits  had  played,  and  inmost  powers 
Vlade  err,  was  now  exhaled ;  and  grosser  sleep, 
3red  of  unkindly  fumes,  with  conscious  dreams 
ncumbered,  now  had  left  them ;  up  they  rose 
As  from  unrest;  and,  each  the  other  viewing, 
Soon  found  their  eyes  how  opened,  and  their  minds 
low  darkened;  innocence,  that  as  a  veil 
3ad  shadowed  them  from  knowing  ill,  was  gone; 
ust  confidence  and  native  righteousness, 
And  honour,  from  about  them,  naked  left 
To  guilty  shame;  he  covered,  but  his  robe 
Jncovered  more.     So  rose  the  Danite  strong, 
lerculean  Samson,  from  the  harlot-lap 
Of  Philistean  Dalilah,  and  waked 
Shorn  of  his  strength,  they  destitute  and  bare 
Of  all  their  virtue :  silent  and  in  face 
Confounded,  long  they  sat,  as  stricken  mute, 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  ix. 


Till  Adam,  though  not  less  than  Eve  abashed, 
At  length  gave  utterance  to  these  words  constrai  ned . 

"  O  Eve,  in  evil  hour  thou  didst  give  ear 
To  that  false  worm,  of  whomsoever  taught 
To  counterfeit  man's  voice;  true  in  our  fall, 
False  in  our  promised  rising ;  since  our  eyes 
Opened  we  find  indeed,  and  find  we  know 
Both  good  and  evil ;  good  lost,  and  evil  got ; 
Bad  fruit  of  knowledge,  if  this  be  to  know, 
Which  leaves  us  naked  thus,  of  honour  void, 
Of  innocence,  of  faith,  of  purity, 
Our  wonted  ornaments  now  soiled  and  stained, 
And  in  our  faces. evident  the  signs 
Of  foul  concupiscence;  whence  evil  store; 
Even  shame,  the  last  of  evils ;  of  the  first 
Be  sure  then.     How  shall  I  behold  the  face 
Henceforth  of  God  or  angel,  erst  with  joy 
And  rapture  so  oft  beheld  1  those  heavenly  shapes 
Will  dazzle  now  this  earthly  with  their  blaze 
Insufferably  bright.     O  might  I  here 
In  solitude  live  savage;  in  some  glade 
Obscured,  where  highest  woods,  impenetrable 
To  star  or  sunlight,  spread  their  umbrage  broad 
And  brown  as  evening :  cover  me,  ye  pines ! 
Ye  cedars  with  innumerable  boughs 
Hide  me,  where  I  may  never  see  them  more ! 
But  let  us  now,  as  in  bad  plight,  devise 
What  best  may  for  the  present  serve  to  hide 
The  parts  of  each  from  other,  that  seem  most 
To  shame  obnoxious,  and  unseemliest  seen : 
Some  tree,  whose  broad  smooth  leaves  together 

sew'd, 

And  girded  on  our  loins,  may  cover  round 
Those  middle  parts;  that  this  new  comer,  shame, 
There  sit  not,  and  reproach  us  as  unclean." 
So  counselled  he,  and  both  together  went 
Into  the  thickest  wood ;  there  soon  they  chose 
The  fig-tree;  not  that  kind  for  fruit  renowned, 
But  such  as  at  this  day  to  Indians  known, 
In  Malabar  or  Decan  spreads  her  arms 
Branching  so  broad  and  long,  that  in  the  ground 
The  bended  twigs  take  root,  and  daughters  grow 
About  the  mother  tree,  a  pillared  shade 
High  over-arched,  and  echoing  walks  between: 
There  oft  the  Indian  herdsman,  shunning  heat, 
Shelters  in  cool,  and  tends  his  pasturing  herds 
At  loop-holes  cut  through  thickest  shade :  Those 

leaves 

They  gathered,  broad  as  Amazonian  targe, 
And,  with  what  skill  they  had,  together  sewed, 
To  gird  their  waist;  vain  covering,  if  to  hide 
Their  guilt  and  dreaded  shame!  O  how  unlike 
To  that  first  naked  glory!  Such  of  late 
Columbus  found  lh'  American,  so  girt 
With  feathered  cincture,  naked  else,  and  wild 
Among  the  trees  on  isles  and  woody  shores. 
Thus  fenced,  and  as  they  thought,  their  shame  in 

part 
Covered,  but  not  at  rest  or  ease  of  mind, 


They  sat  them  down  to  weep;  nor  only  tears 
Rained  at  their  eyes,  but  high  winds  worse  within 
Began  to  rise,  high  passions,  anger,  hate, 
Mistrust,  suspicion,  discord,  and  shook  sore 
Their  inward  state  of  mind,  calm  region  once 
And  full  of  peace,  now  tost  and  turbulent: 
For  understanding  ruled  not,  and  the  will 
Heard  not  her  lore ;  both  in  subjection  now 
To  sensual  appetite,  who  from  beneath, 
Usurping  over  sovereign  reason,  claimed 
Superior  sway :  from  thus  distempered  breast 
Adam,  estranged  in  look  and  altered  style, 
Speech  intermitted  thus  to  Eve  renewed. 

"  Would  thou  hadst  hearkened  to  my  words,  and 

stayed 

With  me,  as  I  besought  thee,  when  that  strange 
Desire  of  wandering,  this  unhappy  morn, 
I  know  not  whence  possessed  thee;  we  had  then 
Remained  still  happy;  not  as  now  despoiled 
Of  all  our  good;  shamed,  naked,  miserable ! 
Let  none  henceforth  seek  needless  cause  t'  approve 
The  faith  they  owe ;  when  earnestly  they  seek 
Such  proof,  conclude,  they  then  begin  to  fail." 

To  whom,  soon  moved  with  touch  of  blame,  thus 

Eve. 

"  What  words  have  passed  thy  lips,  Adam,  severe! 
Imputest  thou  that  to  my  default,  or  will 
Of  wandering,  as  thou  call'st  it,  which  who  knows 
But  might  as  ill  have  happened  thou  being  by, 
Or  to  thyself  perhaps  7  hadst  thou  been  there, 
Or  here  th'  attempt,  thou  couldst  not  have  dis- 
cerned 

Fraud  in  the  serpent,  speaking  as  he  spake, 
No  ground  of  enmity  between  us  known, 
Why  he  should  mean  me  ill,  or  seek  to  harm. 
Was  I  to  have  never  parted  from  thy  side  1 
As  good  have  grown  there  still  a  lifeless  rib. 
Being  as  I  am,  why  didst  not  thou,  the  head, 
Command  me  absolutely  not  to  go, 
Going  into  such  danger  as  thou  saidst? 
Too  facile  then  thou  didst  not  much  gainsay, 
Nay,  didst  permit,  approve,  and  fair  dismiss. 
Hadst  thou  been  firm  and  fixed  in  thy  dissent, 
Neither  had  I  transgressed,  nor  thou  with  me." 

To  whom  then  first  incensed  Adam  replied. 
"  Is  this  the  love,  is  this  the  recompense 
Of  mine  to  thee,  ingrateful  Eve,  expressed 
Immutable,  when  thou  wert  lost,  not  I ; 
Who  might  have  lived  and  joyed  immortal  bliss, 
Yet  willingly  chose  rather  death  with  thee  1 
And  am  I  now  upbraided  as  the  cause 
Of  thy  transgressing  1  not  enough  severe, 
It  seems,  in  thy  restraint :  what  could  I  more  1 
I  warned  thee,  I  admonished  thee,  foretold 
The  danger,  and  the  lurking  enemy 
That  lay  in  wait ;  beyond  this  had  been  force, 
And  force  upon  free  will  hath  here  no  place 
But  confidence  then  bore  thee  on ;  secure, 
Either  to  meet  no  danger,  or  to  find 


BOOK  x. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


73 


:.T  of  glorious  trial ;  and  perhaps 
I  also  erred,  in  over  much  admiring 
What  seemed  in  thee  so  perfect,  that  I  thought 
No  evil  durst  atiniipt  thee  ;  but  I  rue  . 
That  error  now,  which  is  become  my  crime, 
And  thou  the  accuser.     Thus  it  shall  befall 
Him,  who,  to  worth  in  woman  overtrusting, 
Lets  her  will  rule :  restraint  she  will  not  brook ; 
And,  left  to  herself,  ifevil  thence  ensue, 
She  first  his  weak  indulgence  will  accuse." 

Thus  they  in  mutual  accusation  spent 
The  fruitless  hours,  but  neither  self-condemning, 
And  of  their  vairr  contest  appeared  no  end. 


BOOK  X. 


TIIE  ARGUMENT. 

Man's  transgression  known,  the  guardian  angels  forsake 
Paradise,  and  return  up  to  Heaven  to  approve  their  vigilance, 
and  are  approved;  God  declaring  that  the  entrance  of  Satan 
could  not  be  by  them  prevented.  He  sends  his  Son  to  judge 
the  transCTe-ssors,  who  descends  and  gives  sentence  accord- 
ingly; then  in  pity  clothes  them  both,  and  reascends.  Sin 
and  Death,  sitting  till  then  at  the  gates  of  hell,  by  wondrous 
sympathy  ft-elin?  the  success  of  Satan  in  this  new  world,  and 
the  sin  by  man  there  committed,  resolve  to  sit  no  longer  con- 
lined  in  hell,  but  to  follow  Satan  their  sire  up  to  the  place  of 
man ;  to  make  the  way  easier  from  hell  to  this  world  to  and 
fro,  they  pave  a  broad  highway  or  bridge  over  chaos,  accord- 
ing to  the  track  that  Satan  first  made ;  then,  preparing  for 
earth,  they  meet  him.  proud  of  his  success,  returning  to  hell ; 
their  mutual  gratulation.  Satan  arrives  at  Pandemonium;  in 
full  assembly  relates  with  boasting  his  success  against  man ; 
instead  of  applause  is  entertained  with  a  general  hiss  by  all 
his  audience,  transformed  with  himself  also  suddenly  into 
serpents,  according  to  his  doom  given  in  Paradise ;  then  de- 
luded with  a  show  of  the  forbidden  tree  springing  up  before 
them,  they,  greedily  reaching  to  take  of  the  fruit,  chew  dust 
and  bitter  ashes.  The  proceedings  of  Sin  and  Death ;  God 
foretells  the  final  victory  of  his  Son  over  them,  and  the  renew- 
ing of  all  things ;  but,  for  the  present,  commands  his  angels 
to  make  several  alterations  in  the  Heavens  and  elements. 
Adam,  more  and  more  perceiving  his  fallen  condition,  heavily 
bewails,  rejects  the  condolement  of  Eve  j  she  persists,  and  at 
length  appeases  him ;  then  to  evade  the  curse  likely  to  fall  on 
their  offspring,  proposes  to  Adam  violent  ways,  which  he  ap- 
proves not ;  hut,  conceiving  better  hope,  puts  her  in  mind  of 
the  late  promise  made  them,  that  the  seed  should  be  revenged 
on  the  serpent,  and  exhorts  her  with  him  to  seek  peace  of  the 
offended  Deity,  by  repentance  and  supplication. 


MEANWHILE,  the  heinous  and  despiteful  act 
Of  Satan  done  in  Paradise,  and  how 
He  in  the  serpent  had  perverted  Eve, 
Her  husband  she,  to  taste  the  fatal  fruit, 
Was  known  in  Heaven ;  for  what  can  'scape  the 

eye 

Of  God  all-seeing,  or  deceive  his  heart 
Omniscient  1  who,  in  all  things  wise  and  just, 
Hindered  not  Satan  to  attempt  the  mind 
Of  man,  with  strength  entire  and  free  will  armed, 
Complete  to  have  discovered  and  repulsed 
Whatever  wiles  of  foe  or  seeming  friend. 


For  still  they  knew,  and  ought  to  have  still  re- 
membered 

The  high  injunction  not  to  taste  that  fruit, 
Whoever  tempted ;  which  they  not  obeying, 
Incurred  (what  could  they  less  1)  the  penalty 
And,  manifold  in  sin,  deserved  to  fall. 
Up  into  Heaven  from  Paradise  in  haste 
The  angelic  guards  ascended,  mute  and  sad 
For  man,  for  of  his  state  by  this  they  knew, 
Much  wondering  how  the  subtle  fiend  had  stolen 
Entrance  unseen.     Soon  as  the  unwelcome  news 
From  earth  arrived  at  Heaven  gate,  displeased 
All  were  who  heard ;  dim  sadness  did  not  spare 
That  time  celestial  visages,  yet,  mixed 
With  pity,  violated  not  their  bliss. 
About  the  new-arrived,  in  multitudes 
Th1  ethereal  people  ran,  to  hear  and  know 
How  all  befell :  they  towards  the  throne  supreme, 
Accountable,  made  haste  to  make  appear, 
With  righteous  plea,  their  utmost  vigilance, 
And  easily  approved ;  when  the  most  High 
Eternal  Father,  from  his  secret  cloud, 
Amidst  in  thunder  uttered  thus  his  voice. 

"  Assembled  angels,  and  ye  powers  returned 
From  unsuccessful'charge,  be  not  dismayed, 
Nor  troubled  at  these  tidings  from  the  earth, 
Which  your  sincerest  care  eould  not  prevent ; 
Foretold  so  lately  what  would  come  to  pass, 
When  first  this  tempter  crossed  the  gulf  from  hell. 
I  told  ye  then  he  should  prevail,  and  speed 
On  his  bad  errand;  man  should  be  seduced, 
And  flattered  out  of  all,  believing  lies 
Against  his  Maker ;  no  decree  of  mine 
Concurring  to  necessitate  his  fall, 
Or  touch  with  lightest  moment  of  impulse 
His  free  will,  to  her  own  inclining  left 
In  even  scale.    But  fallen  he  is ;  and  now 
What  rests,  but  that  the  mortal  sentence  pass 
On  his  transgression, — death  denounced  that  day  ? 
Which  he  presumes  already  vain  and  void, 
Because  not  yet  inflicted,  as  he  feared, 
By  some  immediate  stroke ;  but  soon  shall  find 
Forbearance  no  acquittance,  ere  day  end. 
Justice  shall  not  return  as  bounty  scorned. 
But  whom  send  I  to  judge  them  1  whom  but  thee, 
Vicegerent  Son  1  to  thee  I  have  transferred 
All  judgment,  whether  in  Heaven,  or  earth,  or 

hell. 

Easy  it  may  be  seen  that  I  intend 
Mercy  colleague  with  justice,  sending  thee, 
Man's  friend,  his  mediator,  his  designed 
Both  ransom  and  Redeemer  voluntary, 
And  destined  man  himself  to  judge  man  fallen." 

So  spake  the  Father,  and  unfolding  bright 
Toward  the  right-hand  his  glory,  on  the  Son 
Blazed  forth  unclouded  Deity ;  he  full 
Resplendent  all  his  Father  manifest 
Expressed,  and  thus  divinely  answered  mild. 
1  Father  eternal,  thine  is  to  decree  j 


74 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  X. 


Mine,  both  in  Heaven  and  earth,  to  do  thy  will 
Supreme ;  that  thou  in  me,  thy  Son  beloved, 
Mayest  ever  rest  well  pleased.    I  go  to  judge 
On  earth  these  thy  transgressors;  but  thou  know- 

est, 

Whoever  judged,  the  worst  on  me  must  light, 
When  time  shall  be;  for  so  I  undertook 
Before  thee ;  and,  not  repenting,  this  obtain 
Of  right,  that  I  may  mitigate  their  doom 
On  me  derived ;  yet  I  shall  temper  so 
Justice  with  mercy,  as  may  illustrate  most 
Them  fully  satisfied,  and  thee  appease. 
Attendance  none  shall  need,  nor  train,  where  none 
Are  to  behold  the  judgment,  but  the  judged, 
Those  two ;  the  third  best  absent  is  condemned, 
Convict  by  flight,  and  rebel  to  all  law: 
Conviction  to  the  serpent  none  belongs." 

Thus  saying,  from  his  radiant  seat  he  rose 
Of  high  collateral  glory:  him  thrones,  and  powers, 
Princedoms,  and  dominations  ministrant, 
Accompanied  to  Heaven  gate ;  from  whence 
Eden  and  all  the  coast  in  prospect  lay. 
Down  he  descended  straight ;  the  speed  of  gods 
Time  counts  not,  though  with  swiftest  minutes 

winged. 

Now  was  the  sun  in  western  cadence  low 
From  noon,  and  gentle  airs,  due  at  their  hour, 
To  fan  the  earth  now  waked,  and  usher  in 
The  evening  cool ;  when  he,  from  wrath  more  cool, 
Came  the  mild  Judge,  and  Intercessor  both, 
To  sentence  man:  the  voice  of  God  they  heard, 
Now  walking  in  the  garden,  by  soft  winds 
Brought  to  their  ears,  while  day  declined;  they 

heard, 

And  from  his  presence  hid  themselves  among 
The  thickest  trees,  both  man  and  wife;  till  God, 
Approaching,  thus  to  Adam  called  aloud. 
"  Where  art  thou,  Adam,  wont  with  joy  to  meet 
My  coming  seen  far  off?  I  miss  thee  here, 
Not  pleased,  thus  entertained  with  solitude, 
Where  obvious  duty  erewhile  appeared  unsought: 
Or  come  I  less  conspicuous,  or  what  change 
Absents   thee,  or  what  chance  detains  1    Come 

forth." 
He  came,  and  with  him  Eve,  more  loath,  though 

first 

To  offend ;  discountenanced  both,  and  discomposed: 
Love  was  not  in  their  looks,  either  to  God 
Or  to  each  other,  but  apparent  guilt, 
And  shame,  and  perturbation,  and  despair, 
Anger,  and  obstinacy,  and  hate,  and  guile. 
Whence  Adam,  faltering  long,  thus  answered  brief: 
"  I  heard  thee  in  the  garden,  and  of  thy  voice 
Afraid,  being  naked,  hid  myself."     To  whom 
The  gracious  Judge  without  revile  replied: 
"  My  voice  thou  oft  hast  heard,  and  hast  not  feared, 
But  still  rejoiced;  how  is  it  now  become 
So  dreadful  to  thee  7  that  thou  art  naked,  who 
Hath  told  thee  1  hast  thou  eaten  of  the  tree 


Whereof  I  gave  thee  charge  thou  should'st  not 
eatT' 

To  whom  thus  Adam,  sore  beset,  replied. 
"  O  Heaven !  in  evil  strait  this  day  I  stand 
Before  my  Judge,  either  to  undergo 
Myself  the  total  crime,  or  to  accuse 
My  other  self,  the  partner  of  my  life ; 
WTiose  failing,  while  her  faith  to  me  remains, 
I  should  conceal,  and  expose  to  blame 
By  my  complaint ;  but  strict  necessity 
Subdues  me,  and  calamitous  constraint, 
Lest  on  my  head  both  sin  and  punishment, 
However  insupportable,  be  all    • 
Devolved ;  though,  should  I  hold  my  peacej  yet  thou 
Wouldst  easily  detect  what  I  conceal. 
This  woman,  whom  thou  mad'st  to  be  my  help, 
And  gav'st  me  as  thy  perfect  gift,  so  good, 
So  fit,  so  acceptable,  so  divine, 
That  from  her  hand  I  could  suspect  no  ill, 
And  what  she  did,  whatever  in  itself, 
Her  doing  seemed  to  justify  the  deed ; 
She  gave  me  of  the  tree,  and  I  did  eat. 

To  whom  the  sovereign  Presence  thus  replied. 
'  Was  she  thy  God,  that  her  thou  didst  obey 
Before  his  voice,  or  was  she  made  thy  guide, 
Superior,  or  but  equal,  that  to  her 
Thou  didst  resign  thy  manhood,  and  the  place 
Wherein  God  set  thee  above  her  made  of  thee, 
And  for  thee,  whose  perfection  far  excelled 
Hers  in  all  real  dignity  1    Adorned 
She  was  indeed,  and  lovely,  to  attract 
Thy  Jove,  not  thy  subjection;  and  her  gifts 
Were  such  as  under  government  well  seemed, 
Unseemly  to  bear  rule,  which  was  thy  part 
And  person,  hadst  thou  known  thyself  aright." 

So  having  said,  he  thus  to  Eve  in  few. 
'  Say,  woman,  what  is  this  which  thou  hast  doneT' 

To  whom   sad   Eve,  with  shame  nigh  over- 
whelmed, 

Confessing  soon,  yet  not  before  her  Judge 
Bold  or  loquacious,  thus  abashed  replied. 

The  serpent  me  beguiled,  and  I  did  eat." 

Which  when  the  Lord  God  heard,  without  delay 
To  judgment  he  proceeded  on  the  accused 
Serpent,  though  brute,  unable  to  transfer 
The  guilt  on  him  who  made  him  instrument 
Of  mischief,  and  polluted  from  the  end 
Of  his  creation:  justly  then  accursed 
As  vitiated  in  nature:  more  to  know 

oncerned  not  man  (since  he  no  further  knew 
Nor  altered  his  offence ;  yet  God  at  last 
To  Satan,  first  in  sin,  his  doom  applied, 
Though  in  mysterious  terms,  judged  as  then  best 
And  on  the  serpent  thus  his  curse  let  fall. 

'  Because  thou  hast  done  this,  thou  art  accursed 
Above  all  cattle,  each  beast  of  the  field ; 
Upon  thy  belly  grovelling  thou  shall  go, 
And  dust  thou  shalt  eat  all  the  days  of  thy  life. 
Between  thee  and  the  woman  I  will  put 


BOOK  *. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


75 


Enmity,  and- between  thine  and  her  seed; 
Her  seed  shall  bruise  thy  head,  thou  bruise  his 
heel." 

So  spake  this  oracle,  then  verified 
When  Jesus,  son  of  Mary,  second  Eve, 
Saw  Satan  fall,  like  lightning,  down  from  Heaven, 
Prince  of  the  air;  then,  rising -from  his  grave, 
Spoiled  principalities  and  powers,  triumphed 
In  open  show,  and,  with  ascension  bright, 
Captivity  led  captive  through  the  air, 
The  realm  itself  of  Satan  long  usurped, 
Whom  he  shall  tread  at  last  under  our  feet; 
Even  he  who  now  foretold  his  fatal  bruise; 
And  to  the  woman  thus  his  sentence  turned. 

"  Thy  sorrow  I  will  greatly  multiply 
By  thy  conception:  children  thou  shalt  bring 
In  sorrow  forth;  and  to  thy  husband's  will 
Thine  shall  submit;  he  over  thee  shall  rule." 

On  Adam  last  thus  judgment  he  pronounced : 
"  Because  thou  hast  hearkened  to  the  voice  of  thy 

wife, 

And  eaten  of  the  tree  concerning  which 
I  charged  thee,  saying, '  Thou  shalt  not  eat  thereof.' 
Cursed  is  the  ground  for  thy  sake;  thou  in  sorrow 
Shalt  eat  thereof  all  the  days  of  thy  life; 
Thorns  also  and  thistles  it  shall  bring  thee  forth 
Unbid;  and  thou  shalt  eat  the  herb  of  the  field; 
In  the  sweat  of  thy  face  shalt  thou  eat  bread, 
Till  thou  return  unto  the  ground;  for  thou 
Out  of  the  ground  wast  taken,  know  thy  birth, 
For  dust  thou  art,  and  shalt  to  dust  return." 

So  judged  he  man,  both  Judge  and  Saviour  sent; 
And  the  instant  stroke  of  death  denounced  that 

day 

Removed  far  off;  then,  pitying  how  they  stood 
Before  him  naked  to  the  air,  that  now 
Must  suffer  change,  disdained  not  to  begin 
Thenceforth  the  form  of  servant  to  assume, 
As  when  he  washed  his  servants'  Jpet;  so  now. 
As  father  of  his  family,  he  clad 
Their  nakedness  with  skins  of  beasts,  or  slain; 
Or  as  the  snake  with  youthful  coat  repaid; 
And  thought  not  much  to  clothe  his  enemies: 
Nor  he  their  outward  only  with  the  skins 
Of  beasts,  but  inward  nakedness  much  more 
Opprobrious,  with  his  robe  of  righteousness 
Arraying,  covered  from  his  Father's  sight. 
To  him  with  swift  ascent  he  up  returned, 
Into  his  blissful  bosom  reassumed 
In  g'OT7)  ^  °f  old ;  to  him  appeased 
All,  though  all-knowing,  what  had  passed  with 

man 
Recounted,  mixing  intercession  sweet. 

Meanwhile  ere  thus  was  sinned  and  judged  on 

earth, 

Within  the  gates  of  hell  sat  Sin  and  Death, 
In  counteniew  within  the  gates,  that  now 
Stood  open  wide,  belching  outrageous  flame 
Far  into  Chaos,  since  the  fiend  passed  through, 


Sin  opening;  who  thus  now  to  Death  began. 

"  O  son,  why  sit  we  here  each  other  viewing 
Idly,  while  Satan,  our  great  author,  thrives 
In  other  worlds,  and  happier  seat  provides 
For  us,  his  offspring  dear!     It  can  not  be 
But  that  success  attends  him;  if  mishap, 
Ere  this  he  had  returned,  with  fiiry  driven 
By  his  avengers,  since  no  place  like  this 
Can  fit  his  punishment  or  their  revenge. 
Methinks  I  feel  new  strength  within  me  rise, 
Wings  growing,  and  dominion  given  me  large 
Beyond  this  deep;  whatever  draws  me  on, 
Or  sympathy,  or  some  unnatural  force, 
Powerful  at  greatest  distance  to  unite, 
With  secret  amity,  things  of  like  kind, 
By  secretest  conveyance.     Thou  my  shade 
Inseparable,  must  with  me  long: 
For  Death  from  Sin  no  power  can  separate. 
But  lest  the  difficulty  of  passing  back 
Stay  his  return  perhaps  over  this  gulf 
Impassable,  impervious,  let  us  try 
Adventurous  work,  yet  to  thy  power  and  mine 
Not  unagreeable,  to  found  a  path 
Over  this  main  from  hell  to  that  new  world, 
Where  Satan  now  prevails;  a  monument 
Of  merit  high  to  all  the  infernal  host, 
Easing  their  passage  hence,  for  intercourse, 
Or  transmigration,  as  their  lot  shall  lead. 
Nor  can  I  miss  the  way,  so  strongly  drawn 
By  this  new  felt  attraction  and  instinct." 

Whom  thus  the  meagre  shadow  answered  soon: 
"  Go  whither  fate  and  inclination  strong 
Leads  thee ;  I  shall  not  lag  behind,  nor  err 
The  way,  thou  leading;  such  a  scent  I  draw 
Of  carnage,  prey  innumerable,  and  taste 
The  savour  of  death  from  all  things  there  that  live; 
Nor  shall  I  to  the  work  thou  enterprisest, 
Be  wanting,  but  afford  thee  equal  aid." 

So  saying,  with  delight  he  snuffed  the  smell 
Of  mortal  change  on  earth.     As  when  a  flock 
Of  ravenous  fowl,  though  many  a  league  remote, 
Against  the  day  of  battle,  to  a  field, 
Where  armies  lie  encamped,  come  flying,  lured 
With  scent  of  living  carcasses  designed 
For  death,  the  following  day,  in  bloody  fight: 
So  scented  the  grim  feature,  and  upturned 
His  nostril  wide  into  the  murky  air, 
Sagacious  of  his  quarry  from  so  far. 
Then  both  from  out  hell  gates  into  the  waste 
Wide  anarchy  of  Chaos,  damp  and  dark, 
Flew  diverse,  and  with  power  (their  power  was 

great) 

Hovering  upon  the  waters,  what  they  met 
Solid  or  slimy,  as  in  raging  sea 
Tost  up  and  down,  together  crowded  drove 
From  each  side  shoaling  towards  the  mouth  of  hell: 
As  when  two  polar  winds,  blowing  adverse 
Upon  the  Cronian  sea,  together  drive 
!  Mountains  of  ice,  that  stop  th'  imagined  way 


76 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  x. 


Beyond  Petsora  eastward,  to  the  rich 
Cathaian  coast.     The  aggregated  soil 
Death  with  his  mace  petrific,  cold  and  dry, 
As  with  a  trident  smote,  and  fixed  as  firm 
As  Delos,  floating  once;  the  rest  his  look 
Bound  with  Gorgonian  rigour  not  to  move ; 
And  with  asphaltic  slime,  broad  as  the  gate, 
Deep  to  the  roots  of  .hell  the  gathered  beach 
They  fastened,  and  the  mole  immense  wrought  on 
Over  the  foaming  deep  high  arched,  a  bridge 
Of  length  prodigious,  joining  to  the  wall 
Immoveable  of  this  now  fenceless  world, 
Forfeit  to  Death;  from  hence  a  passage  broad, 
Smooth,  easy,  inoffensive,  down  to  hell. 
So,  if  great  things  to  small  may  be  compared, 
Xerxes,  the  liberty  of  Greece  to  yoke, 
From  Susa,  his  Memnonian  palace  high, 
Came  to  the  sea,  and,  over  Hellespont 
Bridging  his  way,  Europe  with  Asia  joined, 
And  scourged  with  many  a  stroke  the  indignant 

waves. 

Now  had  they  brought  the  work  by  wondrous  art 
Pontifical,  a  ridge  of  pendent  rock, 
Over  the  vexed  abyss,  following  the  track 
Of  Satan  to  the  self-same  place  where  he 
First  lighted  from  his  wing,  and  landed  safe 
From  out  of  Chaos,  to  the  outside  bare 
Of  this  round  world :  with  pins  of  adamant 
And  chains  they  made  all  fast,  too  fast  they  made 
And  durable;  and  now  in  little  space 
The  confines  met  of  empyrean  Heaven, 
And  of  this  world,  and,  on  the  left  hand,  hell 
With  long  reach  interposed;  three  several  ways 
In  sight,  to  each  of  these  three  places  led. 
And  now  their  way  to  earth  they  had  descried, 
To  Paradise  first  tending,  when,  behold ! 
Satan,  in  likeness  of  an  angel  bright, 
Betwixt  the  Centaur  and  tlie  Scorpion  steering 
His  zenith,  while  the  sun  in  Aries  rose : 
Disguised  he  came ;  but  those  his  children  dear 
Their  parent  soon  discerned,  though  in  disguise. 
He,  after  Eve  seduced,  unminded  slunk 
Into  the  wood  fast  by,  and,  changing  shape 
To  observe  the  sequel,  saw  his  guileful  act 
By  Eve,  though  all  unweeting,  seconded 
Upon  her  husband,  saw  their  shame  that  sought 
Vain  covertures;  but  when  he  saw  descend 
The  Son  of  God  to  judge  them,  terrified 
He  fled ;  not  hoping  to  escape,  but  shun 
The  present;  fearing,  guilty,  what  his  wrath 
Might  suddenly  inflict;  that  past,  returned 
By  night,  and  listening  where  the  hapless  pair 
Sat  in  their  sad  discourse,  and  various  plaint, 
Thence  gathered  his  own  doom,  which  understood 
Not  instant,  but  of  future  time,  with  joy 
And  tidings  fraught,  to  hell  he  now  returned ; 
And  at  the  brink  of  Chaos,  near  the  foot 
Of  this  new  wondrous  pontifice,  unhoped 
Met,  who  to  meet  him  came  his  offspring  dear. 


Great  joy  was  at  their  meeting,  and  at  sight 
Of  that  stupendous  bridge  his  joy  increased. 
Long  he  admiring  stood,  till  Sin,  his  fair 
Enchanting  daughter,  thus  the  silence  broke. 

"  O  parent,  these  are  thy  magnific  deeds, 
Thy  trophies,  which  thou  viewest  as  not  thine 

own; 

Thou  art  their  author  and  prime  architect: 
For  I  no  sooner  in  my  heart  divined ; 
My  heart,  which  by  a  secret  harmony 
Still  moves  with  thine,  joined  in  connexion  sweet, 
That  thou  on  earth  had'st  prospered,  which  thy 

looks 

Now  also  evidence,  but  straight  I  felt, 
Though  distant  from  thee  worlds  between3  yet 

felt, 

That  I  must  after  thee.  with  this  thy  son ; 
Such  fatal  consequence  unites  us  three ! 
Hell  could  no  longer  hold  us  in  her  bounds, 
Nor  this  unvoyagcable  gulf  obscure 
Detain  from  following  thy  illustrious  track. 
Thou  hast  achieved  our  liberty,  confined 
Within  hell  gates  till  now ;  thou  us  empowered 
To  fortify  thus  far,  and  overlay 
With  this  portentous  bridge  the  dark  abyss. 
Thine  now  is  all  this  world ;  thy  virtue  hath  won 
What  thy  hands  builded  not,  thy  wisdom  gained 
With  odds  what  war  hath  lost,  and  fully  avenged 
Our  foil  in  Heaven;  here  thou  shalt  monarch 

reign, 

There  didst  not ;  there  let  him  still  victor  sway ; 
As  battle  hath  adjudged ;  from  this  new  world 
Retiring,  by  his  own  doom  alienated ; 
And  henceforth  monarchy  with  thee  divide 
Of  all  things,  parted  by  th'  empyreal  bounds, 
His  quadrature,  from  thy  orbicular  world, 
Or  try  thee  now  more  dangerous  to  his  throne." 
Whom  thus  the  prince  of  darkness  answered 

glad, 
"  Fair  daughter,  and  thou  son  and  grandchild 

both,     . 

High  proof  ye  now  have  given  to  be»the  race 
Of  Satan  (for  I  glory  in  the  name, 
Antagonist  of  Heaven's  almighty  King,) 
Amply  have  merited  of  me,  of  all 
Th'  infernal  empire,  that  so  near  Heaven's  door 
Triumphal  with  triumphal  act  have  met, 
Mine  with  this  glorious  work,  and  made  one  realm 
Hell  and  this  world,  one  realm,  one  continent 
Of  easy  thoroughfare.     Therefore,  while  I 
Descend  through  darkness,  on  your  road  with 

ease, 

To  my  associate  powers,  them  to  acquaint 
With  these  successes,  and  with  them  rejoice; 
You  two  this  way,  among  these  numerous  orbs, 
All  yours  right  down  to  Paradise  descend; 
There  dwell  and  reign  in  bliss;  thence  on  the 

earth 
Dominion  exercise  and  in  the  air, 


BOOK*. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


77 


Chiefly  on  man,  sole  lord  of  all  declared; 
Him  first  make  sure  your  thrall,  and  lastly  kill. 
My  substitutes  I  send  ye,  and  create 
Plenipotent  on  earth,  of  matchless  might 
Issuing  from  me :  on  your  joint  vigour  now 
My  hold  of  this  new  kingdom  all  depends, 
Through  Sin  to  Death  exposed  by  my  exploit. 
If  your  joint  power  prevail,  th'  affairs  of  hell 
No  detriment  need  fear;  go,  and  be  strong!" 

So  saying,  he  dismissed  them;  they  with  speed 
Their  course  through  thickest  constellations  held, 
Spreading  their  bane ;  the  blasted  stars  looked  wan, 
And  planets,  planet-struck,  real  eclipse 
Then  suffered.    Th'  other  way  Satan  went  down 
The  causey  to  hell  gate:  on  either  side 
Disparted  Chaos  overbuilt  exclaimed, 
And  with  rebounding  surge  the  bars  assailed, 
That  scorned  his  indignation :  through  the  gate, 
Wide  open  and  unguarded  Satan  passed, 
And  all  about  found  desolate ;  for  those 
Appointed  to  sit  there  had  left  their  charge, 
Flown  to  the  upper  worid ;  the  rest  were  all 
Far  to  the  inland  retired  about  the  walls 
Of  Pandemonium,  city  and  proud  seat 
Of  Lucifer,  so  by  allusion  called 
Of  that  bright  star  to  Satan  paragoned. 
There  kept  their  watch  the  legions,  while  the  grand 
In  council  sat,  solicitous  what  chance 
Might  intercept  their  emperor  sent ;  so  he 
Departing  gave  command,  and  they  observed 
As  when  the  Tartar  from  his  Russian  foe, 
By  Astracan  over  the  snowy  plains 
Retires,  or  Bactrian  sophi,  from  the  horns 
Of  Turkish  crescent,  leaves  all  waste  beyond 
The  realm  of  Aladule,  in  his  retreat 
To  Tauris  or  Casbeen :  so  these,  the  late 
Heaven  banished  host,  left  desert  utmost  hell 
Many  a  dark  league,  reduced  in  careful  watch 
Round  their  metropolis,  and  now  expecting 
Each  hour  their  great  adventurer,  from  the  search 
Of  foreign  worlds :  he  through  the  midst  unmarked 
In  show  plebeian  angel  militant 
Of  lowest  order,  passed ;  and  from  the  door 
Of  that  Plutonian  hall,  invisible 
Ascends  his  high  throne ;  which,  under  state 
Of  richest  texture  spread,  at  th'  upper  end 
Was  placed  in  regal  lustre.     Down  awhile 
He  sat,  and  round  about  him  saw  unseen : 
At  last  as  from  a  cloud,  his  fulgent  head 
And  shape  star  bright  appeared,  or  brighter ;  clad 
With  what  permissive  glory  since  his  fall 
Was  left  him,  or  false  glitter :  all  amazed 
At  that  so  sudden  blaze,  the  Stygian  throng 
Bent  their  aspect,  and  whom  they  wished  beheld, 
Their  mighty  chief  returned :  loud  was  the  acclaim : 
Forth  rushed  in  haste  the  great  consulting  peers 
Raised  from  their  dark  divan,  and  with  like  joy 
Congratulant  approached  him,  who  with  hand 
Silence  and  with  these  words  attention,  won 


"  Thrones,   dominations,    princedoms,   virtues, 

powers, 

For  in  possession  such  not  only  of  right, 
I  call  ye,  and  declare  ye  now ;  returned, 
Successful  beyond  hope,  to  lead  ye  forth 
Triumphant  out  of  this  infernal  pit 
Abominable,  accursed,  the  house  of  wo, 
And  dungeon  of  our  tyrant :  now  possess 
As  lords,  a  spacious  world,  to  our  native  Heaven 
Little  inferior,  by  my  adventure  hard 
With  peril  great  achieved.     Long  were  to  tell 
What  I  have  done,  what  suffered,  with  what  pain 
Voyaged  the  unreal,  vast,  unbounded  deep 
Of  horrible  confusion,  over  which 
By  Sin  and  Death  a  broad  way  now  is  paved, 
To  expedite  your  glorious  march ;  but  I 
Toiled  out  my  uncouth  passage,  forced  to  ride 
The  untractable  abyss,  plunged  in  the  womb 
Of  unoriginal  night  and  Chaos  wild, 
That,  jealous  of  their  secrets  fiercely  opposed 
My  journey  strange,  with  clamorous  uproar 
Protesting  Fate  suprem^ ;  thence  how  I  found 
The  new  created  world,  which  fame  in  Heaven 
Long  had  foretold,  a  fabric  wonderful 
Of  absolute  perfection ;  therein  man 
Placed  in  a  Paradise,  by  our  exile 
Made  happy :  him  by  fraud  I  have  seduced 
From  his  Creator,  and,  the  more  to  increase 
Your  wonder,  with  an  apple ;  he,  thereat 
Offended,  worth  your  laughter !  hath  given  up 
Both  his  beloved  man  and  all  his  world, 
To  Sin  and  Death  a  prey,  and  so  to  us, 
Without  our  hazard,  labour,  or  alarm, 
To  range  in,  and  to  dwell,  and  over  man 
To  rule,  as  over  all  he  should  have  ruled. 
True  is,  me  also  he  hath  judged,  or  rather 
Me  not,  but  the  brute  serpent  in  whose  shape 
Man  I  deceived :  that  which  to  me  belongs 
Is  enmity,  which  he  will  put  between 
Me  and  mankind ;  I  am  to  bruise  his  heel ; 
His  seed,  when  is  not  set,  shall  bruise  my  head : 
A  world  who  would  not  purchase  with  a  bruise, 
Or  much  more  grievous  pain  ?  Ye  have  the  account 
Of  my  performance ;  what  remains,  ye  gods, 
But  up,  and  enter  now  into  full  bliss !" 

So  having  said,  awhile  he  stood,  expecting 
Their  universal  shout,  and  high  applause, 
To  fill  his  ear ;  when,  contrary,  he  hears 
On  all  sides,  from  innumerable  tongues, 
A  'dismal  universal  hiss,  the  sound 
Of  public  scorn ;  he  wondered,  but  not  long 
Had  leisure,  wondering  at  himself  now  more 
His  visage  drawn  he  felt  to  sharp  and  spare ; 
His  arms  clung  to  his  ribs ;  his  legs  intwining 
Each  other,  till  supplanted  down  he  fell 
A  monstrous  serpent  on  his  belly  prone, 
Reluctant,  but  in  vain ;  a  greater  power 
Now  ruled  him,  punished  in  the  shape  he  sinned, 
According  to  his  doom :  he  would  have  spoke, 


78 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  x 


But  hiss  for  hiss  returned  with  forked  tongue 
To  forked  tongue ;  for  now  were  all  transformed 
Alike,  to  serpents  all,  as  accessories 
To  this  bold  riot :  dreadful  was  the  din 
Of  hissing  through  the  hall,  thick  swarming  now 
With  complicated  monsters  head  and  tail, 
Scorpion,  and  asp,  and  amphisbsena  dire, 
Cerastes  horned,  Hydrus  and  Elops  drear, 
And  Dipsas  (not  so  thick  swarmed  once  the  soil 
Bedropt  with  blood  of  Gorgon,  or  the  isle 
Ophiusa,)  but  still  greatest  he  the  midst, 
Now  dragon  grown,  larger  than  whom  the  sun 
Engendered  in  the  Pythian  vale  on  slime, 
Huge  Python,  and  his  power  no  less  he  seemed 
Above  the  rest  still  to  retain ;  they  all 
Him  followed,  issuing  forth  to  the  open  field, 
Where  all  yet  left  of  that  revolted  rout, 
Heaven  fallen,  in  station  stood  or  just  array, 
Sublime  with  expectation  when  to  see 
In  triumph  issuing  forth  their  glorious  chief: 
They  saw,  but  other  sight  instead  !  a  crowd 
Of  ugly  serpents ;  horror  6*n  them  fell, 
And  horrid  sympathy ;  for  what  they  saw 
They  felt  themselves  now  changing ;  down  their 

arms, 

Down  fell  both  spear  and  shield,  down  they  as  fast, 
And  the  dire  hiss  renewed,  and  the  dire  form, 
Catched  by  contagion,  like  in  punishment, 
.  As  in  their  crime.     Thus  was  the  applause  they 

meant, 

Turned  to  exploding  hiss,  triumph  to  shame, 
C  ast  on  themselves  from  their  own  mouths.    T  here 

stood 

A  grove  hard  by,  sprung  up  with  this  their  change, 
His  will  who  reigns  above,  to  aggravate 
Their  penance,  laden  with  fair  fruit,  like  that 
Which  grew  in  Paradise,  the  bait  of  Eve 
Used  by  the  tempter ;  on  that  prospect  strange 
Their  earnest  eyes  they  fixed,  imagining 
For  one  forbidden  tree  a  multitude 
Now  risen,  to  work  them  further  wo  or  shame; 
Yet,  parched  with  scalding  thirst  and  hunger  fierce,1 
Though  to  delude  them  sent,  could  not  abstain; 
But  on  they  rolled  in  heaps,  and,  up  the  trees 
Climbing,  sat  thicker  than  the  snaky  locks 
That  curled  Megsera:  greedily  they  plucked 
The  fruitage  fair  to  sight,  like  that  which  grew 
Near  that  bituminous  lake  where  Sodom  flamed; 
This  more  delusive,  not  the  touch,  but  taste 
Deceived ;  they,  fondly  thinking  to  allay 
Their  appetite  with  gust,  instead  of  fruit 
Chewed  bitter  ashes,  which  the  offended  taste 
With  spattering  noise  rejected :  oft  they  assayed, 
Hunger  and  thirst  constraining  ;  drugged  as  oft, 
With  hatefullest  disrelish  writhed  their  jaws, 
With  soot  and  cinders  filled ;  so  oft  they  fell 
Into  the  same  illusion,  not  as  man 
Whom. they  triumphed  once  lapsed.    Thus  were 

they  plagued 


And  worn  with  famine,  long  and  ceaseless  hiss, 
Till  their  lost  shape,  permitted,  they  resumed  j 
Yearly  enjoined,  some  say,  to  undergo 
This  annual  humbling  certain  numbered  days, 
To  dash  their  pride,  and  joy  for  man  seduced 
However,  some  tradition  they  dispersed 
Among  the  heathen  of  their  purchase  got, 
And  fabled  how  the  serpent,  whom  they  called 
Dphion,  with  Eurynome,  the  wide 
Encroaching  Eve  perhaps,  had  first  the  rule 
Of  high  Olympus,  thence  by  Saturn  driven 
And  Ops,  ere  yet  Dictaean  Jove  was  born. 

Meanwhile  in  Paradise  the  hellish  pair 
Too  soon  arrived ;  Sin,  there  in  power  before, 
Once  actual,  now  in  body,  and  to  dwell 
Habitual  habitant ;  behind  her  Death, 

lose  following  pace  for  pace,  not  mounted  yet 
On  his  pale  horse :  to  whom  Sin  thus  began. 

"  Secondof  Satan  sprung,  all-conquering  Death? 
What  thinkest  thou  of  our  empire  now,  though 

earned 

With  travel  difficult,  not  batter  far 
Than  still  at  hell's  dark  threshoM  t'  have  sat  watch, 
Unnamed,  undreaded,  and  thyself  half  starved  T7 

Whom  thus  the  sin-born  monster  answered  soon : 
{  To  me,  who  with  eternal  famine  pine, 
Alike  is  hell,  or  Paradise,  or  Heaven ; 
There  best,  where  most  with  ravin  I  may  meet ; 
Which  here,  though  plenteous,  all  too  little  seems 
To  stuff  this  maw,  this  vast  unhidebound  corpse." 

To  whom  the  incestuous  mother  thus  replied. 

Thou  therefore  on  these  herbs,  and  fruits  and 

flowers 

Feed  first ;  on  each  beast  next,  and  fish,  and  fowl ; 
No  homely  morsels !  and  whatever  thing 
The  scythe  of  Time  mows  down,  devour  unspared; 
Till  I,  in  man  residing,  through  the  race, 
His  thoughts,  his  looks,  words,  actions  all  infect, 
And  season  him  thy  last  and  sweetest  prey." 

This  said,  they  both  betook  them  several  ways, 
Both  to  destroy,  or  unimmortal  make 
All  kinds,  and  for  destruction  to  mature 
Sooner  or  later :  which  the  Almighty  seeing, 
From  his  transcendent  seat  the  saints  among, 
To  those  bright  orders  uttered  thus  his  voice. 

'  See  with  what  heat  these  dogs  of  hell  advance 
To  waste  and  havoc  yonder  world,  which  I 
So  fair  and  good  created,  and  had  still 
Kept  in  that  state,  had  not  the  folly  of  man 
Let  in  these  wasteful  furies,  who  impute 
Folly  to  me ;  so  doth  the  prince  of  hell 
And  his  adherents,  that  with  so  much  ease 
I  suffer  them  to  enter  and  possess 
A  place  so  heavenly,  and,  conniving,  seem 
To  gratify  my  scornful  enemies, 
That  laugh,  as  if,  transported  with  some  fit 
Of  passion,  I  to  them  had  quitted  all, 
At  random  yielded  up  to  their  misrule; 
And  know  not  that  I  called,  and  drew  them  thither, 


BOOK  x. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


79 


My  hell-hounds,  to  Ik-k  up  the  draff  and  filth 
Which  man's  polluting  sin  with  taint  hath  shed 
On  what  was  pure ;  till,  crammed  and  gorged,  nig 

burst 

With  sucked  and  glutted  oflfal,  at  one  sling 
Of  thy  victorious  arm,  well-pleasing  Son, 
Both  Sin,  and  Death,  and  yawning  grave,  at  lasi 
Through  Chaos  hurled,  obstruct  the  mouth  of  hell 
For  ever,  and  seal  up  his  ravenous  jaws. 
Then  Heaven  and  earth  renewed  shall  be  mad 

pure 

To  sanctity,  tha^  shall  receive  no  stain : 
Till  then,  the  curse  pronounced  on  both  precedes. 

He  ended  and  the  Heavenly  audience  loud 
Sung  hallelujah,  as  the  sound  of  seas, 
Through  multitude  that  sung :  "  Just  are  thy  ways 
Righteous  are  thy  decrees  on  all  thy  works ; 
Who  can  extenuate  theeT'  Next,  to  the  Son, 
"  Destined  Restorer  of  mankind,  by  whom 
New  Heaven  and  earth  shall  to  the  ages  rise, 
Or  down  from  Heaven  descend."    Such  was  their 

song; 

While  the  Creator,  calling  forth  by  name 
His  mighty  angels,  gave  them  several  charge, 
As  sorted  best  with  present  things.     The  sun 
Had  first  his  precept  so  to  move,  so  shine, 
As  might  affect  the  earth  with  cold  and  heat 
Scarce  tolerable,  and  from  the  north  to  call 
Decrepit  winter,  from  the  south  to  bring 
Solstitial  summer's  heat.     To  the  blank  moon 
Her  office  they  prescribed ;  to  th'  other  five 
Their  planetary  motions  and  aspects, 
In  sextile,  square,  and  trine,  and  opposite, 
Of  noxious  efficacy,  and  when  to  join 
In  synod  unbenign ;  and  taught  the  fixed 
Their  influence  malignant  when  to  shower, 
Which  of  them  rising  with  the  sun,  or  falling,  • 
Should  prove  tempestuous :  to  the  winds  they  set 
Their  corners,  when  with  bluster  to  confound 
Sea,  air,  and  shore ;  the  thunder  when  to  roll 
With  terror  through  the  dark  aerial  hall. 
Some  say  he  bid  his  angels  turn  askance 
The  poles  of  earth  twice  ten  degrees  and  more 
From  the  sun's  axle ;  they  with  labour  pushed 
Oblique  the  centric  globe :  some  say  the  sun 
Was  bid  turn  reins  from  th'  equinoctial  road 
Like  distant  breadth  to  Taurus  with  the  seven 
Atlantic  Sisters,  and  the  Spartan  Twins, 
Up  to  the  Tropic  Crab ;  thence  down  amain 

-,  and  the  Virgin,  and  the  Scales, 
As  deep  as  Capricorn,  to  bring  in  change 
Of  seasons  to  each  clime ;  else  had  the  spring 
Perpetual  smiled  on  earth  with  vernant  flowers, 
Equal  in  days  arid  nights,  except  to  those 
Beyond  the  polar  circles  ;  to  them  day 
Had  unbenighted  shone,  while  the  low  sun, 
To  recompense  his  distance,  in  their  sight 
Had  rounded  still  the  horizon,  and  not  known 
Or  east  or  west;  which  had  forbid  the  snow 


From  cold  Estotiland,  and  south  as  far 
Beneath  Magellan.     At  that  tasted  fruit 
The  sun,  as  from  Thyestian  banquet,  turned 
His  course  intended ;  else,  how  had  the  world 
Inhabited,  though  sinless,  more  than  now, 
Avoided  pinching  cold  and  scorching  heat  7 
These  changes  in  the  Heavens,  though  slow,  pro- 
duced 

Like  change  on  sea  and  land;  sideral  blast, 
Vapour,  and  mist,  and  exhalation  hot, 
Corrupt  and  pestilent :  now  from  the  north 
Of  Norumbega,  and  the  Samoed  shore, 
Bursting  their  brazen  dungeon,  armed  with  ice, 
And  snow,  and  hail,  and  stormy  gust  and  flaw, 
Boreas,  and  Caecias,  and  Argestes  loud, 
And  Thrascias,  rend  the  woods,  and  seas  upturn ; 
With  adverse  blast  upturns  them  from  the  south 
Notus,  and  Afer  black  with  thunderous  clouds 
From  Serraliona ;  thwart  of  these,  as  fierce 
Forth  rush  the  Levant  and  Ponent  winds, 
Eurus  and  Zephyr,  with  their  lateral  noise, 
Sirocco,  and  Libecchio.     Thus  began 
Outrage  from  lifeless  things ;  but  Discord  first, 
Daughter  of  Sin,  among  th'  irrational 
Death  introduced,  through  fierce  antipathy; 
Beast  now  with  beast  'gan  war,  and  fowl  with 

fowl, 

And  fish  with  fish ;  to  graze  the  herb  all  leaving, 
Devoured  each  other ;  nor  stood  much  in  awe 
Of  man,  but  fled  him,  or,  with  countenance  grim, 
Glared  on  him  passing.    These  were  from  without 
The  growing  miseries,  which  Adam  saw 
Already  in  part,  though  hid  in  gloomiest  shade, 
To  sorrow  abandoned,  but  worse  felt  within; 
And,  in  a  troubled  sea  of  passion  tossed, 
Thus  to  disburden  sought  with  sad  complaint. 

"  O  miserable  of  happy  !  is  this  the  end 
Of  this  new  glorious  world,  and  me  so  late 
The  glory  of  that  glory,  who  now  become 
Accursed  of  blessed !  hide  me  from  the  face 
Of  God,  whom  to  behold  was  'then  my  height 
Of  happiness !  yet  well,  if  here  would  end 
The  misery ;  I  deserved  it,  and  would  bear 
My  own  deservings ;  but  this  will  not  serve : 
All  that  I  eat  or  drink,  or  shall  beget, 
s  propagated  curse.     O  voice,  once  heard 
Delightfully,  Increase  and  multiply, 
Now  death  to  hear !  for  what  can  I  increase 
Or  multiply,  but  curses  on  my  head  1 
Who  of  all  ages  to  succeed,  but,  feeling 
The  evil  on  him  brought  by  me,  will  curse 
Vly  head  7  111  fare  our  ancestor  impure, 
'or  this  we  may  thank  Adam  !  but  his  thanks 
Shall  be  the  execration :  so,  besides 
Mine  own  that  bide  upon  me,  all  from  me 
Shall  with  a  fierce  reflux  on  me  rebound, 
)n  me,  as  on  their  natural  centre  light 
Jeavy,  though  in  their  place.     O  fleeting  joys 
Of  Paradise,  dear  bought  with  lasting  woes! 


80 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  x. 


Did  I  request  thee,  Maker,  from  my  clay 

To  mould  me  man  7  did  I  solicit  thee 

From  darkness  to  promote  me,  or  here  place 

In  this  delicious  garden  7  as  my  will 

Concurred  not  to  my  being,  it  were  but  right 

And  equal  to  reduce  me  to  my  dust ; 

Desirous  to  resign  and  render  back 

All  I  received ;  unable  to  perform 

Thy  terms  too  hard,  by  which  I  was  to  hold 

The  good  I  sought  not.     To  the  loss  of  that, 

Sufficient  penalty,  why  hast  thou  added 

The  sense  of  endless  woes'?  inexplicable 

Thy  justice  seems ;  yet,  to  say  truth,  too  late 

I  thus  contest ;  then  should  have  been  refused 

Those  terms,  whatever,  when  they  were  proposed : 

Thou  didst  accept  them;  wilt  thou  enjoy  the  good, 

Then  cavil  the  conditions!  and,  though  God 

Made  thee  without  thy  leave,  what  if  thy  son 

Prove  disobedient,  and,  reproved,  retort, 

'Wherefore  didst  thou  beget  me?  I  sought  it  not.' 

Wouldst  thou  admit  for  his  contempt  of  thee 

That  proud  excuse  7  yet  him  not  thy  election, 

But  natural  necessity,  begot. 

God  made  thee  of  choice  his  own,  and  of  his  own 

To  serve  him;  thy  reward  was  of  his  grace, 

Thy  punishment  then  justly  is  at  his  will. 

Be  it  so,  for  1  submit ;  his  doom  is  fair, 

That  dust  I  am,  and  shall  to  dust  return : 

O  welcome  hour  whenever !  why  delays 

His  hand  to  execute  what  his  decree 

Fixed  on  this  day?  who  do  I  overlive'? 

Why  am  I  mocked  with  death,  and  lengthened 

out 

To  deathless  pain?  how  gladly  would  I  meet 
Mortality  my  sentence,  and  be  earth 
Insensible !  how  glad  would  lay  me  down 
As  in  my  mother's  lap !  there  I  should  rest 
And  sleep  secure;  his  dreadful  voice  no  more 
Would  thunder  in  my  ears ;  no  fear  of  worse 
To  me  and  to  my  offspring  would  torment  me 
With  cruel  expectation.    Yet  one  doubt 
Pursues  me  still,  lest  all  I  can  not  die ; 
Lest  that  pure  breath  of  life,  the  spirit  of  man 
Which  God  inspired  can  not  together  perish 
With  this  corporeal  clod ;  then  in  the  grave, 
Or  in  some  other  dismal  place,  who  knows 
But  I  shall  die  a  living  death  ?  O  thought 
Horrid,  if  true !  yet  why?  it  was  but  breath 
Of  life  that  sinned ;  what  dies  but  what  had  life 
And  sin  ?  the  body  properly  hath  neither. 
All  of  me  then  shall  die:  let  this  appease 
The  doubt,  since  human  reach  no  further  knows 
For  though  the  Lord  of  all  be  infinite, 
Is  his  wrath  also  ?  be  it,  man  is  not  so, 
But  mortal  doomed.     How  can  he  exercise 
Wrath  without  end  on  man,  whom  death  mus 

end? 

Can  he  make  deathless  death  ?  that  were  to  make 
Strange  contradiction,  which  to  God  liimsclf 


Impossible  is  held,  as  argument 
Of  weakness,  not  of  power.   Will  he  draw  out, 
''or  anger's  sake,  finite  to  infinite 
n  punished  man,  to  satisfy  his  rigour, 
Satisfied  never  ?  that  were  to  extend 
lis  sentence  beyond  dust  and  nature's  law, 
Jy  which  all  causes  else,  according  still 
To  the  reception  of  their  matter,  act, 
S"ot  to  the  extent  of  their  own  sphere.     But  say 
That  death  be  not  one  stroke,  as  I  supposed, 
Bereaving  sense,  but  endless  misery 

rom  this  day  onward,  which  I  feel  begun 
?oth  in  me,  and  without  me,  and  so  last 
To  perpetuity;  ay  me!  that  fear 

omes  thundering  back  with  dreadful  revolution 
On  my  defenceless  head ;  both  death  and  I 
Am  found  eternal,  and  incorporate  both ; 
Nor  I  on  my  part  single ;  in  me  all 
3osterity  stands  cursed :  fair  patrimony 
That  I  must  leave  ye,  sons !  O  were  I  able 
To  waste  it  all  myself,  and  leave  ye  none ! 
So  disinherited,  how  would  ye  bless 
Vie,  now  your  curse !  Ah,  why  should  all  mankind/ 
?or  one  man's  fault,  thus  guiltless  be  condemned, 

f  guiltless  ?   But  from  me  what  can  proceed, 
3ut  all  corrupt ;  both  mind  and  will  depraved, 
$ot  to  do  only,  but  to  will  the  same 
With  me  ?  how  can  they  then  acquitted  stand 

n  sight  of  God  ?    Hun,  after  all  disputes, 

Forced  I  absolve:  all  my  evasions  vain, 

And  reasonings,  though  through  mazes,  lead  me 

still 

But  to  my  own  conviction:  first  and  last 
On  me,  me  only,  as  the  source  and  spring 
Of  all  corruption,  all  the  blame  lights  due : 
So  might  the  wrath !    Fond  wish !  couldst  thou 

support 

That  burden,  heavier  than  the  earth  to  bear; 
Than  all  the  world  much  heavier,  though  divided 
With  that  bad  woman?     Thus,  what  thou  de- 

sirest, 

And  what  thou  fear'st,  alike  destroys  all  hope 
Of  refuge,  and  concludes  thee  miserable 
Beyond  all  past  example  and  future ; 
To  Satan  only  like  both  crime  and  doom. 

0  conscience !  into  what  abyss  of  fears 

And  horrors  hast  thou  driven  me ;  out  of  which 

1  find  no  way,  from  deep  to  deeper  plunged !" 

Thus  Adam  to  himself  lamented  loud 
Through  the  still  night,  not  now,  as  ere  man  fell 
Wholesome,  and  cool,  and  mild,  but  with  black  air 
Accompanied ;  with  damps  and  dreadful  gloom ; 
Which  to  his  evil  conscience  represented 
All  things  with  double  terror :  on  the  ground 
Outstretched  he  lay,  on  the  cold  ground,  and  oft 
Cursed  his  creation ;  death  as  oft  accused 
Of  tardy  execution,  since  denounced 
The  day  of  his  offence.  "  Why  comes  not  death," 
Said  he,  "  with  one  thrice-acceptable  stroke 


BOOK  x. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


81 


To  end  me  1  shall  truth  fail  to  keep  her  word, 
Justice  divine  not  hasten  to  be  just  1 
But  Death  comes  not  at  call,  Justice  divine 
Mends  not  her  slowest  pace  for  prayers  or  cries. 

0  woods,  O  fountains,  hillocks,  dales,  and  bowers 
With  other  echo  late  I  taught  your  shades 

To  answer,  and  resound  far  other  song." 
Whom  thus  afflicted  when  sad  Eve  beheld, 
Desolate  where  she  sat,  approaching  nigh, 
Soft  words  to  his  fierce  passion  she  assayed : 
But  her  with  stern  regard  he  thus  repelled. 

"  Out  of  my  sight,  thou  serpent !  that  name  best 
Befits  thee  with  him  leagued,  thyself  as  false 
And  hateful ;  nothing  wants,  but  that  thy  shape, 
Like  his,  and  colour  serpentine,  may  show 
Thy  inward  fraud,  to  warn  all  creatures  from  thee 
Henceforth;  lest  that  too  heavenly  form,  pretended 
To  hellish  falsehood,  snare  them.     But  for  thee 

1  had  persisted  happy;  had  not  thy  pride, 
And  wandering  vanity,  when  least  was  safe, 
Rejected  my  forewarning,  and  disdained 
Not  to  be  trusted;  longing  to  be  seen, 
Though  by  the  devil  himself;  him  overweening 
To  overreach ;  but  with  the  serpent  meeting, 
Fooled  and  beguiled ;  by  him  thou,  I  by  thee, 
To  trust  thee  from  my  side,  imagined  wise, 
Constant,  mature,  proof  against  all  assaults, 
And  understood  not  all  was  but  a  show 
Rather  than  solid  virtue;  all  but  a  rib 
Crooked,  by  nature,  bent,  as  now  appears, 
More  to  the  part  sinister,  from  me  drawn ; 
Well  if  thrown  out,  as  supernumerary 

To  my  just  number  found.     O  !  why  did  God, 
Creator  wise,  that  peopled  highest  Heaven 
With  spirits  masculine,  create  at  last 
This  novelty  on  earth,  this  fair  defect 
Of  nature,  and  not  fill  the  world  at  once 
With  men,  as  angels,  without  feminine, 
Or  find  some  other  way  to  generate 
Mankind  1    This  mischief  had  not  then  befallen, 
And  more  that  shall  befall ;  innumerable 
Disturbances  on  earth  through  female  snares, 
And  straight  conjunction  with  this  sex :  for  either 
He  never  shall  find  out  fit  mate,  but  such 
As  some  misfortune  brings  him,  or  mistake; 
Or  whom  he  wishes  most  shall  seldom  gain 
Through  her  perverseness,  but  shall  see  her  gained 
By  a  far  worse ;  or,  if  she  love,  withheld 
By  parents;  or  his  happiest  choice  too  late 
Shall  meet,  already  linked  and  wedlock-bound 
To  a  fell  adversary,  his  hate  or  shame : 
Which  infinite  calumny  shall  cause 
To  human  life,  and  household  peace  confound." 
He  added  not,  and  from  her  turned ;  but  Eve, 
Not  so  repulsed,  with  tears  that  ceased  not  flow- 
ing, 

And  tresses  all  disordered,  at  his  feet, 
Fell  humble ;  and,  embracing  them,  besought 
His  peace  and  thus  proceeded  in  her  plaint. 
8 


"  Forsake  me  not  thus,  Adam!  witness  Heaven 
What  love  sincere,  and  reverence  in  my  heart 
I  bear  thee,  and  unweeting  have  offended, 
Unhappily  deceived !  thy  suppliant 
I  beg,  and  clasp  thy  knees;  bereave  me  not, 
Whereon  I  live,  thy  gentle  looks,  thy  aid, 
Thy  counsel  in  this  uttermost  distress, 
My  only  strength  and  stay:  forlorn  of  thee, 
Whither  shall  I  betake  me,  where  subsist? 
While  yet  we  live,  scarce  one  short  hour  perhaps, 
Between  us  two  let  there  be  peace,  both  joining, 
As  joined  in  injuries,  one  enmity 
Against  a  foe  by  doom  express  assigned  us, 
That  cruel  serpent:  on  me  exercise  not 
Thy  hatred  for  this  misery  befallen : 
On  me  already  lost,  me  than  thyself 
More  miserable ;  both  have  sinned ;  but  thou 
Against  God  only,  I  against  God  and  thee; 
And  to  the  place  of  judgment  will  return, 
There  with  my  cries  importune  Heaven,  that  all 
The  sentence,  from  thy  head  removed,  may  light 
On  me,  sole  cause  to  thee  of  all  this  wo, 
Me,  me  only,  just  object  of  his  ire !" 

She  ended  weeping ;  and  her  lowly  plight, 
Immoveable,  till  peace  obtained  from  fault 
Acknowledged  and  deplored,  in  Adam  wrought 
Commiseration  :  soon  his  heart  relented 
Towards  her,  his  life  so  late  and  sole  delight, 
Now  at  his  feet  submissive  in  distress; 
Creature  so  fair  his  reconcilement  seeking, 
His  counsel,  whom  she  had  displeased,  his  aid : 
As  one  disarmed,  his  anger  all  he  lost, 
And  thus  with  peaceful  words  upraised  her  soon. 

"  Unwary,  and  too  desirous,  as  before, 
So  now  of  what  thou  know'st  not,  who  desir'st 
The  punishment  all  on  thyself;  alas  ! 
Bear  thine  own  first,  ill  able  to  sustain 
His  full   wrath,  whose  thou  feel'st  as  yet  least 

part, 

And  my  displeasure  bear'st  so  ill.     If  prayer 
Could  altar  high  decrees,  I  to  that  place 
Would  speed  before  thee.  and  be  louder  heard, 
That  on  my  head  all  might  be  visited ; 
Thy  frailty  and  infirmer  sex  forgiven, 
Tome  committed,  and  by  me  exposed. 
But  rise ;  let  us  no  more  contend,  nor  blame, 
Each  other,  blamed  enough  elsewhere ;  but  strive 
In  offices  of  love,  how  me  may  lighten 
Each  other's  burden,  in  our  share  of  wo; 
Since  this  day's  death  denounced,  if  ought  I  see, 
Will  prove  no  sudden,  but  a  slow  paced  evil, 
A  long  day's  dying,  to  augment  our  pain, 
And  to  our  seed  (O  hapless  seed!)  derived." 

To  whom  thus  Eve,  recovering  heart,  replied. 
"  Adam,  by  sad  experiment  I  know 
How  little  weight  my  words  with  thee  can  find, 
Found  so  erroneous ;  thence,  by  just  event, 
Found  so  unfortunate ;  nevertheless, 
Restored  by  thee,  vile  as  I  am,  to  place 


82 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  x. 


Of  new  acceptance,  hopeful  to  regain 

Thy  love,  the  sole  contentment  of  my  heart 

Living  or  dying,  from  thee  I  will  not  hide 

What  thoughts  in  my  unquiet  breast  are  risen, 

Tending  to  some  relief  of  our  extremes, 

Or  end ;  though  sharp  and  sad,  yet  tolerable, 

As  in  our  evils,  and  of  easier  choice. 

If  care  of  our  descent  perplex  us  most, 

Which  must  be  born  to  certain  wo,  devoured 

By  Death  at  last ;  and  miserable  it  is 

To  be  to  others  cause  of  misery, 

Our  own  begotten,  and  of  our  loins  to  bring 

Into  this  cursed  world  a  woful  race, 

That  after  wretched  life  must  be  at  last 

Food  for  so  foul  a  monster ;  in  thy'  power 

It  lies,  yet  ere  conception  to  prevent 

The  race  unblest,  to  being  yet  unbegot. 

Childless  thou  art,  childless  remain :  so  Death  . 

Shall  be  deceived  his  glut,  and  with  us  two 

Be  forced  to  satisfy  his  ravenous  maw. 

But  if  thou  judge  it  hard  and  difficult, 

Conversing,  looking,  loving,  to  abstain 

From  love's  due  rites,  nuptial  embraces  sweet ; 

And  with  desire  to  languish  without  hope, 

Before  the  present  object  languishing 

With  like  desire;  which  would  be  misery 

And  torment  less  than  none  of  what  we  dread ; 

Then  both  ourselves  and  seed  at  once  to  free 

From  what  we  fear  for  both,  let  us  make  short, 

Let  us  seek  Death,  or,  he  not  found,  supply 

With  our  own  hands  his  office  on  ourselves ; 

Why  stand  we  longer  shivering  under  fears, 

That  show  no  end  but  death,  and  have  the  power, 

Of  many  ways  to  die  the  shortest  choosing, 

Destruction  with  destruction  to  destroy  ?" 

She  ended  here,  or  vehement  despair 
Broke  off  the  rest ;  so  much  of  death  her  thoughts 
Had  entertained,  as  dyed  her  cheeks  with  pale. 
But  Adam,  with  such  counsel  nothing  swayed, 
To  better  hopes  his  more  attentive  mind 
Labouring  had  raised,  and  thus  to  Eve  replied. 

"  Eve,  thy  contempt  of  life  and  pleasure  seems 
To  argue  in  thee  something  more  sublime 
And  excellent,  than  what  thy  mind  contemns : 
But  self-destruction  therefore  sought,  refutes 
That  excellence  thought  in  thee,  and  implies. 
Not  thy  contempt,  but  anguish  and  regret 
For  loss  of  life  and  pleasure  overloved. 
Or  if  thou  covet  death,  as  utmost  end 
Of  misery,  so  thinking  to  evade 
The  penalty  pronounced ;  doubt  not  but  God 
Hath  wiselier  armed  his  vengeful  ire,  than  so 
To  be  forestalled ;  much  more  I  fear  lest  death, 
So  snatched,  will  not  exempt  us  from  the  pain 
We  are  by  doom  to  pay ;  rather  such  acts 
Of  contumacy  will  provoke  the  Highest 
To  make  death,  in  us  live  :  then  let  us  seek 
Some  safer  resolution,  which  methinks 
I  have  in  view,  calling  to  mind  with  heed 


Part  of  our  sentence,  that  thy  seed  shall  bruise 
The  serpent's  head;  piteous  amends  !  unless 
Be  meant,  whom  I  conjecture,  our  grand  foe, 
Satan,  who,  in  the  serpent,  hath  contrived 
Against  us  this  deceit :  to  crush  his  head 
Would  be  revenge  indeed !  which  will  be  lost 
By  death  brought  on  ourselves,  or  childless  days 
Resolved,  as  thou  proposest ;  so  our  foe 
Shall  'scape  his  punishment  ordained,  and  we 
Instead  shall  double  ours  upon  our  heads. 
No  more  be  mentioned  then  of  violence 
Against  ourselves,  and  wilful  barrenness, 
That  cuts  us  off  from  hope,  and  savours  only 
Rancour  and  pride,  impatience  and  despite, 
Reluctance  against  God  and  his  just  yoke 
Laid  on  our  necks.     Remember  with  what  mild 
And  gracious  temper  he  both  heard  and  judged 
Without  wrath  or  reviling ;  we  expected 
Immediate  dissolution,  which  we  thought 
Was  meant  by  death  that  day  ;  when  lo,  to  thee 
Pains  only  in  child-bearing  were  foretold, 
And  bringing  forth ;  soon  recompensed  with  joy 
Fruit  of  thy  womb :  on  me  the  curse  aslope 
Glanced  on  the  ground  :  with  labour  I  must  earn 
My  bread ;  what  harm?  Idleness  had  been  worse; 
My  labour  will  sustain  me ;  and,  lest  cold 
Or  heat  should  injure  us,  his  timely  care 
Hath,  unbesought,  provided,  and  his  hands 
Clothed  us  unworthy,  pitying  while  he  judged; 
How  much  more,  if  we  pray  him,  will  his  ear 
Be  open,  and  his  heart  to  pity  incline, 
And  teach  us  further  by  what  means  to  shun 
Th'  inclement  seasons,  rain,  ice,  hail,  and  snow ! 
Which  now  the  sky  with  various  face  begins 
To  show  us  in  this  mountain,  while  the  winds 
Blow  moist  and  keen,  shattering  the  graceful  locks 
Of  these  fair  spreading  trees :  which  bids  us  seek 
Some  better  shroud,  some  better  warmth  to  cherish 
Our  limbs  benumbed,  ere  this  diurnal  star 
Leave  cold  the  night,  how  we  his  gathered  beams 
Reflected  may  with  matter  sere  foment; 
Or,  by  collision  of  two  bodies  grind 
The  air  attrite  to  fire :  as  late  the  clouds 
Justling  or  pushed  with  winds,  rude  in  their  shock 
Tine  the  slant  lightning ;  whose  thwart  flame, 

driven  down 

Kindles  the  gummy  bark  of  fir  or  pine 
And  sends  a  comfortable  heat  from  far, 
Which  might  supply  the  sun :  such  fire  to  use, 
And  what  may  else  be  remedy  or  cure 
To  evils  which  our  own  misdeeds  have  wrought, 
He  will  instruct  us  praying,  and  of  grace 
Beseeching  him,  so  as  we  need  not  fear 
To  pass  commodiously  this  life,  sustained 
By  him  with  many  comforts,  till  we  end 
In  dust,  our  final  rest  and  native  home. 
What  better  can  we  do,  than  to  the  place 
Repairing  where  he  judged  us,  prostrate  fall 
Before  him  reverent;  and  there  confess 


BOOK  xi. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


83 


Humbly  our  faults,  and  pardon  beg ;  with  tears 
Watering  the  ground,  and  with  our  sighs  the  air 
Frequenting,  sent  from  hearts  contrite,  in  sign 
Of  sorrow  unfeigned,  and  humiliation  meek"? 
Undoubtedly  ho  will  relent  and  turn 
From  his  displeasure ;  in  whose  look  serene, 
When  angry  most  he  seemed  and  most  severe, 
What  else  but  favour,  grace,  and  mercy  shone  7" 

So  spake  our  father  penitent,  nor  Eve 
Felt  less  remorse;  they,  forthwith  to  the  place 
Repairing  where  he  judged  them,  prostrate  fell 
Before  him  reverent ;  and  both  confessed 
Humbly  their  faults,  and  pardon  begged  with  tears 
Watering  the  ground,  and  with  their  sighs  the  air 
Frequenting,  sent  from  hearts  contrite,  in  sign 
Of  sorrow  unfeigned,  and  humiliation  meek. 


BOOK  XI. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

The  Son  of  God  presents  to  his  Father  the  prayers  of  our 
first  parents  now  repenting,  and  intercedes  for  them ;  God  ac- 
cepts them,  but  declares  that  they  must  no  longer  abide  in  Pa- 
radise ;  sends  Michael  with  a  band  of  cherubim  to  dispossess 
them  ;  but  first  to  reveal  to  Adam  future  things :  Michael's 
coming  down.  Adam  shows  to  Eve  certain  ominous 


Sown  with  contrition  in  his  heart  than  those 
Which,  his  own  hand  manuring,  all  the  trees 
Of  Paradise  could  have  produced,  ere  fallen 
From  innocence.     Now  therefore  bend  thine  ear 
To  supplication;  hear  his  sighs,  though  mute; 
Unskilful  with  what  words  to  pray,  let  me 
Interpret  for  him,  me,  his  advocate 
And  propitiation;  all  his  works  on  me,       w 
Good  or  not  good,  ingraft;  my  merit  those 
Shall  perfect,  and  for  these  my  death  shall  pay. 
Accept  me;  and  in  me,  from  these  receive 
The  smell  of  peace  toward  mankind :  let  him  live 
Before  thee  reconciled,  at  least  his  days 
Numbered,  though  sad,  till  death,  his  doom,  (which  I 
To  mitigate  thus  plead,  not  to  reverse,) 
To  better  life  shall  yield  him ;  where  with  me 
All  my  redeemed  may  dwell  in  joy  and  bliss ; 
Made  one  with  me  as  I  with  thee  am  one." 

To  whom  the  Father,  without  cloud,  serene: 
"  All  thy  request  for  man,  accepted  Son, 
Obtain;  all  thy  request  was  my  decree: 
But  longer  in  that  Paradise  to  dwell, 
The  law  I  gave  to  nature  him  forbids: 
Those  pure  immortal  elements,  that  know 
No  gross,  no  unharmonious  mixture  foul, 
Eject  him,  tainted  now;  and  purge  him  off 


coiimii:  uuwii.     AUUIII  BUUWS  10  rjve  cenam  ominous  signs ;  j     "  .  *      ° 

he  discerns  Michael's  approach ;  goes  out  to  meet  him ;  the !  As  a  distemper,  gross,  to  air  as  gross, 
angel  denounces  their  departure.   Eve's  lamentation.    Adam  |  And  mortal  food;  as  may  dispose  him  best 
pleads,  but  submits:  the  angel  leads  him  up  to  a  high  hill ;  i  For  dissolution  wrought  by  sin,  that  first 
3  him  in  vision  what  shall  happen  till  the  flood.          Distempered  all  things,  and  of  incorrupt 

Corrupted.     I,  at  first,  with  two  fair  gifts 
Created  him  endowed;  with  happiness 
And  immortality :  that  fondly  lost, 
This  other  served  but  to  eternize  wo, 


THUS  they,  in  lowliest  plight,  repentant  stood 
Praying;  for  from  the  mercy-seat  above 
Prevenient  grace  descended  had  removed 
The  stony  from  their  hearts,  and  made  new  flesh 
Regenerate  grow  instead,  that  sighs  now  breathed 
Unutterable;  which  the  Spirit  of  prayer 
Inspired,  and  winged  for  Heaven  with  speedier 

flight 

Than  loudest  oratory :  yet  their  sport 
Not  of  mean  suitors,  nor  important  less 
Seemed  their  petition,  than  when  the  ancient  pair 
In  fables  old,  less  ancient  yet  than  these, 
Deucalion  and  chaste  Pyrrha,  to  restore 
The  race  of  mankind  drowned,  before  the  shrine 
Of  Themis  stood  devout.  To  Heaven  their  prayers 
Flew  up,  nor  missed  the  way,  by  envious  winds 
Blown  vagabond  or  frustrate :  in  they  passed 
Dimensionless  through  heavenly  doors;  then,  clad 
With  incense,  where  the  golden  altar  fumed, 
By  their  great  Intercessor,  came  in  sight 
Before  the  Father's  throne:  them  the  glad  Son 
Presenting,  thus  to  intercede  began: 

"See,  Father,  what  first  fruits  on  earth  are 

sprung 

From  thy  implanted  grace  in  man,  these  sighs 
And  prayers,  which  in  this  golden  censer  mixed 
With  incense,  I  thy  priest  before  thee  bring: 
Fruits  of  more  pleasing  savour  from  thy  seed 


Till  I  provided  death:  so  death  becomes 

His  final  remedy;  and,  after  life 

Tried  in  sharp  tribulation,  and  refined 

By  faith  and  faithful  works,  to  second  life, 

Waked  in  the  renovatian  of  the  just, 

Resigns  him  up  with  Heaven  and  earth  renewed. 

But  let  us  call  to  synod  all  the  blest 

Through  Heaven's  wide  bounds;  from  them  I  will 

not  hide 

My  judgments;  how  with  mankind  I  proceed, 
As  how  with  peccant  angels  late  they  saw, 
And  in  their  state,  though  firm,  stood  more  con- 
firmed." 

He  ended,  and  the  Son  gave  signal  high 
To  the  bright  minister  that  watched;  he  blew 
His  trumpet,  heard  in  Oreb  since  perhaps 
When  God  descended,  and  perhaps  once  more 
To  sound  at  general  doom.     The  angelic  blast 
Filled  all  the  regions ;  from  their  blissful  bowers 
Of  amaranthine  shade,  fountain  or  spring, 
By  the  waters  of  life,  where'er  they  sat 
In  fellowships  of  joy,  the  sons  of  light 
Hasted,  resorting  to  the  summons  high 
And  took  their  seats ;  till  from  his  throne  supreme 
Th'  Almighty  thus  pronounced  his  sovereign  will. 


84 


MILTON'S  WORKS, 


BOOK  xi. 


"  O  sons,  like  one  of  us  man  is  become 
To  know  both  good  and  evil,  since  his  taste 
Of  that  defended  fruit;  but  let  him  boast 
His  knowledge  of  good  lost,  and  evil  got; 
Happier!  had  it  sufficed  him  to  have  known 
Good  by  itself,  and  evil  not  at  all. 
He  sorrows  now,  repents,  and  prays  contrite, 
My  motions  in  him;  longer  than  they  move, 
His  heart  I  know,  how  variable  and  vain, 
Self-left.     Lest  therefore  his  now  bolder  hand 
Reach  also  of  the  tree  of  life,  and  eat, 
And  live  for  ever,  dream  at  least  to  live 
For  ever,  to  remove  him  I  decree, 
And  send  him  from  the  garden  forth  to  till 
The  ground  whence  he  was  taken,  fitter  soil. 
Michael,  this  my  behest  have  thou  in  charge; 
Take  to  thee  from  among  the  cherubim 
Thy  choice  of  flaming  warriors,  lest  the  fiend, 
Or  in  behalf  of  man.  or  to  invade 
Vacant  possession,  some  new  trouble  raise: 
Haste  thee,  and  from  the  Paradise  of  God 
Without  revenge  drive  out  the  sinful  pair ; 
From  hallowed  ground  the  unholy ;  and  denounce 
To  them,  and  to  their  progeny,  from  thence 
Perpetual  banishment.    Yet,  lest  they  faint 
At  the  sad  sentence  rigorously  urged, 
For  I  behold  them  softened  and  with  tears 
Bewailing  their  excess,  all  terror  hide. 
If  patiently  thy  bidding  they  obey, 
Dismiss  them  not  disconsolate ;  reveal 
To  Adam  what  shall  come  in  future  days, 
As  I  shall  thee  enlighten;  intermix 
My  covenant  in  the  woman's  seed  renewed , 
So  send  them  forth,  though  sorrowing,  yet  in  peace 
And,  on  the  east  side  of  the  garden,  place, 
Where  entrance  up  from  Eden  easiest  climbs, 
Cherubic  watch ;  and  of  a  sword  the  flame 
Wide-waving ;  all  approach  far  off  to  fright, 
And  guard  all  passage  to  the  tree  of  life ; 
Lest  Paradise  a  receptacle  prove 
To  spirits  foul,  and  all  my  trees  their  prey, 
With  whose  stolen  fruit  man  once  more  to  delude." 

He  ceased ;  and  the  archangelic  power  prepared 
For  swift  descent ;  with  him  the  cohort  bright 
Of  watchful  cherubim :  four  faces  each 
Had,  like  a  double  Janus ;  all  their  shape 
Spangled  with  eyes,  more  numerous  than  those 
Of  Argus,  and  more  wakeful  than  to  drowse, 
Charmed  with  Arcadian  pipe,  the  pastoral  reed 
Of  Hermus,  or  his  opiate  rod.     Meanwhile, 
To  resalute  the  world  with  sacred  light, 
Leucothea  waked,  and  with  fresh  dews  embalmed 
The  earth ;  when  Adam  and  first  matron  Eve 
Had  ended  now  their  orisons,  and  found 
Strength  added  from  above,  new  hope  to  spring 
Out  of  despair ;  joy,  but  with  fear  yet  linked ; 
Which  thus  to  Eve  his  welcome  words  renewed. 

"Eve,  easily  may  faith  admit,  that  all 
The  good  which  we  enjoy  from  Heaven  descends ; 


But  that  from  us  aught  should  ascend  to  Heaven 
So  prevalent  as  to  concern  the  mind 
Of  God  high-blest,  or  to  incline  his  will, 
Hard  to  belief  may  seem ;  yet  this  will  prayer, 
Or  one  short  sigh  of  human  breath,  upborne 
Even  to  the  seat  of  God.     For  since  I  sought 
By  prayer  the  offended  Deity  to  appease, 
Kneeled,  and  before  him  humbled  all  my  heart, 
Methought  I  saw  him  placable  and  mild, 
Bending  his  ear ;  persuasion  in  me  grew 
That  I  was  heard  with  favour ;  peace  returned 
Home  to  my  breast,  and  to  my  memory 
His  promise,  that  thy  seed  shall  bruise  our  foe : 
Which,  then  not  minded  in  dismay,  yet  now 
Assures  me  that  the  bitterness  of  death 
Is  past,  and  we  shall  live.     Whence  hail  to  thee, 
Eve  rightly  called,  mother  of  all  mankind, 
Mother  of  all  things  living,  since  by  thee 
Man  is  to  live,  and  all  things  live  for  man." 

To  whom  thus  Eve  with  sad  demeanour  meek. 
'  111  worthy  I  such  title  should  belong 
To  me  transgressor,  who,  for  thee  ordained 
A  help,  became  thy  snare ;  to  me  reproach 
Rather  belongs,  distrust,  and  all  dispraise  : 
But  infinite  in  pardon  was  my  Judge, 
That  I,  who  first  brought  death  on  all,  am  graced 
The  source  of  life ;  next  unfavourable  thou, 
Who  highly  thus  to  entitle  me  vouchsaf 'st 
Par  other  name  deserving.     But  the  field 
To  labour  calls  us,  now  with  sweat  imposed, 
Though  after  sleepless  night ;  for,  see !  the  morn, 
All  unconcerned  with  our  unrest,  begins 
Her  rosy  progress  smiling ;  let  us  forth ; 
[  never  from  thy  side  henceforth  to  stray. 
Where'er  our  day's  work  lies,  though  now  en- 
joined 

Laborious,  till  day  droop ;  while  here  we  dwell, 
What  can  be  toilsome  in  these  pleasant  walks  1 
Eere  let  us  live,  though  in  fallen  state,  content." 
So  spake,  so  wished  much  humbled  Eve ;  but 

fate 

Subscribed  not;  Nature  first  gave  signs,  impressed 
On  bird,  beast,  air ;  air  suddenly  eclipsed 
After  short  blush  of  morn ;  nigh  in  her  sight 
The  bird  of  Jove,  stooped  from  his  aery  tour, 
Two  birds  of  gayest  plume  before  him  drove ; 
Down  from  a  hill  the  beast  that  reigns  in  woods, 
?irst  hunter  then,  pursued  a  gentle  brace, 
Goodliest  of  all  the  forest,  hart  and  hind ; 
Direct  to  the  eastern  gate  was  bent  their  flight. 
Adam  observed,  and,  with  his  eye  the  chase 
Pursuing,  not  unmoved,  to  Eve  thus  spake. 

"  O  Eve,  some  further  change  awaits  us  nigh, 
Which  Heaven,  by  these  mute  signs  in  nature, 

shows 

forerunners  of  his  purpose ;  or  to  warn 
Us,  haply  too  secure,  of  our  discharge 
From  penalty,  because  from  death  released 
Some  days:  how  long,  and  what  till  then  our  life, 


BOOK  xi. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


Who  knows  1  or  more  than  this,  that  we  are  dust 
And  thither  must  return,  and  be  no  more  ? 
Why  else  this  double  object  in  our  sight 
Of  flight  pursued  in  the  air,  and  o'er  the  ground 
One  way  the  self-same  hour?  why  in  the  east 
Darkness  ere  day's  mid  course,  and  morning  ligh 
More  orient  in  yon  western  cloud,  that  draws 
O'er  the  blue  firmament  a  radiant  white, 
And   slow  descends,  with  something  Heaven! 

fraught  1" 

He  erred  not ;  for  by  this  the  heavenly  bands 
Down  from  a  sky  of  jasper  lighted  now 
In  Paradise,  and  on  a  hill  made  halt  : 
A  glorious  apparition,  had  not  doubt 
And  carnal  fear  that  day  dimmed  Adam's  eye. 
Not  that  more  glorious,  when  the  angels  met 
Jacob  in  Mahanaim,  where  he  saw 
The  field  pavilioned  with  his  guardians  bright ; 
Nor  that,  which  on  the  flaming  mount  appeared 
In  Dothan,  covered  with  a  camp  of  fire, 
Against  the  Syrian  king,  who  to  surprise 
One  man,  assassin-like,  had  levied  war, 
War  unproclaimed.     The  princely  Hierarch 
In  their  bright  stand  there  left  his  powers,  to  seize 
Possession  of  the  garden ;  he  alone, 
To  find  where  Adam  sheltered,  took  his  way, 
Not  unperceived  of  Adam ;  who  to  Eve, 
While  the  great  visitant  approached,  thus  spake. 
"  Eve,  now  expect  great  tidings,  which  perhaps 
Of  us  will  soon  determine,  or  impose 
New  laws  to  be  observed ;  for  I  descry, 
From  yonder  blazing  cloud  that  veils  the  hill, 
One  of  the  Heavenly  host,  and,  by  his  gait, 
None  of  the  meanest ;  some  great  potentate, 
Or  of  the  thrones  above,  such  majesty 
Invests  him  coming !  yet  not  terrible, 
That  I  should  fear,  nor  sociably  mild, 
As  Raphael,  that  I  should  much  confide ; 
But  solemn  and  sublime,  whom  not  to  offend, 
With  reverence  I  must  meet,  and  thou  retire." 

He  ended ;  and  the  archangel  soon  drew  nigh, 
Not  in  his  shape  celestial,  but  as  man 
Clad  to  meet  man;  over  his  lucid  arms 
A  military  vest  of  purple  flowed, 
Livelier  than  MeKbcean,  or  the  grain 
Of  Sarra,  worn  by  kings  and  heroes  old 
In  time  of  truce;  Iris  had  dipped  the  woof; 
His  starry  helm  unbuckled  showed  him  prime 
In  manhood  where  youth  ended  ;  by  his  side, 
As  in  a  glistering  zodiac  hung  the  sword, 
Satan's  dire  dread,  and  in  his  hand  the  spear. 
Adam  bowed  low ;  he,  kingly,  from  his  state 
Inclined  not,  but  his  coming  thus  declared. 
"Adam,  Heaven's  high  behest  no  preface  needs: 
Sufficient  that  thy  prayers  are  heard ;  and  Death, 
Then  due  by  sentence  when  thou  didst  transgress, 
Defeated  of  his  seizure  many  days 
Given  thee  of  grace ;  wherein  thou  may'st  repent, 
And  one  bad  act  with  many  deeds  well  done 


May'st  cover:  well  may  then  thy  Lord,  appeased, 
Redeem  thee  quite  from  Death's  rapacious  claim ; 
But  longer  in  this  Paradise  to  dwell 
Permits  not ;  to  remove  thee  I  am  come, 
And  send  thee  from  the  garden  forth  to  till 
The  ground  whence  thou  wast  taken,  fitter  soil.' 

He  added  not,  for  Adam  at  the  news 
Heart-struck  with  chilling,  gripe  of  sorrow  stood, 
That  all  his  senses  bound :  Eve,  who  unseen, 
Yet  all  had  heard,  with  audible  lament 
Discovered  soon  the  place  of  her  retire. 

"  O  unexpected  stroke,  worse  than  of  death ! 
Must  I  thus  leave  thee,  Paradise!  thus  leave 
Thee,  native  soil,  these  happy  walks  and  shades, 
Fit  haunt  of  gods  7  where  I  had  hope  to  spend, 
duiet  though  sad,  the  respite  of  that  day 
That  must  be  mortal  to  us  both.     O  flowers, 
That  never  will  in  other  climate  grow, 
My  early  visitation,  and  my  last 
At  even,  which  I  bred  up  with  tender  hand 
From  the  first  opening  bud,  and  gave  ye  names ! 
Who  now  shall  rear  ye  to  the  sun,  or  rank 
Your  tribes,  and  water  from  th'  ambrosial  fount  1 
Thee,  lastly,  nuptial  bower,  by  me  adorned 
With  what  to  sight  or  smell  was  sweet !  from  thee 
How  shall  I  part,  and  whither  wander  down 
[nto  a  lower  world,  to  this  obscure 
And  wild  ?  how  shall  we  breathe  in  other  ah* 
Less  pure,  accustomed  to  immortal  fruits'?" 

Whom  thus  the  angel  interrupted  mild. 
'Lament  not,  Eve,  but  patiently  resign 
What  justly  thou  hast  lost ;  nor  set  thy  heart, 
Thus  over-fond,  on  that  which  is  not  thine : 
Thy  going  is  not  lonely;  with  thee  goes 
Thy  husband;  him  to  follow  thou  art  bound: 
Where  he  abides,  think  there  thy  native  soil." 

Adam,  by  this  from  the  cold  sudden  damp 
lecovering,  and  his  scattered  spirits  returned, 
To  Michael  thus  his  humble  words  addressed. 

"  Celestial,  whether  among  the  thrones,  or  named 
Of  them  the  highest,  for  such  of  shape  may  seem 
rince  above  princes  !  gently  hast  thou  told 
Thy  message,  which  might  else  in  telling  wound, 
And  in  performing  end  us;  what  besides 
Of  sorrow,  and  dejection,  and  despair 
Our  frailty  can  sustain,  thy  tidings  bring 
departure  from  this  happy  place,  our  sweet 
lecess,  and  only  consolation  left 
^amiliar  to  our  eyes!  all  happy  else 
nhospitable  appear,  and  desolate, 
Sor  knowing  us,  nor  known:  and,  if  by  prayer 
ncessant  I  could  hope  to  change  the  will 
>f  Him  who  all  things  can,  I  would  not  cease 
'o  weary  him  with  my  assiduous  cries : 
ut  prayer  against  his  absolute  decree 
To  more  avails  than  breath  against  the  wind, 
lown  stifling  back  on  him  that  breathes  it  forth; 
'herefore  to  his  great  bidding  I  submit, 
'his  most  afflicts  me,  that,  departing  hence, 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  xi. 


As  from  his  face  I  shall  be  hid,  deprived 
His  blessed  countenance :  here  I  could  frequent 
With  worship  place  by  place  where  he  vouch- 
safed 

Presence  divine  ;  and  to  my  sons  relate, 
'  On  this  mount  he  appeared;  under  this  tree 
Stood  visible  ;  among  these  pines  his  voice 
I  heard ;  here  with  him  at  this  fountain  talked : 
So  many  grateful  altars  I  would  rear 
Of  grassy  turf,  and  pile  up  every  stone 
Of  lustre  from  the  brook,  in  memory, 
Or  monument  to  ages;  and  thereon 
Offer  sweet-smelling  gums,  and  fruits,  and  flowers: 
In  yonder  nether  world  where  shall  I  seek 
His  bright  appearances,  or  footstep  trace  1 
For  though  I  fled  him  angry,  yet,  recalled 
To  life  prolonged  and  promised  race,  I  now 
Gladly  behold  though  but  his  utmost  skirts 
Of  glory ;  and  far  off  his  steps  adore." 

To  whom  thus  Michael  with  regard  benign. 
"  Adam,  thou  knowest  Heaven  his,  and  all  the 

earth; 

Not  this  rock  only ;  his  omnipresence  fills 
Land,  sea,  and  air,  and  every  kind  that  lives, 
Fomented  by  his  virtual  power  and  warmed : 
All  the  earth  he  gave  thee  to  possess  and  rule, 
No  despicable  gift ;  surmise  not  then 
His  presence  to  these  narrow  bounds  confined 
Of  Paradise  or  Eden:  this  had  been 
Perhaps  thy  capital  seat,  from  whence  had  spread 
All  generations,  and  had  hither  come 
From  all  the  ends  of  the  earth,  to  celebrate 
And  reverence  thee,  their  great  progenitor. 
But  this  pre-eminence  thou  hast  lost,  brought 

down 

To  dwell  on  even  ground  now  with  thy  sons : 
Yet  doubt  not  but  in  valley,  and  in  plain, 
God  is,  as  here ;  and  will  found  alike 
Present ;  and  of  his  presence  many  a  sign 
Still  following  thee,  still  compassing  thee  round 
With  goodness  and  paternal  love,  his  face 
Express,  and  of  his  steps  the  tract  'divine. 
Which  that  thou  may'st  believe,  and  be  confirmed 
Ere  thou  from  hence  depart;  know  I  am  sent 
To  show  thee  what  shall  come  in  future  days 
To  thee  and  to  thy  offspring ;  good  with  bad 
Expect  to  hear ;  supernal  grace  contending 
With  sinfulness  of  men ;  thereby  to  learn 
True  patience,  and  to  temper  joy  with  fear 
And  pious  sorrow ;  equally  innured 
By  moderation  either  state  to  bear, 
Prosperous  or  adverse :  so  shalt  thou  lead 
Safest  thy  life,  and  best  prepared  endure 
Thy  mortal  passage  when  it  comes.     Ascend 
This  hill;  let  Eve  (for  I  have  drenched  her  eyes) 
Here  sleep  below  while  thou  to  foresight  wak'st ; 
As  once  thou  sleep'st,  while  she  to  life  was 

formed." 
To  whom  thus  Adam  gratefully  replied. 


"  Ascend,  I  follow  thee,  safe  guide,  the  path 
Thou  lead'st  me;   and  to  the  hand  of  Heaven 

submit, 

However  chastening;  to  the  evil  turn 
My  obvious  breast;  arming  to  overcome 
By  suffering,  and  earn  rest  from  labour  won, 
If  so  I  may  attain."     So  both  ascend 
In  the  visions  of  God:  It  Was  a  hill, 
Of  Paradise  the  highest,  from  whose  top 
The  hemisphere  of  earth,  in  clearest  ken, 
Stretched  out  to  the  amplest  reach  of  prospect  lay 
Not  higher  that  hill,  nor  wider  looking  round, 
Whereon,  for  different  cause,  the  tempter  set 
Our  second  Adam,  in  the  wilderness, 
To  show  him  all  earth's  kingdoms,  and  their  glory« 
His  eye  might  there  command  wherever  stood 
City  of  old  or  modern  fame,  the  seat 
Of  mightiest  empire,  from  the  destined  walls 
Of  Cambalu,  seat  of  Cathaian  Can, 
And  Samarchand  by  Oxus,  Temir's  throne, 
To  Paquin  of  Sinaean  kings ;  and  thence 
To  Agra  and  Lahor  of  great  Mogul, 
Down  to  the  golden  Chersonese;  or  where 
The  Persian  in  Ecbatan  sat,  or  since 
In  Hispahan;  or  where  the  Russian  ksar 
In  Mosco;  or  the  sultan  in  Bizance, 
Turchestan-born ;  nor  could  his  eye  not  ken 
The  empire  of  Negus  to  his  utmost  port 
Ercoco,  and  the  less  maritime  kings, 
Mombaza,  and  Gluiloa,  and  Melind, 
And  Sofala,  thought  Ophir,  to  the  realm 
Of  Congo,  and  Angola  farthest  south ; 
Or  thence  from  Niger  flood  to  Atlas  mount 
The  kingdoms  of  Almansor,  Fez,  and  Sus, 
Morocco,  and  Algiers,  and  Tremisen; 
On  Europe  thence,  and  where  Rome  was  to  sway 
The  world:  in  spirit  perhaps  he  also  saw 
Rich  Mexico,  the  seat  of  Montezume, 
And  Cusco  in  Peru,  the  richer  seat 
Of  Atabalipa ;  and  yet  unspoiled 
Guiana,  whose  great  city  Geryon's  sons 
Call  El  Dorablo.    But  to  nobler  sights 
Michael  from  Adam's  eyes  the  film  removed, 
Which  that  false  fruit  that  promised  clearer  sight 
Had  bred;  then  purged  with  euphrasy  and  rue 
The  visual  nerve,  for  he  had  much  to  see ; 
And  from  the  well  of  life  three  drops  instilled. 
So  deep  the  power  of  these  ingredients  pierced, 
Even  to  the  inmost  seat  of  mental  sight, 
That  Adam  now  enforced  to  close  his  eyes, 
Sunk  down,  and  all  his  spirits  became  entranced ; 
But  him  the  gentle  angel  by  the  hand 
Soon  raised,  and  his  attention  thus  recalled. 

"  Adam,  now  ope  thine  eyes:  and  first  behold 
The  effects  which  thy  original  crime  hath  wrought 
In  some  to  spring  from  thee;  who  never  touched 
The  excepted  tree ;  nor  with  the  snake  conspired; 
Nor  sinned  thy  sin ;  yet  from  that  sin  derive 
Corruption,  to  bring  forth  more  violent  deeds." 


BOOK  xi. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


87 


His  eyes  he  opened,  and  beheld  a  field, 
Part  arable  and  tilth,  whereon  were  sheaves 
New  reaped,  the  other  part  sheep-walks  and  folds; 
P  th'  midst  an  altar  as  the  land-mark  stood, 
Rustic,  of  grassy  sord ;  thither  anon 
A  sweaty  reaper  from  his  tillage  brought 
First  fruits,  the  green  ear,  and  the  yellow  sheaf, 
Uncalled,  as  came  to  hand ;  a  shepherd  next, 
More  meek,  came  with  the  firstlings  of  his  flock 
Choicest  and  best ;  then,  sacrificing,  laid 
The  inwards  and  their  fat,  with  incense  strowed, 
On  the  cleft  wood,  and  all  due  rites  performed. 
His  offering  soon  propitious  fire  from  Heaven 
Consumed  with  nimble  glance,  and  grateful  steam; 
The  other's  not,  for  his  was  not  sincere: 
Whereat  he  inly  raged,  and,  as  they  talked, 
Smote  him  into  the  midriff  with  a  stone 
That  beat  out  life ;  he  fell ;  and,  deadly  pale, 
Groaned  out  his  soul  with  gushing  flood  effused. 
Much  at  that  sight  was  Adam  in  his  heart 
Dismayed,  and  thus  in  haste  to  th'  angel  cried. 

"  O  teacher,  some  great  mischief  hath  befallen: 
To  that  meek  man  who  well  had  sacrificed ; 
Is  piety  thus  and  pure  devotion  paid  ?" 

To  whom  Michael  thus,  he  also  moved,  replied. 
"  These  two  are  brethren,  Adam,  and  to  come 
Out  of  thy  loins;  th'  unjust  the  just  hath  slain, 
For  envy  that  his  brother's  offering  found 
From  Heaven  acceptance ;  but  the  bloody  fact 
Will  be  avenged ;  and  the  other's  faith  approved, 
Lose  no  reward ;  though  here  thou  see  him  die, 
Rolling  in  dust  and  gore."     To  which  our  sire : 

"  Alas !  both  for  the  deed  and  for  the  cause! 
But  have  I  now  seen  Death  1  Is  this  the  way 
I  must  return  to  native  dust  7    O  sight 
Of  terror,  foul  and  ugly  to  behold, 
Horrid  to  think,  how  horrible  to  feel !" 

To  whom  thus  Michael.     "Death  thou  hast 

seen 

In  his  first  shape  on  man;  but  many  shapes 
Of  Death,  and  many  are  the  ways  that  lead 
To  his  grim  cave,  all  dismal ;  yet  to  sense 
More  terrible  at  th1  entrance  than  within. 
Some,  as  thou  sawest,  by  violent  stroke  shall  die ; 
By  fire,  flood,  famine,  by  intemperance  more 
In  meats  and  drinks,  which  on  the  earth  shall 

bring 

Diseases  dire,  of  which  a  monstrous  crew 
Before  thee  shall  appear ;  that  thou  mayest  know 
What  misery  the  inabstinence  of  Eve 
Shall  bring  on  men."     Immediately  a  place 
Before  his  eyes  appeared,  sad,  noisome,  dark; 
A  lazar-house  it  seemed ;  wherein  were  laid 
Numbers  of  all  diseased ;  all  maladies 
Of  ghastly  spasm,  or  racking  torture,  qualms 
Of  heart-sick  agony,  all  feverous  kinds, 
Convulsions,  epilepsies,  fierce  catarrhs, 
Intestine  stone  and  ulcer,  colic  pangs, 
Demoniac  phrenzy  moping  melancholy, 


And  moonstruck  madness,  pining  atrophy, 
Marasmus,  and  wide-wasting  pestilence, 
Dropsies,  and  asthmas,  and  joint  racking  rheums. 
Dire  was  the  tossing,  deep  the  groans ;  Despair 
Tended  the  sick  busiest  from  couch  to  couch ; 
And  over  them  triumphant  Death  his  dart 
Shook,  but  delayed  to  strike,  though  oft  invoked 
With  vows,  as  their  chief  good,  and  final  hope 
Sight  so  deform  what  heart  of  rock  could  long 
Dry-eyed  behold  7  Adam  could  not,  but  wept, 
Though  not  of  woman  born ;  compassion  quelled 
His  best  of  man,  and  gave  him  up  to  tears 
A  space,  till  firmer  thoughts  restrained  excess; 
And,  scarce  recovering  words,  his  plaint  renewed. 

"  O  miserable  mankind,  to  what  fall 
Degraded,  to  what  wretched  state  reserved ! 
Better  end  here  unborn.    Why  is  life  given 
To  be  thus  wrested  from  us  1  rather,  why 
Obtruded  on  us  thus  1  who,  if  we  knew 
What  we  receive,  would  either  not  accept 
Life  offered,  or  soon  beg  to  lay  it  down ; 
Glad  to  be  so  dismissed  in  peace.     Can  thus 
The  image  of  God  in  man,  created  once 
So  goodly  and  erect,  though  faulty  since, 
To  such  unsightly  sufferings  be  debased 
Under  inhuman  pains'?  Why  should  not  man 
Retaining  still  divine  similitude 
In  part,  from  such  deformities  be  free, 
And,  for  his  Maker's  image  sake,  exempt  7" 
"  Their  Maker's  image,"  answered  Michael, 

"  then 

Forsook  them,  when  themselves  they  vilified 
To  serve  ungoverned  appetite,  and  took 
His  image  whom  they  served,  a  brutish  vice, 
Inductive  mainly  to  the  sin  of  Eve. 
Therefore  so  abject  is  their  punishment. 
Disfiguring  not  God's  likeness,  but  their  own; 
Or  if  his  likeness,  by  themselves  defaced ; 
While  they  pervert  pure  nature's  healthful  rules 
To  loathsome  sickness ;  worthily,  since  they 
God's  image  did  not  reverence  in  themselves." 
"  I  yield  it  just,"  said  Adam,  "  and  submit. 
But  is  there  yet  no  other  way,  besides 
These  painful  passages,  how  we  may  come 
To  death,  and  mix  with  OUT  connatural  dust!" 
"  There  is,"  said  Michael,  "  if  thou  well  ob- 
serve 

The  rule  of  Not  too  much;  by  temperance  taught, 
In  what  thou  eat'st  and  drink'st;  seeking  from 

thence 

Due  nourishment,  not  gluttonous  delight, 
Till  many  years  over  thy  head  return : 
So  may'st  thou  live,  till,  like  ripe  fruit,  thou  drop 
Into  thy  mother's  lap ;  or  be  with  ease 
Gathered,  not  harshly  plucked,  for  death  mature: 
This  is  old  age ;  but  then  thou  must  outlive 
Thy  youth,  thy  strength,  thy  beauty ;  which  will 

change 
To  withered,  weak,  and  gray;  thy  senses  then 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  xi. 


Obtuse,  all  taste  of  pleasure  must  forego, 
To  what  thou  hast;  and,  for  the  air  of  youth, 
Hopeful  and  cheerful,  in  thy  blood  will  reign 
A  melancholy  damp  of  cold  and  dry 
To  weigh  thy  spirits  down,  and  last  consume 
The  balm  of  life."     To  whom  our  ancestor. 

"  Henceforth  I  fly  not  death,  nor  would  prolong 
Life  much ;  bent  rather  how  I  may  be  quit 
Fairest  and  easiest  of  this  cumbrous  charge; 
Which  I  must  keep  till  my  appointed  day 
Of  rendering  up,  and  patiently  attend 
My  dissolution."     Michael  replied. 

"  Nor  love  thy  life,  nor  hate ;  but  what  thou 

liv'st 

Live  well;  how  long  or  short,  permit  to  Heaven: 
And  now  prepare  thee  for  another  sight." 

He  looked,  and  saw  a  spacious  plain,  whereon 
Were  tents  of  various  hue ;  by  some,  were  herds 
Of  cattle  grazing ;  others,  whence  the  sound 
Of  instruments  that  made  melodious  chime 
Was  heard,  of  harp  and  organ ;  and,  who  moved 
Their  stops  and  chords,  was  seen ;  his  volant  touch, 
Instinct  through  all  proportions,  low  and  high, 
Fled  and  pursued  transverse  the  resonant  fugue. 
In  other  part  stood  one  who,  at  the  forge 
Labouring,  two  massy  clods  of  iron  and  brass 
Had  melted,  (whether  found  where  casual  fire 
Had  wasted  woods  on  mountain  or  in  vale, 
Down  to  the  veins  of  earth ;  thence  gliding  hot 
To  some  cave's  mouth;  or  whether  wash'd   by 

stream 

From  under  ground ;)  the  liquid  ore  be  drained 
Into  fit  moulds  prepared ;  from  which  he  formed 
First  his  own  tools;  then,  what  might  else  be 

wrought 

Fusil  or  graven  in  metal.  After  these, 
But  on  the  hither  side,  a  different  sort 
From  the  high  neighbouring  hills,  which  was  their 

seat, 

Down  to  the  plain  descended :  by  their  guise 
Just  men  they  seemed,  and  all  their  study  bent 
To  worship  God  aright,  and  know  his  works 
Not  hid ;  nor  those  things  last  which  might  pre- 
serve 

Freedom  and  peace  to  men :  they  on  the  plain 
Long  had  not  walked,  when  from  the  tents,  behold ! 
A  bevy  of  fair  women,  richly  gay 
In  gems  and  wanton  dress ;  to  the  harp  they  sung 
Soft  amorous  ditties,  and  in  dance  came  on : 
The  men,  though  grave,  eyed  them,  and  let  their 

eyes 

Rove  without  rein ;  till  in  the  amorous  net 
Fast  caught,  they  liked ;  and  each  his  liking  chose; 
And  now  of  love  they  treat,  till  the  evening  star, 
Love's  harbinger,  appeared ;  then,  all  in  heat 
They  light  the  nuptial  torch,  and  bid  invoke 
Hymen,  then  first  to  marriage  rites  invoked: 
With  feast  and  music  all  the  tents  resound. 
Such  happy  interview,  and  fair  event 


Of  love  and  youth  not  lost,  songs,  garlands,  flowers, 
And  charming  symphonies,  attached  the  heart 
Of  Adam,  soon  inclined  to  admit  delight, 
The  bent  of  nature ;  which  he  thus  expressed. 

"  True  opener  of  mine  eyes,  prime  angel  blest, 
Much  better  seems  this  vision,  and  more  hope 
Of  peaceful  days  portends,  than  those  two  past; 
Those  were  of  hate  and  death,  or  pain  much  worse; 
Here  nature  seems  fulfilled  in  all  her  ends." 

To  whom  thus  Michael.     "  Judge  not  what  is 

best 

By  pleasure,  though  to  nature  seeming  meet ; 
Created,  as  thou  art,  to  nobler  end, 
Holy  and  pure,  conformity  divine. 
Those  tents  thou  saw'st  so  pleasant,  were  the  tents 
Of  wickedness,  wherein  shall  dwell  his  race 
Who  slew  his  brother ;  studious  they  appear 
Of  arts  that  polish  life,  inventors  rare ; 
Unmindful  of  their  Maker,  though  his  spirit 
Taught  them;  but  they  his  gifts  acknowledged 

none. 

Yet  they  a  beauteous  offspring  shall  beget , 
For  that  fair  female  troop  thou  saw'st,  that  seemed 
Of  goddesses,  so  blithe,  so  smooth,  so  gay, 
Yet  empty  of  all  good  wherein  consists 
Woman's  domestic  honour  and  chief  praise ; 
Bred  only  and  completed  to  the  taste 
Of  lustful  appetance,  to  sing,  to  dance, 
To  dress,  and  troll  the  tongue,  and  roll  the  eye : 
To  these  that  sober  race  of  men,  whose  lives 
Religious  titled  them  the  sons  of  God. 
Shall  yield  up  all  their  virtue,  all  their  fame 
Ignobly,  to  the  trains  and  to  the  smiles 
Of  these  fair  atheists ;  and  now  swim  in  joy, 
Ere  long  to  swim  at  large ;  and  laugh,  for  which 
The  world  ere  long  a  world  of  tears  must  weep." 

To  whom  thus  Adam,  of  short  joy  bereft. 
"  O  pity  and  shame,  that  they,  who  to  live  well 
Entered  so  fair,  should  turn  aside  to  tread 
Paths  indirect,  or  in  the  mid  way  faint ! 
But  still  I  see  the  tenor  of  man's  wo 
Holds  on  the  same,  from  woman  to  begin." 

"  From  man's  effeminate  slackness  it  begins," 
Said  the  angel,  "  who  should  better  hold  his  place 
By  wisdom,  and  superior  gifts  received. 
But  now  prepare  thee  for  another  scene. 

He  looked,  and  saw  wide  territory  spread 
Before  him,  towns,  and  rural  works  between 
Cities  of  men  with  lofty  gates  and  towers, 
Concourse  in  arms,  fierce  faces  threatening  war, 
Giants  of  mighty  bone,  and  bold  emprise ; 
Part  wield  their  arms,  part  curb  the  foaming  steed, 
Single,  or  in  array  of  battle  ranged, 
Both  horse  and  foot,  nor  idly  mustering  stood; 
One  way  a  band  select  from  forage  drives 
A  herd  of  beeves,  fair  oxen  and  fair  kine, 
From  a  fat  meadow  ground ;  or  fleecy  flock, 
Ewes  and  their  bleating  lambs,  over  the  plain, 
Their  booty ;  scarce  with  life  the  shepherds  fly, 


xr. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


But  call  in  aid,  which  makes  a  bloody  fray; 

"SVith  cruel  tournament  the  squadrons  join  ; 

Where  cattle  pastured  late,  now  scattered  lies 

With  carcasses  and  arms  the  ensanguined  field, 

Deserted:  others  to  a  city  strong 

Lay  siege,  encanij>ed;  by  battery,  scale,  and  mine, 

Assaulting ;  others  from  the  wall  defend 

With  dart,  and  javelin,  stones  and  sulphurous  fire, 

On  each  hand  slaughter,  and  gigantic  deeds. 

In  other  part  the  sceptred  heralds  call 

To  council,  in  the  city  gates :  anon 

Gray  headed  men  and  grave,  with  warriors  mix'd, 

Assemble,  and  harangues  are  heard ;  but  soon 

In  factious  opposition ;  till  at  last 

Of  middle  age  one  rising,  eminent 

In  wise  deport,  spake  much  of  right  and  wrong, 

Of  justice,  of  religion,  truth,  and  peace, 

And  judgment  from  above :  him  old  and  young 

Exploded,  and  had  seized  with  violent  hands, 

Had  not  a  cloud  descending  snatched  him  thence 

Unseen  amid  the  throng  :  so  violence 

Proceeded,  and  oppression,  and  sword-law, 

Through  all  the  plain,  and  refuge  none  was  found. 

Adam  was  all  in  tears,  and  to  his  guide 

Lamenting  turned  full  sad ;  "  O !  what  are  these, 

Death's  ministers,  not  men "?  who  thus  deal  death 

Inhumanly  to  men  and  multiply 

Ten  thousand  fold  the  sin  of  him  who  slew 

His  brother ;  for  of  whom  such  massacre 

Make  they,  but  of  their  brethren ;  men  of  men  1 

But  who  was  that  just  man,  whom  had  not  Heaven 

Rescued,  had  in  his  righteousness  been  lost 7" 

To  whom  thus  Michael.  "  These  are  the  product 
Of  those  ill-mated  marriages  thou  sawest; 
Where  good  with  bad  were  matched,  who  of  them- 
selves 

Abhor  to  join;  and,  by  imprudence  mixed, 
Produce  prodigious  births  of  body  or  mind. 
Such  were  these  giants,  men  of  high  renown; 
For  in  those  days  might  only  shall  be  admired, 
And  valour  and  heroic  virtue  called  ; 
To  overcome  in  battle,  arid  subdue 
Nations,  and  bring  home  spoils  with  infinite 
Manslaughter,  shall  be  held  the  highest  pitch 
Of  human  glory;  and  for  glory  done 
Of  triumph,  to  be  styled  great  conquerors, 
Patrons  of  mankind,  gods,  and  sons  of  gods; 
Destroyers  rightlier  called,  and  plagues  of  men. 
Thus  fame  shall  be  achieved,  renown  on  earth ; 
And  what  most  merits  fame  in  silence  hid. 
But  he,  the  seventh  from  thee,  whom  thou  be- 

heldest 

The  only  righteous  in  a  world  perverse, 
And  therefore  hated,  therefore  so  beset 
With  foes,  for  daring  single  to  be  just, 
And  utter  odious  truth,  that  God  would  come 
To  judge  them  with  his  saints;  him  the  most  High, 
Rapt  in  a  balmy  cloud,  with  winged  steeds 
Did,  as  thou  saw'st,  receive,  to  walk  with  God 


High  in  salvation  and  the  climes  of  bliss, 
Exempt  from  death ;  to  show  thee  what  reward 
Awaits  the  good,  the  rest  what  punishment ; 
Which  now  direct  thine  eyes  and  soon  behold." 
He  looked,  and  saw  the  face  of  things  quite 

changed ; 

The  brazen  throat  of  war  had  ceased  to  roar ; 
All  now  was  turned  to  jollity  and  game. 
To  luxury  and  riot,  feast  and  dance, 
Marrying  or  prostituting,  as  befell, 
Rape  or  adultery,  where  passing  fair 
Allured  them :  thence  from  cups  to  civil  broils. 
At  length  a  reverend  sire  among  them  came, 
And  of  their  doings  great  dislike  declared, 
And  testified  against  their  ways  ;  he  oft 
Frequented  their  assemblies,  whereso  met, 
Triumphs  or  festivals ;  and  to  them  preached 
Conversion  and  repentance,  as  to  souls 
In  prison  under  judgments  imminent : 
But  all  in  vain  :  which  when  he  saw,  he  ceased. 
Contending,  and  removed  his  tents  far  off; 
Then,  from  the  mountain  hewing  timber  tall, 
Began  to  build  a  vessel  of  huge  bulk, 
Measured   by  cubit,    length,   and   breadth,   and 

height, 

Smeared  round  with  pitch,  and  in  the  side  a  door 
Contrived,  and  of  provisions  laid  in  large 
For  man  and  beast :  when  lo,  a  wonder  strange ! 
Of  every  beast,  and  bird,  and  insect  small, 
Came  sevens,  and  pairs,  and  entered  in  as  taught 
Their  order:  last  the  sire  and  his  three  sons, 
With  their  four  wives;   and  God  made  fast  the 

door. 
Meanwhile  the  southwind  rose,  and,  with  black 

wings 

Wide  hovering,  all  the  clouds  together  drove 
From  under  Heaven ;  the  hills  to  their  supply 
Vapour,  and  exhalation  dusk  and  moist, 
Sent  up  amain ;  and  now  the  thickened  sky 
Like  a  dark  ceiling  stood;  down  rushed  the  rain 
Impetuous,  and  continued  till  the  earth 
No  more  was  seen ;  the  floating  vessel  swum 
Uplifted,  and  secure  with  beaked  prow 
Rode  tilting  o'er  the  waves ;  all  dwellings  else 
Flood  overwhelmed,  and  them  with  all  their  pomp 
Deep  under  water  rolled ;  sea  covered  sea, 
Sea  without  shore ;  and  in  their  palaces, 
Where  luxury  late  reigned,  sea  monsters  whelped 
And  stabled;  of  mankind,  so  numerous  late, 
All  left,  in  one  small  bottom  swum  embarked. 
How  didst  thou  grieve  then,  Adam,  to  behold 
The  end  of  all  thy  offspring,  end  so  sad, 
Depopulation !  thee  another  flood, 
Of  tears  and  sorrow  a  flood  thee  also  drowned, 
And  sunk  thee  as  thy  sons ;  till,  gently  reared 
By  the  angel,  on  thy  feet  thou  stood'st  at  last, 
Though  comfortless ;  as  when  a  father  mourns 
His  children,  all  in  view  destroyed  at  once ; 
And  scarce  to  the  angel  utter edst  thus  thy  plaint. 


90 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  XL 


"  O  visions  ill  foreseen !  better  had  I 
Lived  ignorant  of  future !  so  had  borne 
My  part  of  evil  only,  each  day's  lot 
Enough  to  bear ;  those  now  that  were  dispensed 
The  burden  of  many  ages,  on  me  light 
At  once,  by  my  foreknowledge  gaining  birth 
Abortive,  to  torment  me  ere  their  being, 
With  thought  that  they  must  be.    Let  no  man 

seek 

Henceforth  to  be  foretold  what  shall  befall 
Him  or  his  children ;  evil  he  may  be  sure, 
Which  neither  his  foreknowing  can  prevent, 
And  he  the  future  evil  shall  no  less 
In  apprehension  than  in  substance  feel 
Grievous  to  bear :  but  that  care  now  is  past, 
Man  is  not  whom  to  warn :  those  few  escaped, 
Famine  and  anguish  will  at  last  consume, 
Wandering  that  watery  desert :  I  had  hope, 
When  violence  was  ceased,  and  war  on  earth, 
All  would  have  then  gone  well ;  peace  would  have 

crown'd 

With  length  of  happy  days  the  race  of  man ; 
But  I  was  far  deceived ;  for  now  I  see 
Peace  to  corrupt  no  less  than  war  to  waste. 
How  comes  it  thus  1  unfold,  celestial  guide, 
And  whether  here  the  race  of  man  will  end." 
To  whom  thus  Michael.     "  Those  whom  last 

thou  saw'st 

In  triumph  and  luxurious  wealth,  are  they 
First  seen  in  acts  of  prowess  eminent 
And  great  exploits,  but  of  true  virtue  void ; 
Who,  having  spilt  much  blood,  and  done  much 

waste 

Subduing  nations,  and  achieved  thereby 
Fame  in  the  world,  high  titles,  and  rich  prey ; 
Shall  change  their  course  to  pleasure,  ease,  and 

sloth, 

Surfeit,  and  lust ;  till  wantonness  and  pride 
Raise  out  of  friendship  hostile  deeds  in  peace. 
The  conquered  also,  and  enslaved  by  war, 
Shall,  with  their  freedom  lost,  all  virtue  lose 
And  fear  of  God ;  from  whom  their  piety  feigned 
In  sharp  contest  of  battle  found  no  aid 
Against  invaders ;  therefore,  cooled  in  zeal, 
Thenceforth  shall  practise  how  to  live  secure, 
Worldly  or  dissolute,  on  what  their  lords 
Shall  leave  them  to  enjoy ;  for  the  earth  shall  bear 
More  than  enough,  that  temperance  may  be  tried : 
So  all  shall  turn  degenerate,  all  depraved ; 
Justice  and  temperance,  truth  and  faith  forgot ; 
One  man  except,  the  only  son  of  light 
In  a  dark  age,  against  example  good, 
Against  allurement,  custom,  and  a  world 
Offended ;  fearless  of  reproach  and  scorn, 
Or  violence,  he  of  their  wicked  ways 
Shall  them  admonish,  and  before  them  set 
The  paths  of  righteousness;  how  much  more  safe, 
And  full  of  peace;  denouncing  wrath  to  come 
On  their  impenitence ;  and  shall  return 


Of  them  derived,  but  of  God  observed 
The  one  just  man  alive ;  by  his  command 
Shall  build  a  wondrous  ark,  as  thou  beheld'st, 
To  save  himself  and  household  from  amidst 
A  world  devote  to  universal  wrack. 
No  sooner  he,  with  them  of  man  and  beast 
Select  for  life,  shall  in  the  ark  be  lodged, 
And  sheltered  round,  but  all  the  cataracts 
Of  Heaven  set  open  on  the  earth  shall  pour 
Rain,  day*  and  night ;  all  fountains  of  the  deep, 
Broke  up,  shall  heave  the  ocean  to  usurp 
Beyond  all  bounds ;  till  inundation  rise 
Above  the  highest  hills :  then  shall  this  mount 
Of  Paradise  by  might  of  waves  be  moved 
Out  of  his  place,  pushed  by  the  horned  flood, 
With  all  his  verdure  spoiled,  and  trees  adrift, 
Down  the  great  river  to  the  opening  gulf, 
And  there  take  root,  an  island  salt  and  bare, 
The  haunt  of  seals  and  ores,  and  seamews  clang : 
To  teach  thee  that  God  attributes  to  place 
No  sanctity,  if  none  be  thither  brought 
By  men  who  there  frequent  or  therein  dwell. 
And  now,  what  further  shall  ensue,  behold." 

He  looked,  and  saw  the  ark  hull  on  the  flood, 
Which  now  abated ;  for  the  clouds  were  fled, 
Driven  by  a  keen  northwind,  that,  blowing  dry, 
Wrinkled  the  face  of  deluge,  as  decayed; 
And  the  clear  sun  on  his  wide  watery  glass 
Gazed  hot,  and  of  the  fresh  wave  largely  drew, 
As  after  thirst ;  which  made  their  flowing  shrink 
From  standing  lake  to  tripping  ebb,  that  stole 
With  soft  foot  towards  the  deep,  who  now  had  stopt 
His  sluices,  as  the  Heaven  his  windows  shut. 
The  ark  no  more  now  floats,  but  seems  on  ground 
Fast  on  the  top  of  some  high  mountain  fixed. 
And  now  the  tops  of  hills  as  rocks  appear : 
With  clamour,  thence  the  rapid  currents  drive 
Towards  the  retreating  sea  their  furious  tide. 
Forthwith  from  out  the  ark  a  raven  flies, 
And  after  him  the  surer  messenger, 
A  dove  sent  forth  once  and  again  to  spy 
Green  tree  or  ground  whereon  his  foot  may  light ; 
The  second  time  returning,  in  his  bill 
An  olive  leaf  he  brings,  pacific  sign: 
Anon  dry  ground  appears,  and  from  his  ark 
The  ancient  sire  descends  with  all  his  train; 
Then  with  uplifted  hands,  and  eyes  devout, 
Grateful  to  heaven,  over  his  head  beholds 
A  dewy  cloud,  and  in  the  cloud  a  bow 
Conspicuous  with  three  listed  colours  gay, 
Betokening  peace  from  God,  and  covenant  new. 
Whereat  the  heart  of  Adam,  erst  so  sad, 
Greatly  rejoiced,  and  thus  his  joy  broke  forth. 

' '  O  thou,  who  future  things  canst  represent 
As  present,  heavenly  instructor !  I  revive 
At  this  last  sight,  assured  that  man  shall  live, 
With  all  the  creatures,  and  their  seed  preserve. 
Far  less  I  now  lament  with  one  whole  world 
Of  wicked  sons  destroyed,  than  I  rejoice 


BOOK  xii. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


01 


For  one  man  found  so  perfect  and  so  just, 
That  God  vouchsafes  to  raise  another  world 
From  him,  and  all  his  anger  to  forget. 
But  say,  what  mean  those  coloured  streaks  in  Hea- 
ven 

Distended,  as  the  brow  of  God  appeased? 
Or  serve  they  as  a  flowery  verge,  to  bind 
The  fluid  skirts  of  that  same  watery  cloud, 
Lest  it  again  dissolve,  and  shower  the  earth?" 
To  whom  the  archangel.     "  Dexterously  thou 

aim'st; 

So  willingly  doth  God  remit  his  ire, 
Though  late  repenting,  him  of  man  depraved; 
Grieved  at  his  heart,  when  looking  down  he  saw 
The  whole  earth  filled  with  violence,  and  all  flesh 
Corrupting  each  their  way;  yet,  those  removed, 
Such  grace  shall  one  just  man  find  in  his  sight 
That  he  relents  not  to  blot  out  mankind ; 
And  makes  a  covenant  never  to  destroy 
The  earth  again  by  flood;  nor  let  the  sea 
Surpass  his  bounds;  nor  rain  to  drown  the  world, 
With  man  therein  or  beast;  but  when  he  brings 
Over  the  earth  a  cloud,  will  therein  set 
His  triple-coloured  bow,  whereon  to  look, 
And  call  to  mind  his  covenant:  day  and  night, 
Seed  time  and  harvest,  heat  and  hoary  frost, 
Shall  hold  their  course,  till  fire  purge  all  things 

new, 

Both  Heaven  and  earth,  wherein  the  just  shall 
dwell. 


BOOK  XII. 

THE  ARGUMENT. 

The  angel  Michael  continues,  from  the  flood,  to  relate  what 
shall  succeed ;  then  in  the  mention  of  Abraham,  comes  by  de- 
grees to  explain,  who  that  seed  of  the  woman  shall  be,  which 
was  promised  Adam  and  Eve  in  the  fall;  his  incarnation, 
death,  resurrection,  and  ascension ;  the  state  of  the  church  till 
his  second  coming.  Adam,  greatly  satisfied  and  recomforted 
by  these  relations  and  promises,  descends  the  hill  with  Michael? 
awakens  Eve,  who  all  this  while  had  slept,  but  with  gentle 
dreams  composed  to  quietness  of  mind  and  submission.  Mi- 
chael in  either  hand  leads  them  out  of  Paradise,  the  fiery 
sword  waving  behind  them,  and  the  cherubim  taking  their 
stations  to  guard  the  place. 


As  one,  who  in  his  journey  bates  at  noon, 
Though  bent  on  speed;   so  here  the  archangel 

paused 

Betwixt  the  world  destroyed  and  world  restored, 
If  Adam  aught  perhaps  might  interpose; 
Then,  with  transition  sweet,  new  speech  resumes. 
"  Thus  thou  hast  seen  one  world  begin  and  end; 
And  man,  as  from  a  second  stock  proceed. 
Much  thou  hast  yet  to  see;  but  I  perceive 
Thy  mortal  sight  to  fail ;  objects  divine 
Must  needs  impair  and  weary  human  sense ; 
Henceforth  what  is  to  come  I  will  relate; 
Thou  therefore  give  due  audience  and  attend. 


This  second  source  of  men,  while  yet  but  few, 
And  while  the  dread  of  judgment  past  remains 
Fresh  in  their  minds,  fearing  the  Deity, 
With  some  regard  to  what  is  just  and  right 
Shall  lead  their  lives,  and  multiply  apace; 
Labouring  the  soil,  and  reaping  plenteous  crop, 
Corn,  wine,  and  oil ;  and  from  the  herb  or  flock, 
Oft  sacrificing  bullock,  lamb,  or  kid, 
With  large  wine  offerings  poured,  and  sacred  feast, 
Shall  spend  their  days  in  joys  unblamed ;  and  dwell 
Long  time  in  peace,  by  families  and  tribes, 
Under  paternal  rule ;  till  one  shall  rise 
Of  proud  ambitious  heart;  who  not  content 
With  fair  equality,  fraternal  state, 
Will  arrogate  dominion  undeserved 
Over  his  brethren,  and  quite  dispossess 
Concord  and  law  of  nature  from  the  earth ; 
Hunting  (and  men,  not  beasts,  shall  be  his  game) 
With  war  and  hostile  snares  such  as  refuse 
Subjection  to  his  empire  tyrannous: 
A  mighty  hunter  thence  he  shall  be  styled 
Before  the  Lord;  as,  in  despite  of  Heaven, 
Or  from  Heaven  claiming  second  sovereignty; 
And  from  rebellion  shall  derive  his  name, 
Though  of  rebellion  others  he  accuse. 
He  with  a  crew  whom  like  ambition  joins 
With  him  or  under  him  to  tyrannize, 
Marching  from  Eden  towards  the  west,  shall  find 
The  plain  wherein  a  black  bituminous  gurge 
Boils  out  from  under  ground,  the  mouth  of  hell : 
Of  brick,  and  of  that  stuff  they  cast  to  build 
A  city  and  tower,  whose  top  may  reach  to  Heaven, 
And  get  themselves  a  name;  lest,  far  dispersed 
In  foreign  lands,  their  memory  be  lost ; 
Regardless  whether  good  or  evil  fame. 
But  God,  who  oft  descends  to  visit  men 
Unseen,  and  through  their  habitations  walks 
To  mark  their  doings,  them  beholding  soon, 
Comes  down  to  see  their  city,  ere  the  tower 
Obstruct  Heaven's  towers,  and  in  derision  sets 
Upon  their  tongues  a  various  spirit,  to  rase 
duite  out  their  native  language;  and,  instead, 
To  sow  a  j  angling  noise  of  words  unknown : 
Forthwith  a  hideous  gabble  rises  loud 
Ambng  the  builders ;  each  to  other  calls 
Not  understood;  till  hoarse,  and  all  in  rage, 
As  mock'd  they  storm:    great  laughter  was  in 

Heaven, 

And  looking  down,  to  see  the  hubbub  strange 
And  hear  the  din :  thus  was  the  building  left 
Ridiculous,  and  the  work  confusion  named." 
Whereto  thus  Adam,  fatherly  displeased. 
"O  execrable  son!  so  to  aspire 
Above  his  brethren,  to  himself  assuming 
Authority  usurped,  from  God  not  given: 
He  gave  us  only  over  beast,  fish,  fowl, 
Dominion  absolute;  that  right  we  hold 
By  his  donation ;  but  man  over  men 
He  made  not  lord;  such  title  to  himself 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  xn. 


Reserving  human  left  from  human  free. 
But  this  usurper  his  encroachment  proud 
Stays  not  on  man:  to  God  his  tower  intends 
Siege  and  defiance:  wretched  man!  what  food 
Will  he  convey  up  thither  to  sustain 
Himself  and  his  rash  army,  where  thin  air 
Above  the  clouds  will  pine  his  entrails  gross, 
And  famish  him  of  breath,  if  not  of  bread  1" 
To  whom  thus  Michael.     "Justly  thou   ab- 

horr'st 

That  son,  who  on  the  quiet  state  of  men 
Such  trouble  brought,  affecting  to  subdue 
Rational  liberty :  yet  know  withal, 
Since  thy  original  lapse,  true  liberty 
Is  lost,  which  always  with  right  reason  dwells 
Twinned,  and  from  her  hath  no  dividual  being: 
Reason  in  man  obscured,  or  not  obeyed, 
Immediately  inordinate  desires 
And  upstart  passions  catch  the  government 
From  reason,  and  to  servitude  reduce 
Man,  till  then  free.     Therefore,  since  he  permits 
Within  himself  unworthy  powers  to  reign 
Over  free  reason,  God,  in  judgment  just, 
Subjects  him  from  without  to  violent  lords ; 
Who  oft  as  undeservedly  inthral 
His  outward  freedom :  tyranny  must  be ; 
Though  to  the  tyrant  thereby  no  excuse. 
Yet  sometimes  nations  will  decline  so  low 
From  virtue,  which  is  reason,  that  no  wrong, 
But  justice,  and  some  fatal  curse  annexed, 
Deprives  them  of  their  outward  liberty, 
Their  inward  lost:  witness  the  irreverent  son 
Of  him  who  built  the  ark,  who,  for  the  shame 
Done  to  his  father,  heard  this  heavy  curse, 
Servant  of  servants,  on  his  vicious  race. 
Thus  will  this  latter,  as  the  former  world, 
Still  tend  from  bad  to  worse,  till  God  at  last, 
Wearied  with  their  iniquities,  withdraw 
His  presence  from  among  them,  and  avert 
His  holy  eyes ;  resolving  from  thenceforth 
To  leave  them  to  their  own  polluted  ways  ; 
And  one  peculiar  nation  to  select 
From  all  the  rest,  of  whom  to  be  invok'cd, 
A  nation  from  one  faithful  man  to  spring: 
Him  on  this  side  Euphrates  yet  residing, 
Bred  up  in  idol-worship ;  O,  that  men 
(Canst  thou  believe  1)  should  be  so  stupid  grown, 
While  yet  the  patriarch  lived  who  'scaped  the 

flood, 

As  to  forsake  the  living  God,  and  fall 
To  worship  their  own  work  in  wood  and  stone 
For  gods  !  yet  him  God  the  most  high  vouchsafes 
To  call  by  vision  from  his  father's  house, 
His  kindred,  and  false  gods,  into  a  land 
Which  he  will  show  him,  and  from  him  will  raise 
A  mighty  nation,  and  upon  him  shower 
His  benediction  so,  that  in  his  seed 
All  nations  shall  be  blest:  he  straight  obeys, 
Not  knowing  to  what  land,  yet  firm  believes: 


I  see  him,  but  thou  canst  not,  with  what  faith 
He  leaves  his  gods,  his  friends,  and  native  soil, 
Ur  of  Chaldsea,  passing  now  the  ford 
To  Haran ;  after  him  a  cumbrous  train 
Of  herds  and  flocks,  and  numerous  servitude , 
Not  wandering  poor,  but  trusting  all  his  wealth 
With  God,  who  called  him,  in  a  land  unknown. 
Canaan  he  now  attains ;  I  see  his  tents 
Pitched  about  Sechem,  and  the  neighbouring  plain 
Of  Moreh ;  there  by  promise  he  receives 
Gift  to  his  progeny  of  all  that  land, 
From  Hamath  northward  to  the  desert  south ; 
(Things  by  their  names  I  call,  though  yet  un- 
named ;) 

From  Hermon  east  to  the  great  western  sea; 
Mount  Hermon,  yonder  sea;  each  place  behold 
In  prospect,  as  I  point  them;  on  the  shore 
Mount  Carmel;  here  the  double  founted  stream 
Jordan,  true  limit  eastward;  but  his  sons 
Shall  dwell  to  Senir,  that  long  ridge  of  hills. 
This  ponder,  that  all  nations  of  the  earth 
Shall  in  his  seed  be  blessed  :  by  that  seed 
Is  meant  thy  great  deliverer,  who  shall  bruise 
The  serpent's  head ;  whereof  to  thee  anon 
Plainlier  shall  be  revealed.     This  patriarch  blest 
Whom  faithful  Abraham  due  time  shall  call, 
A  son,  and  of  his  son  a  grandchild  leaves, 
Like  him  in  faith,  in-wisdom,  and  renown; 
The  grandchild,  with  twelve  sons  increased,  de- 
parts 

From  Canaan,  to  a  land  hereafter  called 
Egypt^  divided  by  the  river  Nile ; 
See  where  it  flows,  disgorging  at  seven  mouths 
Into  the  sea :  to  sojourn  in  that  land 
He  comes,  invited  by  a  younger  son 
In  time  of  dearth  ;  a  son,  whose  worthy  deeds 
Raise  him  to  be  the  second  in  that  realm 
Of  Pharaoh :  there  he  dies,  and  leaves  his  race 
Growing  into  a  nation ;  and  now  grown, 
Suspected  to  a  sequent  king,  who  seeks 
To  stop  their  overgrowth,  as  inmate  guests 
Too  numerous  ;  whence  of  guests  he  makes  them 

slaves 

Inhospitably,  and  kills  their  infant-males : 
Till  by  two  brethren  (these  two  brethren  called 
Moses  and  Aaron)  sent  from  God  to  claim 
His  people  from  inthralment,  they  return 
With  glory  and  spoil,  back  to  their  promised  land. 
But  first  the  lawless  tyrant,  who  denies 
To  know  their  God,  or  message  to  regard, 
Must  be  compelled  by  signs  and  judgments  dire ; 
To  blood  unshed  the  rivers  must  be  turned ; 
Frogs,  lice,  and  flies  must  all  his  palace  fill 
With  loathed  intrusion,  and  fill  all  the  land ; 
His  cattle  must  of  rot  and  murrain  die ; 
Botches  and  blains  must  all  his  flesh  emboss, 
And  all  his  people ;  thunder  mixed  with  hail, 
Hail  mixed  with  fire,  must  rend  th'  Egyptian  sky, 
And  wheel  on  th'  earth,  devouring  where  it  rolls : 


BOOK  xn. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


93 


What  it  devours  not,  herb,  or  fruit,  or  grain, 
A  darksome  cloud  of  locusts  swarming  down 
Must  eat,  and  on  the  ground  leave  nothing  green; 
Darkness  must  overshadow  all  his  bounds, 
Palpable  darkness,  and  Mot  out  three  days; 
Last,  with  one  midnight  stroke,  all  the  first-born 
Of  Egypt  must  lie  dead.     Thus  with  ten  wounds 
The  river-dragon  tamed,  at  length  submits 
To  let  his  sojourners  depart,  and  oft 
Humbles  his  stubborn  heart;  but  still  as  ice 
More  hardened  after  thaw ;  till,  in  his  rage 
Pursuing  whom  he  late  dismissed,  the  sea 
Swallows  him  with  his  host ;  but  them  lets  pass 
As  on  dry  land,  between  two  crystal  walls ; 
Awed  by  the  rod  of  Moses  so  to  stand 
Divided,  till  his  rescued  gain  their  shore: 
Such  wondrous  power  God  to  his  saint  will  lend, 
Though  present  in  his  angel ;  who  shall  go 
Before  them  in  a  cloud,  and  pillar  of  fire ; 
By  day  a  cloud,  by  ni<rht  a,  pillar  of  fire; 
To  guide  them  in  their  journey,  and  remove 
Behind  them,  while  th'  obdurate  king  pursues : 
All  night  he  will  pursue,  but  his  approach 
Darkness  defends  between  till  morning  watch; 
Then  through  the  fiery  pillar  and  the  cloud 
God  looking  forth  will  trouble  all  his  host, 
And  craze  4heir  chariot  wheels:  when  by  command 
Moses  once  more  his  potent  rod  extends 
Over  the  sea:  the  sea  his  rod  obeys; 
On  their  embattled  ranks  the  waves  return, 
And  overwhelm  their  war  :  the  race  elect 
Safe  towards  Canaan  from  the  shore  advance 
Through  the  wild  desert,  not  the  readiest  way; 
Lest,  entering  on  the  Canaanite  alarmed, 
War  terrify  them  inexpert,  and  fear 
Return  them  back  to  Egypt,  choosing  rather 
Inglorious  life  with  servitude ;  for  life 
To  noble  and  ignoble  is  more  sweet 
Untrained  in  arms,  where  rashness  leads  not  on. 
This  also  shall  they  gain  by  their  delay 
In  the  wide  wilderness ;  there  they  shall  found 
Their  government,  and  their  great  senate  choose 
Thro'  the  twelve  tribes,  to  rule  by  laws  ordained: 
God  from  the  mount  of  Sinai,  whose  gray  top 
Shall  tremble,  he  descending,  will  himself, 
In  thunder,  lightning,  and  loud  trumpet's  sound, 
Ordain  them  laws;  part,  such  as  appertain 
To  civil  justice;  part,  religious  rites 
Of  sacrifice ;  informing  them,  by  types 
And  shadows,  of  that  destined  seed  to  bruise 
The  serpent,  by  what  means  he  shall  achieve 
Mankind's  deliverance.     But  the  voice  of  God 
To  mortal  ear  is  dreadful :  they  beseech 
That  Moses  might  report  to  them  his  will, 
And  terror  cease ;  he  grants  what  they  besought, 
Instructed  that  to  God  is  no  access 
Without  mediator,  whose  high"  office  now 
Moses  in  figure  bears ;  to  introduce 
One  greater,  of  whose  day  he  shall  foretell,  . 


And  all  the  prophets  in  their  age  the  times 

Of  great  Messiah  shall  sing.    Thus,  laws  and  rites 

Established,  such  delight  hath  God  in  men 

Obedient  to  his  will,  that  he  vouchsafes 

Among  them  to  set  up  his  tabernacle, 

The  holy  One  with  mortal  men  to  dwell: 

By  his  prescript  a  sanctuary  is  framed 

Of  cedar,  overlaid  with  gold,  therein 

An  ark,  and  in  the  ark  his  testimony, 

The  records  of  his  covenant;  over  these 

A  mercy-seat  of  gold,  between  the  wings 

Of  two  bright  cherubim ;  before  him  burn 

Seven  lamps,  as  in  a  zodiac  representing 

The  heavenly  fires ;  over  the  tent  a  cloud 

Shall  rest  by  day,  a  fiery  gleajn  by  night, 

Save  when  they  journey,  and  at  length  they  come, 

Conducted  by  his  angel,  to  the  land 

Promised  to  Abraham  and  his  seed:  the  rest 

Were  long  to  tell ;  how  many  battles  fought ; 

How  many  kings  destroyed,  and  kingdoms  won; 

Or  how  the  sun  shall  in  mid  heaven  stand  still 

A  day  entire,  and  night's  due  course  adjourn, 

Man's  voice  commanding,  '  Sun,  in  Gibeon  stand, 

And  thou  moon  in  the  vale  of  Aialon, 

Till  Israel  overcome!'  so  call  the  third 

From  Abraham,  son  of  Isaac;  and  from  him 

His  whole  descent,  who  thus  shall  Canaan  win." 

Here  Adam  interposed.    "  O  sent  from  Heaven, 
Enlightener  of  my  darkness,  gracious  things 
Thou  hast  revealed ;  those  chiefly  which  concern 
Just  Abraham  and  his  seed:  now  first  I  find 
Mines  eyes  true  opening,  and  my  heart   much 

eased, 
Erewhile  perplexed  with  thoughts  what  would 

become 

Of  me  and  all  mankind ;  but  now  I  see 
His  day,  in  whom  all  nations  shall  be  blest; 
Favour  unmerited  by  me,  who  sought 
Forbidden  knowledge  by  forbidden  means. 
This  yet  I  apprehend  npt,  why  to  those 
Among  whom  God  will  deign  to  dwell  on  earth 
So  many  and  so  various  laws  are  given; 
So  many  laws  argues  so  many  sins 
Among  them ;  how  can  God  with  such  reside?" 

To  whom  thus  Michael.    "  Doubt  not  but  that 

sin 

Will  reign  among  them,  as  of  thee  begot; 
And  therefore  was  law  given  them,  to  evince 
Their  natural  pravity,  by  stirring  up 
Sin  against  law  to  fight :  that  when  they  see 
Law  can  discover  sin,  but  not  remove, 
Save  by  those  shadowy  expiations  weak, 
The  blood  of  bulls  and  goats,  they  may  conclude 
Some  blood  more  precious  must  be  paid  for  man; 
Just  for  unjust;  that  in  such  righteousness 
To  them  by  faith  imputed,  they  may  find 
Justification  towards  God,  and  peace 
Of  conscience;  which  the  law  by  ceremonies 
an  not  appease,  nor  man  the  mortal  part 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  xn. 


Perform ;  and,  not  performing,  can  not  live. 

So  law  appears  imperfect ;  and  but  given 

With  purpose  to  resign  them  in  full  time, 

Up  to  a  better  coven  ant;  disciplined 

From  shadowy  types  to  truth;  from  flesh  to  spirit; 

From  imposition  of  strict  laws  to  free 

Acceptance  of  large  grace;  from  servile  fear 

To  filial;  works  of  law  to  works  of  faith. 

And  therefore  shall  not  Moses,  though  of  God 

Highly  beloved,  being  but  the  minister 

Of  law,  his  people  into  Canaan  lead; 

But  Joshua,  whom  the  Gentiles  Jesus  call, 

His  name  and  office  bearing,  who  shall  quel 

The  adversary  serpent,  and  bring  back 

Through  the  world's  wilderness  long  wandered 

man 

Safe  to  eternal  Paradise  of  rest. 
Meanwhile  they,  in  their  earthly  Canaan  placed, 
Long  time  shall  dwell  and  prosper;  but  when  sins 
National  interrupt  their  public  peace, 
Provoking  God  to  raise  them  enemies ; 
From  whom  as  oft  he  saves  them  penitent 
By  judges  first,  then  under  kings :  of  whom 
The  second,  both  for  piety  renowned 
And  puissant  deeds,  a  promise  shall  receive 
Irrevocable,  that  his  regal  throne 
For  ever  shall  endure;  the  like  shall  sing 
All  prophecy,  that  of  the  royal  stock 
Of  David  (so  I  name  this  king)  shall  rise 
A  Son,  the  woman's  seed  to  thee  foretold, 
Foretold  to  Abraham,  as  in  whom  shall  trust 
All  nations;  and  to  kings  foretold,  of  kings 
The  last;  for  of  his  reign  shall  be  no  end. 
But  first,  a  long  succession  must  ensue; 
And  his  next  son,  for  wealth  and  wisdom  famed, 
The  clouded  ark  of  God,  till  then  in  tents 
Wandering  shall  in  a  glorious  temple  enshrine. 
Such  follow  him,  as  shall  be  registered 
Part  good,  part  bad;  of  bad  the  longer  scroll; 
Whose  foul  idolatries,  and  other  faults 
Heaped  to  the  popular  sum,  will  so  incense 
God,  as  to  leave  them,  and  expose  their  land, 
Their  city,  his  temple,  and  his  holy  ark, 
With  all  his  sacred  things,  a  scorn  and  prey 
To  that  proud  city,  whose  high  walls  thou  saw'st 
Left  in  confusion;  Babylon  thence  called. 
There  in  captivity  he  lets  them  dwell 
The  space  of  seventy  years;   then  brings  them 

back, 

Remembering  mercy,  and  his  covenant  sworn 
To  David,  stablished  as  the  days  of  Heaven. 
Returned  from  Babylon  by  leave  of  kings 
Their  lords,  whom  God  disposed,  the  house  of  God 
They  first  re-edify,  and  for  a  while 
In  mean  estate  live,  moderate ;  till,  grown 
In  wealth  and  multitude,  factious  they  grow; 
But  first  among  the  priests  dissension  springs, 
Men  who  attend  the  altar,  and  should  most 
Endeavour  peace :  their  strife  pollution  brings 


Upon  the  temple  itself;  at  last  they  seize 
The  sceptre,  and  regard  not  David's  sons; 
Then  lose  it  to  a  stranger,  that  the  true 
Anointed  king  Messiah  might  be  born 
Barred  of  his  right;  yet  at  his  birth  a  star, 
Unseen  before  in  Heaven,  proclaims  him  come 
And  guides  the  eastern  sages,  who  inquire 
His  place,  to  offer  incense,  myrrh,  and  gold : 
His  place  of  birth  a  solemn  angel  tells 
To  simple  shepherds,  keeping  watch  by  night ; 
They  gladly  thither  haste,  and  by  a  choir 
Of  squadroned  angels  hear  his  carol  sung. 
A  virgin  is  his  mother,  but  his  sire 
The  power  of  the  Most  High:  he  shall  ascend 
The  throne  hereditary,  and  bound  his  reign 
With  earth's  wide  bounds,  his  glory  with  the 

heavens." 

He  ceased,  discerning  Adam  with  such  joy 
Surcharged,  as  had  like  grief  been  dewed  in  tears, 
Without  th'e  vent  of  words;  which  these  he  breath- 
ed. 

"  O  prophet  of  glad  tidings,  finisher 
Of  utmost  hope !  now  clear  I  understand 
What  oft  my  steadiest  thoughts  have  search'd  in 

vain, 

Why  our  great  Expectation  should  be  called 
The  seed  of  woman :  virgin  mother,  hail ! 
High  in  the  love  of  Heaven ;  yet  from  my  loins 
Thou  shalt  proceed,  and  from  thy  womb  the  Son 
Of  God  most  High.:  so  God  with  man  unites ! 
Needs  must  the  serpent  now  his  capital  bruise 
Expect  with  mortal  pain :  say  where  and  when 
Their  fight,  what  stroke  shall  bruise  the  victor's 

heel." 
To  whom  thus  Michael.    "  Dream  not  of  their 

fight, 

As  of  a  duel,  or  the  local  wounds 
Of  head  or  heel :  nor  therefore  joins  the  Son 
Manhood  to  Godhead,  with  more  strength  to  foil 
Thy  enemy ;  nor  so  is  overcome 
Satan,  whose  fall  from  Heaven,  a  deadlier  bruise, 
Disabled,  not  to  give  thee  thy  death's  wound : 
Which  he,  who  comes  thy  Saviour,  shall  recure, 
Not  by  destroying  Satan,  but  his  works 
In  thee,  and  in  thy  seed :  nor  can  this  be, 
But  by  fulfilling  that  which  thou  didst  want, 
Obedience  to  the  law  of  God  imposed 
On  penalty  of  death,  and  suffering  death, 
The  penalty  to  thy  transgression  due  ; 
And  due  to  theirs  which  out  of  thine  will  grow : 
So  only  can  high  justice  rest  appaid. 
The  law  of  God  exact  he  shall  fulfil 
Both  by  obedience  and  by  love,  though  love 
Alone  fulfil  the  law ;  thy  punishment 
He  shall  endure,  by  coming  in  the  flesh 
To  a  reproachful  life  and  cursed  death; 
Proclaiming  life  to  all  who  shall  believe 
In  his  redemption ;  and  that  his  obedience, 
Imputed,  becomes  theirs  by  faith,  his  merits 


BOOK  xir. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


95 


To  save  them,  not  their  own,  though  legal,  works. 
For  this  he  shall  live  hated,  be  blasphemed, 
Siezed  on  by  force,  judged,  and  to  death  con- 
demned 

A  shameful  and  accursed,  nailed  to  the  cross 
By  his  own  nation ;  slain  for  bringing  life ; 
But  to  the  cross  he  nails  thy  enemies, 
The  law  that  is  against  thee,  and  the  sins 
Of  all  mankind,  with  him  there  crucified, 
Never  to  hurt  them  more  who  rightly  trust 
In  this  his  satisfaction ;  so  he  dies, 
But  soon  revives ;  death  over  him  no  power 
Shall  long  usurp;  ere  the  third  dawning  light 
Return,  the  stars  of  morn  shall  see  him  rise 
Out  of  his  grave,  fresh  as  the  dawning  light 
Thy  ransom  paid,  which  man  from  death  redeems. 
His  death  for  man,  as  many  as  offered  life 
Neglect  not,  and  the  benefit  embrace 
By  faith  not  void  of  works :  this  godlike  act 
Annuls  thy  doom,  the  death  thou  should'st  have 

died, 

In  sin  for  ever  lost  from  life;  this  act 
Shall  bruise  the  head  of  Satan,  crush  his  strength, 
Defeating  sin  and  death,  his  two  main  arms, 
And  fix  far  deeper  in  his  head  their  stings 
Than  temporal  death  shall  bruise  the  victor's  heel, 
Or  theirs  whom  he  redeems ;  a  death,  like  sleep, 
A  gentle  wafting  to  immortal  life. 
Nor  after  resurrection  shall  he  stay 
Longer  on  earth  than  certain  times  to  appear 
To  his  disciples,  men  who  in  his  life 
Still  followed  him ;  to  them  shall  leave  in  charge 
To  teach  all  nations  what  of  him  they  learned 
And  his  salvation ;  them  who  shall  believe 
Baptizing  in  the  profluent  stream,  the  sign 
Of  washing  them  from  guilt  of  sin  to  life 
Pure,  and  in  mind  prepared,  if  so  befall, 
For  death,  like  that  which  the  Redeemer  died, 
All  nations  they  shall  teach ;  for,  from  that  day, 
Not  only  to  the  sons  of  Abraham's  loins 
Salvation  shall  be  preached,  but  to  the  sons 
Of  Abraham's  faith,  wherever  through  the  world ; 
So  in  his  seed  all  nations  shall  be  blest. 
Then  to  the  Heaven  of  Heavens  he  shall  ascend, 
With  victory,  triumphing  through  the  air 
Over  his  foes  and  thine ;  there  shall  surprise 
The  serpent,  prince  of  air,  and  drag  in  chains 
Through  all  his  realm,  and  there  confounded  leave; 
Then  enter  into  glory,  and  resume 
His  seat  at  God's  right-hand,  exalted  high 
Above  all  names  in  Heaven;    and  thence  shah1 

come, 

When  this  world's  dissolution  shall  be  ripe, 
With  glory  and  power  to  judge  both  quick  and 

dead; 

To  judge  the  unfaithful  dead,  but  to  reward 
His  faithful,  and  receive  them  into  bliss, 
Whether  in  Heaven  or  earth ;  for  then  the  earth 


Shall  all  be  Paradise,  far  happier  place 
Than  this  of  Eden,  and  far  happier  days." 

So  spake  the  archangel  Michael ;  then  paused, 
I  As  at  the  world's  great  period :  and  our  sire, 
Replete  with  joy  and  wonder,  thus  replied. 

"  O  goodness  infinite,  goodness  immense ! 
That  all  this  good  of  evil  shall  produce, 
And  evil  turn  to  good ;  more  wonderful 
Than  that  which  by  creation  first  brought  forth 
Light  out  of  darkness !    Full  of  doubt  I  stand, 
Whether  I  should  repent  me  now  of  sin 
By  me  done  and  occasioned,  or  rejoice 
Much  more,  that  much  more  good  thereof  shall 

spring, 

To  God  more  glory,  more  good  will  to  men, 
From  God,  and  over  wrath  grace  shall  abound. 
But  say,  if  our  Deliverer  up  to  Heaven 
Must  reascend,  what  will  betide  the  few 
His  faithful,  left  among  the  unfaithful  herd, 
The  enemies  of  truth  1  who  then  shall  guide 
His  people,  who  defend  7  will  they  not  deal 
Worse  with  his  followers  than  with  him  thej 

dealt  r 
"  Be  sure  they  will, "  said  the  angel ;  "  but  from 

Heaven 

He  to  his  own  a  Comforter  will  send, 
The  promise  of  the  Father,  who  shall  dwell 
His  spirit  within  them ;  and  the  law  of  faith, 
Working  through  love,  upon  their  hearts  shall 

write, 

To  guide  them  in  all  truth ;  and  also  arm 
With  spiritual  armour,  able  to  lesist 
Satan's  assaults,  and  quench  his  fiery  darts ; 
What  man  can  do  against  them,  not  afraid, 
Though  to  the  death ;  against  such  cruelties 
With  inward  consolations  recompensed, 
And  oft  supported  so  as  shall  amaze 
Their  proudest  persecutors :  for  the  Spirit, 
Poured  first  on  his  apostles,  whom  he  sends 
To  evangelize  the  nations,  then  on  all 
Baptized,  shall  them  with  wondrous  gifts  endue 
To  speak  all  tongues,  and  do  all  miracles, 
As  did  their  Lord  before  them.     Thus  they  win 
Great  numbers  of  each  nation  to  receive 
With  joy  the  tidings  brought  from  Heaven :  at 

length 

Their  ministry  performed,  and  race  well  run, 
Their  doctrine  and  their  story  written  left, 
They  die;  but  in  their  room,  as  they  forewarn, 
Wolves  shall  succeed  for  teachers,  grievous  wolvei\ 
Who  all  the  sacred  mysteries  of  Heaven 
To  their  own  vile  advantages  shall  turn 
3f  lucre  and  ambition ;  and  the  truth 
With  superstitions  and  traditions  taint, 
Left  only  in  those  written  records  pure, 
Though  not  but  by  the  Spirit  understood. 
Then  shall  they  seek  to  avail  themselves  of  names, 
Places,  and  titles  and  with  these  to  join 


96 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  xu. 


Secular  power ;  though  feigning  still  to  act 

By  spiritual,  to  themselves  appropriating 

The  spirit  of  God,  promised  alike  and  given 

To  all  believers ;  and,  from  that  pretence, 

Spiritual  laws  by  carnal  power  shall  force 

On  every  conscience ;  laws  which  jione  shall  find 

Left  them  enrolled,  or  what  the  Spirit  within 

Shall  on  the  heart  engrave.    What  will  they  then 

But  force  the  spirit  of  grace  itself,  and  bind 

His  consort  liberty  1  what,  but  unbuild 

His  living  temples,  built  by  faith  to  stand 

Their  own  faith,  not  another's  1  for,  on  earth, 

Who  against  faith  and  conscience  can  be  heard 

Infallible'?  yet  many  will  presume  : 

Whence  heavy  persecution  shall  arise 

On  all,  who  in  the  worship  persevere 

Of  spirit  and  truth  ;  the  rest,  far  greater  part, 

Will  deem  in  outward  rites  and  specious  forms 

Religion  satisfied ;  truth  shall  retire 

Bestuck  with  slanderous  darts,  and  works  of  faith 

Rarely  be  found :  so  shall  the  world  go  on, 

To  good  malignant,  to  bad  men  benign ; 

Under  her  own  weight  groaning,  till  the  day 

Appear  of  respiration  to  the  just, 

And  vengeance  to  the  wicked,  at  return 

Of  him  so  lately  promised  to  thy  aid, 

The  woman's  seed ;  obscurely  then  foretold, 

Now  amplier  known  thy  Saviour  and  thy  Lord ; 

Last,  in  the  clouds,  from  Heaven  to  be  revealed 

In  glory  of  the  Father,  to  dissolve 

Satan  with  his  perverted  world  ;  then  raise 

From  the  conflagrant  mass,  purged  and  refined, 

New  Heavens,  new  earth,  ages  of  endless  date, 

Founded  in  righteousness,  and  peace,  and  love-, 

To  bring  forth  fruits,  joy  and  eternal  bliss." 

He  ended ;  and  thus  Adam  last  replied. 
"  How  soon  hath  thy  prediction,  Seer  blest, 
Measured  this  transient  world,  the  race  of  time, 
Till  time  stands  fixed !  beyond  is  all  abyss, 
Eternity,  whose  end  no  eye  can  reach. 
Greatly  instructed  I  shall  hence  depart ; 
Greatly  in  peace  of  thought,  and  have  my  fill 
Of  knowledge,  what  this  vessel  can  contain ; 
Beyond  which  was  my  folly  to  aspire. 
Henceforth  I  learn,  that  to  obey  is  best, 
And  love  with  fear  the  only  God ;  to  walk 
As  in  his  presence ;  ever  to  observe 
His  providence ;  and  on  him  sole  depend, 
Merciful  over  all  his  works,  with  good 
Still  overcoming  evil,  and  by  small 
Accomplishing  great  things,  by  things  deemed 

weak 

Subverting  worldly  strong,  and  worldly  wise 
By  simply  meek :  that  suffering  for  truth's  sake 
Is  fortitude  to  highest  victory, 
And,  to  the  faithful,  death  the  gate  of  life; 
Taught  this  by  his  example,  whom  I  now 
Acknowledge  my  Redeemer  ever  blest." 

To  whom  thus  also  the  angel  last  replied. 


"  This  having  learned,  thou  hast  attained  the  sum 
Of  wisdom;  hope  no  higher,  though  all  the  stars 
Thou  knew'st  by  name,  and  all  the  ethereal  powers, 
All  secrets  of  the  deep,  all  Nature's  works, 
Or  works  of  God  in  Heaven,  air,  earth,  or  sea, 
And  all  the  riches  of  this  world  enjoyedst, 
And  all  the  rule,  one  empire  ;  only  add 
Deeds  to  thy  knowledge  answerable ;  add  faith, 
Add  virtue,  patience,  temperance ;  add  love, 
By  name  to  come  called  charity,  the  soul 
Of  all  the  rest :  then  wilt  thou  not  be  loath 
To  leave  this1  Paradise,  but  shall  possess 
A  Paradise  within  thee,  happier  far. 
Let  us  descend  now  therefore  from  this  to 
Of  speculation ;  for  the  hour  precise 
Exacts  our  parting  hence ;  and  see !  the  guards, 
By  me  encamped  on  yonder  hill,  expect 
Their  motion ;  at  whose  front  a  flaming  sword, 
In  signal  of  remove,  waves  fiercely  round : 
We  may  no  longer  stay:  go,  waken  Eve ; 
Her  also  I  with  gentle  dreams  have  calmed 
Portending  good,  and  all  her  spirits  composed 
To  meek  submission ;  thou,  at  season  fit, 
Let  her  with  thee  partake  what  thou  hast  heard, 
Chiefly  what  may  concern  her  faith  to  know, 
The  great  deliverance  by  her  seed  to  come 
(For  by  the  woman's  seed)  on  all  mankind : 
That  ye  may  live,  which  will  be  many  days, 
Both  in  one  faith  unanimous,  though  sad, 
With  cause,  for  evils  past,  yet  much  more  cheered 
With  meditation  on  the  happy  end." 

He  ended,  and  they  both  descend  the  hill ; 
Descended,  Adam  to  the  bower  where  Eve 
Lay  sleeping,  ran  before ;  but  found  her  waked ; 
And  thus  with  words  not  sad  she  him  received. 

"  Whence  thou  return'st,  and  whither  went'st,  I 

know; 

For  God  is  also  in  sleep;  and  dreams  advise, 
Which  he  hath  sent  propitious,  some  great  good 
Presaging,  since  with  sorrow  and  heart's  distress 
Wearied  I  fell  asleep:  but  now  led  on; 
In  me  is  no  delay;  with  thee  to  go, 
Is  to  stay  here;  without  thee  here  to  stay, 
Is  to  go  hence  unwilling;  thou  to  me 
Art  all  things  under  Heaven,  all  places  thou, 
Who  for  my  wilful  crime  art  banished  hence. 
This  further  corlsolation  yet  secure 
I  carry  hence;  though  all  by  me  is  lost, 
Such  favour  I  unworthy  am  vouchsafed, 
By  me  the  promised  Seed  shall  all  restore." 

So  spake  our  mother  Eve,  and  Adam  heard 
Well  pleased,  but  answered  not ;  for  now  too  nigh 
The  archangel  stood;  and  from  the  other  hill 
To  their  fixed  station,  all  in  bright  array 
The  cherubim  descended;  on  the  ground 
Gliding  meteorous,  as  evening  mist 
Risen  from  a  river  o'er  the  marish  glides, 
And  gather's  ground  fast  at  the  labourer's  heel 
Homeward  returning.    High  in  front  advanced 


BOOK  xn. 


PARADISE  LOST. 


97 


The  brandished  sword  of  God  before  them  blazed, 
Fierce  as  a  cornet;  which  with  torrid  heat, 
And  vapour  as  the  Lvbian  air  adust, 
Began  to  parch  that  temperate  clime ;  whereat 
In  either  hand  the  hastening  angel  caught 
Our  lingering  parents,  and  to  the  eastern  gate 
Led  them  direct,  and  down  the  cliff  as  fast 
To  the  subjected  plain ;  then  disappeared. 
They,  looking  back,  all  the  eastern  side  beheld 
Of  Paradise,  so  late  their  happy  seat,  • 


Waved  over  by  that  flaming  brand,  the  gate 
With' dreadful  faces  thronged,  and  fiery  arms: 
Some  natural  tears  they  dropt,  but  wiped  them 

soon; 

The  world  was  all  before  them  where  to  choose 
Their  place  of  rest,  and  Providence  their  guide: 
They,  hand  in  hand,  with  wandering  steps,  and 

slow, 
Through  Eden  took  their  solitary  way. 


BOOK  I. 

THE  ARGUMENT. 
The  subject  proposed.  Invocation  of  the  Holy  Spirit. — 
The  poem  opens  with  Jehn  baptizing  at  the  river  Jordan. 
Jesus  coining  there  is  baptized ;  and  is  attested,  by  the  descent 
of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  by  a  voice  from  Heaven,  to  be  the 
Son  of  God.  Satan,  who  is  present,  upon  this  immediately 
flies  up  into  the  regions  of  the  air :  where,  summoning  his  in- 
fernal council,  he  acquaints  them  with  his  apprehensions  that 
Jesus  is  that  seed  of  the  woman,  destined  to  destroy  all  their 
power;  and  points  out  to  them  the  immediate  necessity  of 
bringing  the  matter  to  proof,  and  of  attempting,  bysnares  and 
fraud,  to  counteract  and  defeat  the  person,  from  whom  they 
have  so  much  to  dread.  This  office  he  offers  himself  to  un 
dertake;  and  his  offer  being  accepted,' sets  out  on  his  enter, 
prise. — In  the  mean  time  God,  in  the  assembly  of  holy  angels, 
declares  that  he  has  given  up  his  Son  to  be  tempted  by  Satan  ; 
but  foretells  that  the  tempter  shall  be  completely  defeated  by 
him: — upon  which  the  angels  sing -a  hymn  of  triumph. 
Jesus  is  led  up  by  the  Spirit  into  the  wilderness,  while  he  is 
meditating  on  the  commencement  of  his  great  office  of  Sa- 
viour of  Mankind.  Pursuing  his  meditations,  he  narrates,  in 
a  soliloquy,  what  divine  arid  philanthropic  impulses  he  had 
felt  from  his  early  youth,  and  how  his  mother  Mary,  on  per- 
ceiving these  dispositions  in  him,  had  acquainted  him  with 
the  circumstances  of  his  birth,  and  informed  him  that  he  was 
no  less  a  person  than  the  Son  of  God ;  to  which  he  adds  what 
his  own  inquiries  and  reflections  had  supplied  in  confirmation 
of  this  great  truth,'  and  particularly  dwells  on  the  recent  at- 
testation of  it  at  the  river  Jordan.  Our  Lord  passes  forty 
days,  fasting  in  the  wilderness ;  where  the  wild  beasts  become 
mild  and  harmless  in  his  presence.  Satan  now  appears  under 
Che  form  of  an  old  peasant ;  and  enters  into  discourse  with 
our  Lord,  wondering  what  could  have  brought  hin»alpne  into 
so  dangerous  a  place,  and  at  the  same  time  professing  to  re- 
cognise him  for  the  person  lately  acknowledged  by  John,  at 
the  river  Jordan,  to  be  the  Son  of  God.  Jesus  briefly  replies. 
Satan  rejoins  with  a  description  of  the  difficulty  of  supporting 
life  in  the  wilderness ;  and  entreats  Jesus,  if  he  be  really  the 
Son  of  God,  to  manifest  his  divine  power,  by  changing  some 
of  the  stones  i  nto  bread.  Jesus  reproves  him  and  at  the  same 
time  tells  him  that  he  knows  who  he  is.  Satan  instantly 
avows  himself,  and  offers  an  artful  apology  for  himself  and 
his  conduct.  Our  blessed  Lord  severely  reprimands  him,  and 
refutes  every  part  of  his  justification.  Satan,  with  much 
•emblance  of  humility,  still  endeavours  to  justify  himself,  and, 
professing  his  admiration  of  Jesus  and  his  regard  for  virtue, 
requests  to  be  permitted  at  a  future  lime  to  hear  more  of  his 
conversation ;  but  is  answered,  that  this  must  be  as  he  shall 
9 


find  permission  from  above.  Satan  then  disappears,  and  the 
book  closes  wiih  a  short  description  of  night  coming  on  in  the 
desert 


I,  WHO  erewhile  the  happy  garden  sung 
By  one  man's  disobedience  lost,  now  sing 
Recovered  Paradise  to  all  mankind, 
By  one  man's  firm  obedience  fully  tried 
Through  all  temptation,  and  the  tempter  foiled 
In  all  his  wiles,  defeated  and  repulsed, 
And  Eden  raised  in  the  waste  wilderness. 

Thou  Spirit,  who  led'st  the  glorious  eremite 
Into  the  desert,  his  victorious  field, 
Against   the   spiritual  foe,    and  brought'st  him 

thence 

By  proof  the  undoubted  Son  of  God,  inspire, 
As  thou  art  wont,  my  prompted  song,  else  mute; 
And  bear  through  height  or  depth   of  nature's 

bounds, 

With  prosperous  wing  full  summed,  to  tell  of  deeds 
Above  heroic,  though  in  secret  done, 
And  unrecorded  left  through  many  an  age ; 
Worthy  to  have  not  remained  so  long  unsung. 

Now  had  the  great  Proclaimer,  with  a  voice 
More  awful  than  the  sound  of  trumpet,  cried 
Repentance,  and  Heaven's  kingdom  nigh  at  hand 
To  aH  baptized  :  to  his  great  baptism  flocked 
With  awe  the  regions  round,  and  with  them  came 
From  Nazareth  the  son  of  Joseph  deemed 
To  the  flood  Jordan ;  came,  as  then  obscure, 
Unmarked,  unknown ;  but  him  the  Baptist  soon 
Descried,  divinely  warned,  and  witness  bore 
As  to  his  worthier,  and  would  have  resigned 
To  him  his  heavenly  office ;  nor  was  long 
His  witness  unconfirmed  :  on  him  baptized 
Heaven  opened,  and  in  likeness  of  a  dove 
The  Spirit  descended,  while  the  Father's  voice 
From  Heaven  pronounced  him  his  beloved  Son. 
That  heard  the  Adversary,  who,  roving  still 
About  the  world,  at  that  assembly  famed 
Would  not  be  last,  and,  with  the  voice  divine 
Nigh  thunderstruck,  the  exalted  Man,  to  whom 


98 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  i. 


Such  high  attest  was  given,  a,  while  surveyed 
With  wonder ;  then,  with  envy  fraught  and  rage. 
Flies  to  his  place,  nor  rests,  but  in  mid  air 
To  council  summons  all  his  mighty  peers, 
Within  thick  clouds  and  dark  tenfold  involved, 
A  gloomy  consistory;  and  them  amidst, 
With  looks  aghast  and  sad,  he  thus  bespake. 

"  O  ancient  Powers  of  air,  and  this  w^de  world, 
(For  much  more  willingly  I  mention  air, 
This  our  old  conquest,  than  remember  hell, 
Our  hated  habitation,)  well  ye  know 
How  many  ages,  as  the  years  of  men, 
This  universe  we  have  possessed,  and  ruled, 
In  manner  at  our  will,  the  affairs  of  earth, 
Since  Adam  and  his  facile  consort  Eve 
Lost  Paradise,  deceived  by  me ;  though  since 
With  dread  attending,  when  that  fatal  wound 
Shall  be  inflicted  by  the  seed  of  Eve 
Upon  my  head ;  long  the  decrees  of  Heaveji 
Delay,  for  longest  time  to  him  is  short; 
And  now,  too  soon  for  us,  the  circling  hours 
This  dreaded  time  have  compassed,  wherein  we 
Must  bide  the  stroke  of  that  long-threatened  wound, 
(At  least  if  so  we  can,  and  by  the  head 
Broken  be  not  intended  all  our  power 
To  be  infringed,  our  freedom  and  our  being, 
In  this  fair  empire  won  of  earth  and  air,) 
For  this  ill  news  I  bring,  the  woman's  Seed, 
Destined  to  this,  is  late  of  woman  born. 
His  birth  to  our  just  fear  gave  no  small  cause ; 
But  his  growth  now  to  youth's  full  flower  display- 
ing 

All  virtue,  grace,  and  wisdom  to  achieve 
Things  highest,  greatest,  multiplies  my  fear. 
Before  him  a  great  prophet,  to  proclaim 
His  coming,  is  sent  harbinger,  who  all 
Invites,  and  in  the  consecrated  stream 
Pretends  to  wash  off  sin,  and  fit  them,  so 
Purified,  to  receive  him  pure,  or  rather 
To  do  him  honour  as  their  king :  all  come, 
And  he  himself  among  them  was  baptized; 
Not  thence  to  be  more  pure,  but  to  receive 
The  testimony  of  Heaven,  that  who  he  is 
Thenceforth  the  nations  may  not  doubt;  I  saw 
The  prophet  do  him  reverence;  oh  him,  rising 
Out  of  the  water,  Heaven  above  the  clouds 
Unfold  her  crystal  doors;  thence  on  his  head 
A  perfect  dove  descend,  whate'er  it  meant, 
And  out  of  Heaven  the  sovereign  voice  I  heard, 
'  This  is  my  son  beloved,  in  him  am  pleased.' 
His  mother  then  is  mortal,  but  his  Sire 
He  who  obtains  the  monarchy  of  Heaven : 
And  what  will  he  not  do  to  advance  hia  Son  1 
His  first-begot  we  know,  and  sore  have  felt, 
When  his  fierce  thunder  drove  us  to  the  deep: 
Who  this  is  we  must  learn,  for  man  he  seems 
In  all  his  lineaments,  though  in  his  face 
The  glimpses  of  his  Father's  glory  shine. 
Ye  see  our  danger  on  the  utmost  edge 


Of  hazard,  which  admits  no  long  debate, 
But  must  with  something  sudden  be  opposed, 
(Not  force,  but  well  couched  fraud,  well  woven 

snares,) 

Ere  in  the  head  of  nations  he  appear, 
Their  king,  their  leader,  and  supreme  on  earth. 
I,  when  no  other  durst,  sole  undertook 
The  dismal  expedition  to  find  out 
And  ruin  Adam,  and  the  exploit  performed 
Successfully;  a  calmer  voyage  now 
Will  waft  me;  and  the  way, found  prosperous  once, 
Induces  best  to  hope  of  like  success." 
.    He  <ended,  and  his  words  impression  left 
Of  much  amazement  to  the  infernal  crew, 
Distracted  and  surprised  with  deep  dismay 
At  these  .sad  tidings;  but  no  time  was  then 
For  long  indulgence  to  their  fears  or  grief: 
Unanimous  they  all  commit  the  care 
And  management  of  this  main  enterprise 
To  him  their  great  dictator,  whose  attempt 
At  first  against  mankind  so  well  had  thrived 
In  Adam's  overthrow,  and  led  their  march 
From  hell's  deep  vaulted  den  to  dwell  in  light, 
Regents,  and  potentates,  and  kings,  yea  gods, 
Of  many  a  pleasant  realm  and  province  wide. 
So  to  the  coast  of  Jordan  he  directs 
His  easy  steps,  girded  with  snaky  wiles, 
Where  he  might  likeliest  find  this  new-declared, 
This  man  of  men,  attested  Son  of  God , 
Temptation  and  all  guile  on  him  to  try; 
So  to  subvert  whom  he  suspected  raised 
To  end  his  reign  on  earth,  so  long  enjoyed : 
But,  contrary,  unweeting  he  fulfilled 
The  purposed  council,  preordained  and  fixed, 
Of  the  Most  High;  who,  in  full  frequence  bright 
Of  angels,  thus  to  Gabriel  smiling  spake. 

'  Gabriel,  this  day  by  proof  thou  shalt  behold, 
Thou  and  all  angels  conversant  on  earth 
With  man  or  men's  affairs,  how  I  begin 
To  verify  that  solemn  message,  late 
On  which  I  sent  thee  to  the  Virgin  pure 
In  Galilee,  that  she  should  bear  a  son, 

reat  in  renown,  and  called  the  Son  of  God; 
Then  told'st  her,  doubting  how  these  things  could 

be 

To  her  a  virgin,  that  on  her  should  come 
The  Hofy  Ghost,  and  the  power  of  the  Highest 
O'ershadow  her:   this  man,  born  and  now  up- 
grown, 

To  show  him  worthy  of  his  birth  divine 
And  high  prediction,  henceforth  I  expose 
To  Satan :  let  him  tempt,  and  now  assay 
Bis  utmost  subtlety,  because  he  boasts 
And  vaunts  of  his  great  cunning  to  the  throng 
Of  his  apostacy:  he  might  have  learnt 
Less  overweening,  since  he  failed  in  Job, 
Whose  constant  perseverance  overcame 
Whate'er  his  cruel  malice  could  invent. 
Lie  now  shall  know  I  can  produce  a  man, 


BOOK  i. 


PARADISE  REGAINED. 


9'.) 


Of  female  seed,  far  ablrr  to  resist 

All  his  solicitations,  and  at  length 

All  his  vast  force,  and  drive  liim  back  to  hell, 

Winning  by  conquest,  what  the  iirst  man  lost 

By  fallacy  surprised.     But  iirst  I  mean 

To  exercise  him  in  the  wilderness ; 

There  he  shall  first  lay  down  the  rudiments 

Of  his  great  warfare,  ere  I  send  him  forth 

To  conquer  Sin  and  Death,  the  two  grand  foes, 

By  humiliation  and  strong  sufferance: 

His  weakness  shall  o'ercome  Satanic  strength, 

And  all  the  world,  and  mass  of  sinful  flesh, 

That  all  the  angels  and  ethereal  powers, 

They  now,  and  men  hereafter,  may  discern 

From  what  consummate  virtue  I  have  chose 

This  perfect  man,  by  merit  called  my  son, 

To  earn  salvation  for  the  sons  of  men." 

So  spake  th'  eternal  Father,  and  all  Heaven 
Admiring  stood  apace,  then  into  hymns 
Burst  forth,  and  in  celestial  measures  moved, 
Circling  the  throne  and  singing,  while  the  hand 
Sung  with  the  voice,  and  this  the  argument : 

"  Victory  and  triumph  to  the  Son  of  God, 
Now  entering  his  great  duel,  not  of  arms 
But  to  vanquish  by  wisdom  hellish  wiles! 
The  Father  knows  the  Son ;  therefore  secure 
Ventures  his  filial  virtue,  though  untried, 
Against  whate'er  may  tempt,  whate'er  seduce, 
Allure,  or  terrify,  or  undermine. 
Be  frustrate,  all  ye  stratagems  of  hell, 
And,  devilish  machinations,  come  to  nought!" 

So  they  in  Heaven  their  odes  and  vigils  tuned: 
Meanwhile  the  Son  of  God,  who  yet  some  days 
Lodged  in  Bethabara,  where  John  baptized, 
Musing,  and  much  revolving  in  his  breast 
How  best  the  mighty  work  he  might  begin 
Of  Saviour  to  mankind,  and  which  way  first 
Publish  his  godlike  office,  now  mature, 
One  day  forth  walked  alone,  the  spirit  leading 
And  his  deep  thoughts,  the  better  to  converse 
With  solitude,  till,  far  from  track  of  men, 
Thought  following  thought,  and  step  by  step  led  on, 
He  entered  now  the  bordering  desert  wild, 
And,  with  dark  shades  and  rocks  environed  round, 
His  holy  meditations  thus  pursued. 

"  O,  what  a  multitude  of  thoughts  at  once 
Awakened  in  me  swarm,  while  I  consider 
What  from  within  I  feel  myself,  and  hear 
What  from  without  comes  often  to  my  ears, 
111  sorting  with  my  present  .state  compared ! 
When  I  was  yet  a  child,  no  childish  play 
To  me  was  pleasing;  all  my  mind  was  set 
Serious  to  learn  and  know,  and  thence  to  do, 
What  might  be  public  good ;  myself  I  thought 
Born  to  that  end,  bom  to  promote  all  truth, 
All  righteous  things:  therefore,  above  my  years, 
The  law  of  God  I  read,  and  found  it  sweet, 
Made  it  my  whole  delight,  and  in  it  grew 
To  such  perfection,  that,  ere  yet  my  age 


Had  measured  twice  six  years,  at  our  great  feast 
I  went  into  the  temple,  there  to  hear 
The  teachers  of  our  law,  and  to  propose 
What  might  improve  my  knowledge  or  their  own: 
And  was  admired  by  all:  yet  this  not  all 
To  which  my  spirit  aspired;  victorious  deeds 
Flamed  in  my  heart,  heroic  acts ;  one  while 
To  rescue  Israel  from  the  Roman  yoke; 
Then  to  subdue  and  quell,  o'er  all  the  earth, 
Brute  violence  and  proud  tyrannic  power, 
Till  truth  were  freed,  and  equity  restored ; 
Yet  held  it  more  humane,  more  heavenly,  first 
By  winning  words  to  conquer  willing  hearts ; 
And  make  persuasion  do  the  work  of  fear ; 
At  least  to  try,  and  teach  the  erring  soul, 
Not  \wilfully  misdoing,  but  unware 
Misled;  the  stubborn  only  to  subdue. 
These  growing  thoughts  my  mother  soon  per- 
ceiving, 

By  words  at  times  cast  forth,  inly  rejoiced, 
And  said  to  me  apart ;  '  High  are  thy  thoughts, 
O  Son,  but  nourish  them,  and  let  them  soar 
To  what  height  sacred  virtue  and  true  worth 
Can  raise  them,  though  above  example  high ; 
By  matchless  deeds  express  thy  matchless  Sire, 
For  know,  thou  art  no  son  of  mortal  man; 
Though  men  esteem  thee  low  of  parentage, 
Thy  father  is  the  eternal  King  who  rules 
All  heaven  and  earth,  angels,  and  sons  of  men; 
A  messenger  from  Gdd  foretold  thy  birth 
Conceived  in  me  a  virgin ;  he  foretold 
Thou   should'st   be    great,   and  sit  on   David's 

throne, 

And  of  thy  kingdom' there  should  be  no  end. 
At  thy  nativity,  a  glorious  choir 
Of  angels,  in  the  fields  of  Bethlehem,  sung 
To  shepherds,  watching  at  their  folds  by  night, 
And  told  them  the  Messiah  now  was  born, 
Where  they  might  see  him,  and  to  thee  they 

came, 

Directed  to  the  manger  where  thou  layest, 
For  in  the  inn  was  left  no  better  room: 
A  star  not  seen  before,  in  Heaven  appearing, 

uided  the  wise  men  thither  from  the  east. 
To  honour  thee  with  incense,  myrrh,  and  gold  : 
By  whose  bright  course  led  on  they  found  the 

place, 

Affirming  it  thy  star,  new  graven  in  heaven, 
3y  which  they  knew  the  king  of  Israel  born, 
fust  Simeon  and  prophetic  Anna,  warned 
3y  vision,  found  thee  in  the  temple,  and  spake, 
Before  the  altar  and  the  vested  priest, 
.•ike  things  of  thee  to  all  that  present  stood.' — 
This  having  heard,  straight  I  again  revolved 
The  law  and  prophets,  searching  what  was  writ 
Concerning  the  Messiah,  to  our  scribes 
tnown  partly,  and  soon  found,  of  whom  they 

spake 
am;  this  chiefly,  that  my  way  must  lie 


100 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  i. 


Through  many  a  hard  assay,  even  to  the  death, 
Ere  I  the  promised  kingdom  can  attain, 
Or  work  redemption  for  mankind,  whose  sins 
Full  weight  must  be  transferred  upon  my  head. 
Yet,  neither  thus  disheartened  or  dismayed, 
The  time  prefixed  I  waited;  when  behold 
The  Baptist,  (of  whose  birth  I  oft  had.  heard, 
Not  knew  by  sight,)  now  come,  who  was  to  come 
Before  Messiah,  and  his  way  prepare! 
I,  as  all  others  to  his  baptism  came, 
Which  I  believed  was  from  above;  but  he 
Straight  knew  me,  and  with  loudest  voice  pro- 
claimed 

Me  him  (for  it  was  shown  him  so  from  Heaven,) 
Me  him,  whose  harbinger  he  was;  and  first 
Refused  on  me  his  baptism  to  confer, 
As  much  his  greater,  and  was  hardly  won: 
But  as  I  rose  out  of  the  laving  stream, 
Heaven  opened  her  eternal  doors,  from  whence 
The  Spirit  descended  on  me  like  a  dova; 
And  last,  the  sum  of  all,  my  Father's  voice, 
Audibly  heard  from  Heaven,  pronounced  me  his, 
Me  his  beloved  Son,  in  whom  alone 
He  was  well  pleased;  by  which  I  knew  the  time 
Now  full,  that  I  no  more  should  live  obscure, 
But  openly  begin,  as  best  becomes, 
The  authority  which  I  derived  from  Heaven. 
And  now  by  some  strong  motion  I  am  led 
Into  this  wilderness,  to  what  intent 
I  learn  not  yet;  perhaps  I  need  not  know, 
For  what  concerns  my  knowledge  God  reveals." 

So  spake  our  Morning  Star,  then  in  his  rise, 
And  looking  round  on  every  side  beheld 
A  pathless  desert,  dusk  with  horrid  shades; 
The  way  he  came  not  having  marked,  return 
Was  difficult,  by  human  steps  untrod : 
And  he  still  on  was  led,  but  with  such  thoughts 
Accompanied  of  things  past  and  to  come 
Lodged  in  his  breast,  as  well  might  recommend 
Such  solitude  before  choicest  society. 
Full  forty  days  he  passed,  whether  on  hill 
Sometimes,  anon  in  shady  vale,  each  night 
Under  the  covert  of  some  ancient  oak, 
Or  cedar,  to  defend  him  from  the  dew, 
Or  harboured  in  one  cave,  is  not  revealed ; 
Nor  tasted  human  food,  nor  hunger  felt, 
Till  those  days  ended ;  hungered  then  at  last 
Among  wild  beasts :  they  at  this  sight  grew  mild, 
Nor  sleeping  him  nor  waking  harmed ;  his  walk 
The  fiery  serpent  fled,  and  noxious  worm, 
The  lion  and  fierce  tiger  glared  aloof. 
But  now  an  aged  man  in  rural  weeds, 
Following,  as  seemed,  the  quest  of  some  stray 

ewe, 

Or  withered  sticks  to  gather,  which  might  serve 
Against  a  winter's  day,  when  winds  blow  keen, 
To  warm  him  wet  returned  from  field  at  eve,  . 
He  saw  approach,  who  first  with  curious  eye 
Perused  him,  then  with  words  thus  uttered  spake. 


"  Sir,  what  ill  chance  hath  brought  thee  to  this 

place 

So  far  from  path  or  road  of  men,  who  pass 
In  troop  or  caravan  1  for  single  none 
Durst  ever,  who  returned,  and  dropt  not  here 
His  carcass,  pined  with  hunger  and  with  drought. 
I  ask  the  rather,  and  the  more  admire, 
For  that  to  me  thou  seem'st  the  man,  whom  late 
Our  new  baptizing  Prophet  at  the  ford 
Of  Jordan  honoured  so,  and  called  thee  Son 
Of  God :  I  saw  and  heard,  for  we  sometimes 
Who  dwell  in  this  wild,  constrained  by  want,  come 

forth 

To  town  or  village  nigh,  (nighest  is  far,) 
Where  aught  we  hear,  and  curious  are  to  hear 
What  happens  new  ;  fame  also  finds  us  out." 

To  whom  the  Son  of  God.    "  Who  brought  me 

hither, 
Will  bring  me  hence ;  no  other  guide  I  seek." 

"  By  miracle  he  may,"  replied  the  swain, 
"  What  other  way  I  see  not ;  for  we  here 
Live  on  tough  roots  and  stubs,  to  thirst  inured 
More  than  the  camel,  and  to  drink  go  far, 
Men  to  much  misery  and  hardship  born : 
But,  if  thou  be  the  son  of  God,  v,ommand 
That  out  of  these  hard  stones  1  e  made  thee  bread, 
So  shalt  thou  save  thyself,  and  us  relieve, 
With  food,  whereof  we  wretched  seldom  taste." 

He  ended,  and  the  Son  of  God  replied. 
"  Thinkest  thou  such  force  in  bread  1    Is  it  not 

written, 

(For  I  discern  thee  other  than  thou  scemest,) 
Man  lives  not  by  bread  only,  but  each  word 
Proceeding  from  the  mouth  of  God,  who  fed 
Our  fathers  here  with  manna  1  in  the  mount 
Moses  was  forty  days,  nor  eat,  nor  drank ; 
And  forty  days  Elijah,  without  food, 
Wandered  this  barren  waste ;  the  same  I  now : 
Why  dost  thou  then  suggest  to  me  distrust, 
Knowing  who  I  am,  as  I  know  who  thou  art?" 

Whom  thus  answered  the  arch  fiend,  now  un- 
disguised. 

"'Tis  true,  I  am  that  Spirit  unfortunate, 
Who,  leagued  with  millions  more  in  rash  revolt, 
Kept  not  my  happy  station,  but  was  driven 
With  them  from  bliss  to  the  bottomless  deep, 
Yet  to  that  hideous  place  not  so  confined 
By  rigour  unconniving,  but  that  oft, 
Leaving  my  dolorous  prison,  I  enjoy 
Large  liberty  to  round  this  globe  of  earth, 
Or  range  in  the  air;  nor  from  the  Heaven  of 

Heavens 

Hath  he  excluded  my  resort  sometimes. 
I  came  among  the  sons  of  God,  when  he 
Gave  up  into  my  hands  Uzzean  Job 
To  prove  him,  and  illustrate  his  high  worth ; 
And,  when  to  all  his  angels  he  proposed 
To  draw  the  proud  king  Ahab  into  fraud 
That  he  might  fall  in  Ramoth,  they  demurring, 


BOOK  i. 


PARADISE-RPGAHSTEt). 


101 


I  undertook  that  office,  and  the  tongues 

Off  all  his  flattering  prophets  glibbed  with  lies 

To  his  destruction,  as  I  had  in  charge; 

For  what  he  bfds  I  do.     Though  I  have  lost 

Much  lustre  of  my  native  brightness,  lost 

To  be  beloved  of  God,  I  have  not  lost 

To  love,  at  least  contemplate  and  admire, 

What  I  see  excellent  in  good,  or  fair, 

Or  virtuous ;  I  should  so  have  lost  all  sense: 

What  can  be  then  less  in  me  than  desire 

To  see  thee  and  approach  thee,  whom  I  know 

Declared  the  Son  of  God,  to  hear  attent 

Thy  wisdom,  and  behold  thy  godlike  deeds  1 

Men  generally  think  me  much  a  foe 

To  all  mankind :  why  should  1 1  they  to  me 

Never  did  wrong  or  violence ;  by  them 

I  lost  not  what  I  lost,  rather  by  them 

I  gained  what  I  have  gained,  and  with  them  dwell, 

Copartner  in  these  regions  of  the  world, 

If  not  disposer;  lend  them  oft  my  aid, 

Oft  my  advice  by  presages  and  signs, 

And  answers,  oracles,  portents  and  dreams, 

Whereby  they  may  direct  their  future  life. 

Envy  they  say,  excites  me,  thus  to  gain 

Companions  of  my  misery  and  wo. 

At  first  it  may  be ;  but  long  since  with  wo 

Nearer  acquainted,  now  I  feel,  by  proof, 

That  fellowship  in  pain  divides  not  smart, 

Nor  lightens  aught  each  man's  peculiar  load. 

Small  consolation  then,  were  man  adjoined : 

This  wounds  me  most,  (what  can  it  less'?)  that 

man, 

Man  fallen  shall  be  restored,  I  never  more." 
To  whom  our  Saviour  sternly  thus  replied. 
"  Deservedly  thou  griev'st,  composed  of  lies 
From  the  beginning,  and  in  lies  wilt  end ; 
Who  boast'st  release  from  hell,  and  leave  to  come 
Into  the  Heaven  of  Heavens:  thou  com'st  indeed, 
As  a  poor  miserable  captive  thrall 
Comes  to  the  place  where  he  before  had  sat 
Among  the  prime  in  splendour,  now  deposed, 
Ejected,  emptied,  gazed  unpitied,  shunned, 
A  spectacle  of  ruin,  or  of  scorn, 
To  all  the  host  of  Heaven :  the  happy  place 
Imparts  to  thee  no  happiness,  no  joy; 
Rather  inflames  thy  torment ;  representing 
Lost  bliss,  to  thee  no  more  communicable, 
So  never  more  in  hell  than  when  in  Heaven. 
But  thou  art  serviceable  to  Heaven's  King. 
Wilt  thou  impute  to  obedience  what  thy  fear 
Extorts. or  pleasure  to  do  ill  excites"? 
What  but  thy  malice  moved  thee  to  misdeem 
Of  righteous  Job,  then  cruelly  to  afflict  him 
With  all  inflictions  ?  but  his  patience  won. 
The  other  service  wasHhy  chosen  task, 
To  be  a  liar  in  four  hundred  mouths ; 
For  lying  is  thy  sustenance,  thy  food. 
Yet  thou  pretendest  to  truth;  all  oracles 
By  thee  are  given,  and  what  confessed  more  true 


Among  the  nations  ?  that  hath  been  thy  craft, 
By  mixing  somewhat  true  to  vent  more  lies. 
But  what  have  been  thy  anwers,  what  but  dark 
Ambiguous,  and  with  double  sense  deluding, 
Which  they  who  asked  have  seldom  understood : 
And  not  well  understood  as  good  not  known  1 
Who  ever  by  consulting  at  thy  shrine 
Returned  the  wiser,  or  the  more  instruct, 
To  fly  or  follow  what  concerned  him  most, 
And  run  not  sooner  to  his  fatal  snare  ? 
For  God  hath  justly  given  the  nations  up 
To  thy  delusions;  justly,  since  they  fell 
Idolatrous :  but,  when  his  purpose  is 
Among  them  to  declare  his  providence 
To  thee  not  known,  whence  hast  thou  then  thy 

truth, 

But  from  him,  or  his  angels  president 
In  every  province  ?  who,  themselves  disdaining 
To  approach  thy  temples,  give  thee  in  command 
What,  to  the  smallest  tittle,  thou  shall  say 
To  thy  adorers'?  thou,  with  trembling  fear, 
Or  like  a  fawning  parasite,  obey'st ; 
Then  to  thyself  ascrib'st  the  truth  foretold. 
But  this  thy  glory  shall  be  soon  retrenched ; 
No  more  shajt  thou  by  oracling  abuse 
The  Gentiles;  henceforth  oracles  are  ceased, 
And  thou  no  more  with  pomp  and  sacrifice 
Shall  be  inquired  at  Delplios,  or  elsewhere; 
At  least  in  vain,  for  they  shall  find  thee  inute. 
God  hath  now  sent  his  living  oracle 
Into  the  world  to  teach  his  final  will, 
And  sends  his  Spirit  of  truth  henceforth  to  dwell 
In  pious  hearts,  an  inward  oracle 
To  all  truth  requisite  for  men  to  know." 

So  spake  our  Saviour ;  but  the  subtle  Fiend, 
Though  inly  stung  with  anger  and  disdain, 
Dissembled,  and  this  answer  smooth  returned. 

"  Sharply  thou  hast  insisted  on  rebuke, 
And  urged  me  hard  with  doings,  which  not  will 
But  misery  hath  wrested  from  me.     Where 
Easily  can'st  thou  find  one  miserable, 
And  not  enforced  ofttimes  to  part  from  truth, 
If  it  may  stand  him  more  instead  to  lie, 
Say  and  unsay,  feign,  flatter,  or  abjure, 
But  thou  art  placed  above  me,  thou  art  Lord; 
From  thee  I  can,  and  must  submiss,  endure 
Check  or  reproof,  and  glad  to  'scape  so  quit. 
Hard  are  the  ways  of  truth,  and  rough  to  walk ; 
Smooth  on  the  tongue  discoursed,  pleasing  to  the 

ear 

And  tuneable  as  sylvan  pipe  or  song ; 
What  wonder  then  if  I  delight  to  hear 
Her  dictates  from  thy  mouth  1  most  men  admire 
Virtue,  who  follow  not  her  lore :  permit  me 
To  hear  thee  when  I  come,  (since  no  man  comes,) 
And  talkrat  least,  though  I  despair  to  attain. 
Thy  father,  who  is  holy,  wise,  and  pure, 
Suffers  the  hypocrite  or  atheous  priest 
To  tread  his  sacred  courts,  and  minister 


102 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  ii, 


About  his  altar,  handling  holy  things, 
Praying  or  vowing ;  and  vouchsafed  his  voice 
To  Balaam  reprobate,  a  prophet  yet 
Inspired:  disdain  not  such  access  to  me." 

To  whom  our  Saviour,  with  unaltered  brow. 
"Thy  coming  hither,  though  I  know  thy  scope, 
I  bid  not,  or  forbid ;  do  as  thou  find'st 
Permission  from  above ;  thou  canst  not  more." 

He  added  not ;  and  Satan,  bowing  low 
His  gray  dissimulation,  disappeared 
Into  thin  air  diffused :  for  now  began 
Night  with  her  sullen  wings  to  double-shade 
The  desert ;  fowls  in  their  clay  nests  were  couched; 
And  now  wild  beasts  came  forth  the  woods  to  roam. 


BOOK  II. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

The  disciples  of  Jesus,  uneasy  at  his  long  absence,  reason 
amongst  themselves  concerning  it.  Mary  also  gives  vent  to 
her  maternal  anxiety ;  in  the  expression  of  which  she  recapi- 
tulates many  circumstances  respecting  the  birth  and  early 


Rode  up  to  Heaven,  yet  once  again  to  come; 

Therefore,  as  those  young  prophets  then  with  care 

Sought  lost  Elijah,  so  in  each  place  these 

Nigh  to  Bethabara  in  Jericho 

The  city  of  palms,  JEnon  and  Salem  old, 

Machaerus,  and  each  town  or  city  walled 

On  this  side  the  broad  lake  Genezaret, 

Or  in  Persea ;  but  returned  in  vain. 

Then  on  the  bank  of  Jordan,  by  a  creek, 

Where  winds  with  reeds  and  osiers  whispering 

play, 

Plain  fishermen,  (no  greater  men  them  call,) 
Close  in  a  cottage  low  together  got, 
Their  unexpected  loss  and  plaints  out  breathed. 
"  Alas,  from  what  high  hope  to  what  relapse 
Unlocked  for  are  we  fallen !  our  eyes  beheld 
Messiah  certainly  now  come,  so  long 
Expected  of  our  fathers;  we  have  heard 
His  words,  his  wisdom  full  of  grace  and  truth; 
Now,  now,  for  sure,  deliverance  is  at  hand, 
The  kingdom  shall  to  Israel  be  restored: 
Thus  we  rejoiced,  but  soon  our  joy  is  turned 
Into  perplexity  and  new  amaze: 


KfeofherSon.-SatanagainmeetahisInfernalCouncil,repQrteiFor     M  fa      .    he 'gone,  what  accident 
the  bad  success  of  his  nrst  temptation  of  our  Blessed  Lord,  and 


calls  upon  them  for  counsel  and  assistance.  Belial  proposes 
tempting  of  Jesus  with  women.  Satan  rebukes  Belial  for  his 
dissoluteness,  charging  on  him  all  the  profligacy  of  that  kind 
ascribed  by  the  poets  to  the  heathen  gods,  and  rejects  his  pro- 
posal as  in  no  respect  likely  to  succeed.  Satan  then  suggests 
other  modes  of  temptation,  particularly  proposing  to  avail 
himself  of  the  circumstance' of  our  Lord's  hungering ;  and, 
taking  a  band  of  chosen  spirits  with  him,  returns  to  resume 
his  enterprise.— Jesus  hungers  in  the  desert:  Night  comes 
on ;  the  manner  in  which  our  Saviour  passes  the  night  is  de- 
scribed—Morning advances.— Satan  again  appears  to  Jesus, 
and,  after  expressing  wonder  that  he  should  be  so  entirely 
neglected  in  the  wilderness,  where  others  had  been  miracu- 
lously fed,  tempts  him  with  a  sumptuous  banquet  of  the  most 
luxurious  kind. — This  he  rejects,  and  the  banquet  vanishes. — 
Satan,  finding  our  Lord  not  to  be  assailed  on  the  ground  of  ap- 
petite, tempts  him  again  by  offering  him  riches,  as  the  means 
of  acquiring  power :  this  Jesus  also  rejects,  producing  many 
instances  of  great  actions  performed  by  persons  under  virtuous 
poverty,  and  specifying  the  danger  of  riehes,  and  the  cares 
and  pains  inseparable  from  power  and  greatness. 


MEANWHILE  the  new  baptized,  who  yet  remained 
At  Jordan  with  the  Baptist,  and  had  seen 
Him  whom  they  heard  so  late  expressly  called 
Jesus  Messiah,  Son  of  God  declared, 
And  on  that  high  authority  had  believed, 
And  with  him  talked  and  with  him  lodged;  I  mean 
Andrew  and  Simon,  famous  after  known, 
With  others  though  in  holy  writ  not  named; 
Now  missing  him  their  joy  so  lately  found, 
(So  lately  found,  and  so  abruptly  gone,) 
Began  to  doubt  and  doubted  many  days, 
And,  as  the  days  increased,  increased  their  doubt; 
Sometimes  they  thought  he  might  be  only  shown, 
And  for  a  time  caught  up  to  God,  as  once 
Moses  was  in  the  mount,  and  missing  long ; 
And  the  great  Thisbite,  who  on  fiery  wheels 


Hath  wrapt  him  from  us  1  will  he  now  retire 

After  appearance,  and  again  prolong 

Our  expectation  1  God  of  Israel, 

Send  thy  Messiah  forth,  the  time  is  come ! 

Behold  the  kings  of  the  earth,  how  they  oppress 

Thy  chosen;  to  what  height  their  power  unjust 

They  have  exalted,  and  behind  them  cast 

All  fear  of  thee ;  arise  and  vindicate 

Thy  glory;  free  thy  people  from  their  yoke ! 

But  let  us  wait;  thus  far  he  hath  performed, 

Sent  his  Anointed,  and  to  us  revealed  him, 

By  his  great  Prophet,  pointed  at  and  shown 

In  public,  and  with  him  we  have  conversed; 

Let  us  be  glad  of  this,  and  all  our  fears 

Lay  on  his  providence ;  he  will  not  fail, 

Nor  will  withdraw  him  now,  nor  will  recall, 

Mock  us  with  his  blest  sight,  then  snatch  him 

hence ; 

Soon  we  shall  see  our  Hope,  our  Joy  return." 
Thus  they,  out  of  their  plaints,  new  hope  re- 
sume 

To  find  whom  at  the  first  they  found  unsought ; 
But,  to  his  mother  Mary,  when  she  saw 
Others  returned  from  baptism,  not  her  son) 
Nor  left  at  Jordan  tidings  of  him  none, 
Within  her  breast,  though  calm,  her  breast  though 

pure, 

Motherly  cares  and  fears  got  head,  and  raised' 
Some  troubled  thoughts,  which  she  in  sighs  thus 

ckd. 

"  O  what  avails  me  now  that  honour  high 
To  have  conceived  of*God,  or  that  salute, 
'  Hail,  highly  favoured,  among  women  blessed!' 
While  I  to  sorrows  am  no  less  advanced, 
And  fears  as  eminent,  above  the  lot 


BOOK  if. 


PARADISE  REGAINED. 


103 


Of  other  women,  by  the  birth  I  bore; 

In  such  a  season  born,  when  scarce  a  shed 

Gould  be  obtained  to  shelter  him  or  me 

From  the  bleak  air;  a  stable  was  our  warmth, 

A  manger  his ;  yet  soon  enforced  to  fly 

Thence  into  Egypt,  till  the  murderous  king 

Were  dead,  who  sought  his  life,  and  missing  fillec 

With  infant  blood  the  streets  of  Bethlehem : 

From  Egypt  home  returned,  in  Nazareth 

Hath  been  our  dwelling  many  years;  his  life 

Private,  unactive,  calm,  contemplative, 

Little  suspicious  to  any  king;  but  now, 

Full  grown  to  man,  acknowledged,  as  I  hear, 

By  John  the  Baptist,  and  in  public  shown, 

Son  owned  from  Heaven  by  his  Father's  voice, 

I  looked  for  some  great  change;  to  honour'?  no; 

But  trouble,  as  old  Simeon  plain  foretold, 

That  to  the  fall  and  rising,  he  should  be 

Of  many  in  Jsrael,  and  to  a  sign 

Spoken  against,  that  through  my  very  soul 

A  sword  shall  pierce:  this  is  my  favoured  lot, 

My  exaltation  to  afflictions  high; 

Afflicted  I  maybe,  it  seems,  and  blest; 

I  will  not  argue  that,  nor  will  repine. 

But  where  dekys  he  now?  some  great  intent 

Conceals  him:  when  twelve  years  he  scarce  hac 

seen, 

I  lost  him,  but  so  found,  as  well  as  saw 
He  could  not  lose  himself,  but  went  about 
His  Father's  business ;  what  he  meant  I  mused, 
Since  understood ;  much  more  his  absence  now 
Thus  long  to  some  great  purpose  he  obscures. 
But  I  to  wait  with  patience  am  inured; 
My  heart  hath  been  a  storehouse  long  of  things 
And  sayings  laid  up,  pdttending  strange  events.' 

Thus  Mary,  pondering  oft,  and  oft  to  mind 
Recalling  what  remarkably  had  passed 
Since  first  her  salutation  heard,  with  thoughts 
Meekly  composed  awaited  the  fulfilling: 
The  while  her  son,  tracing  the  desert  wild, 
Sole,  but  with  holiest  meditations  fed, 
Into  himself  descended,  and  at  once 
All  hiss  great  work  to  come  before  him  set ; 
How  to  begin,  how  to  accomplish  best 
His  end  of  being  on  earth,  and  mission  high: 
For  Satan,  with  sly  preface  to  return, 
Had  left  him  vacant,  and  with  speed  was  gone 
Up  to  the  middle  region  of  thick  air, 
Where  all  his  potentates  in  council  sat; 
There,  without  sign  of  boast,  or  sign  of  joy, 
Solicitous  and  blank,  he  thus  began. 

"Princes,    Heaven's    ancient    sons,    ethereal 

thrones, 

Demonian  spirits  now,  from  the  element 
Each  of  his  reign  allotted,  rightlier  called 
Powers  of  fire,  air,  water,  and  earth  beneath. 
(So  may  we  hold  our  place  and  these  mild  seats 
Without  new  trouble,)  such  an  enemy 
Is  risen  to  invade  us,  who  no  less 


Threatens  than  our  expulsion  down  to  hell. 

I,  as  I  undertook,  and  with  the  vote 

Consenting  in  full  frequence  was  empowered, 

Have  found  him,  viewed  him,  tasted  him ;  but  find 

Far  other  labour  to  be  undergone 

Than  when  I  dealt  with  Adam,  first  of  men, 

Though  Adam  by  his  wife's  allurement  fell, 

However  to  this  Man  inferior  far ; 

If  he  be  man  by  mother's  side,  at  least 

With  more  than  human  gifts  from  Heaven  adorned, 

Perfections  absolute,  graces  divine, 

And  amplitude  of  mind  to  greatest  deeds. 

Therefore  I  am  returned,  lest  confidence 

Of  my  success  with  Eve  in  Paradise 

Deceive  ye  to  persuasion  over  sure 

Of  like  succeeding  here :  I  summon  all 

Rather  to  be  in  readiness,  with  hand 

Or  counsel  to  assist ;  lest  I,  who  erst 

Thought  none  my  equal,  now  be  overmatched." 

So  spake  the  old  Serpent,  doubting;  and  from  all 
With  clamour  was  assured  their  utmost  aid 
At  his  command :  when  from  amidst  them  rose 
Belial,  the  dissolutest  spirit  that  fell, 
The  sensualist,  and,  after  Asmodai, 
The  fleshliest  incubus;  and  thus  advised. 

"  Set  women  in  his  eye,  and  in  his  walk, 
Among  daughters  of  men  the  fairest  found : 
Many  are  in  each  region  passing  fair 
As  the  noon  sky ;  more  like  to  goddesses 
Than  mortal  creatures ;  graceful  and  discreet, 
Expert  in  amorous  arts,  enchanting  tongues 
r>ursuasive,  virgin  majesty  with  mild 
And  sweet  allayed,  yet  terrible  to  approach ; 
killed  to  retire,  and,  in  retiring,  draw 
learts  after  them  tangled  in  amorous  nets, 
uch  object  hath  the  power  to  soften  and  tame 
everest  temper,  smooth  the  rugged'st  brow 
Cnerve,  and  with  voluptuous  hope  dissolve, 
Draw  out  with  credulous  desire,  and  lead 
At  will  the  manliest,  resolutest  breast, 
As  the  magnetic  hardest  iron  draws. 
Vomen,  when  nothing  else  beguiled  the  heart 
)f  wisest  Solomon,  and  made  him  build, 
And  made  him  bow,  to  the  gods  of  his  wives." 
To  whom  quick  answer  Satan  thus  returned. 
Belial,  in  much  uneven  scale  thou  weighest 
.11  others  by  thyself:  because  of  old 
'hou  thyself  doted 'st  on  womankind,  admiring 
'heir  shape,  their  colour,  and  attractive  grace, 
^one  are,  thou  think'st,  but  taken  with  such  toys, 
lefore  the  flood,  thou  with  thy  lusty  crew, 
•'alse  titled  sons  of  God,  roaming  the  earth, 
ast  wanton  eyes  on  the  daughters  of  men, 
Ind  coupled  with  them,  and  begot  a  race, 
lave  we  not  seen,  or  by  relation  heard, 
n  courts  and  regal  chambers  how  thou  lurk'st, 
n  wood  or  grove,  by  mossy  fountain  side, 
n  valley  or  green  meadow,  to  waylay 
Some  beauty  rare.  Calisto,  Clymene, 


104 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  ii. 


Daphne,  or  Semelc,  Antiopa, 
Or  Amymone,  Syrinx,  many  more 
Too  long;  then  lay'st  thy  scapes  on  names  adored, 
Apollo,  Neptune,  Jupiter,  or  Pan, 
Satyr,  or  Faun,  or  Sylvan"?    But  these  haunts 
Delight  not  all ;  among  the  sons  of  men, 
How  many  have  with  a  smile  made  small  account 
Of  Beauty  and  her  lures,  easily  scorned, 
All  her  assaults,  on  worthier  things  intent ! 
Remember  that  Pelican  conqueror, 
A  youth,  how  all  the  beauties  of  the  east 
He  slightly  viewed,  and  slightly  overpassed ; 
How  he  surnamed  of  Africa  dismissed, 
In  his  prime  youth,  the  fair  Iberiarj  maid. 
For  Solomon,  he  lived  at  ease,  and  full 
Of  honour,  wealth,  high  fare,  aimed  not  beyond 
Higher  design  than  to  enjoy  his  state ; 
Thence  to  the  bait  of  women  lay  exposed : 
But  he  whom  we  attempt  is  wiser  far 
Tl  t  n  Solomon,  of  more  exalted  mind, 
Made  and  set  wholly  on  the  accomplishment 
Of  greatest  things.     What  woman  will  you  find, 
Though  of  this  age  the  wonder  and  the  fame, 
On  whom  his  leisure  will  vouchsafe  an  eye 
Of  fond  desire"?  or  should  she,  confident, 
As  sitting  queen  adored  on  Beauty's  throne, 
Descend  with  all  her  winning  charms  begirt 
To  enamour,  as  the  zone  of  Venus  once 
Wrought  that  effect  on  Jove,  so  fables  tell : 
How  would  one  look  from  his  majestic  brow, 
Seated  as  on  the  top  of  virtue's  hill, 
Discountenance  her  despised,  and  put  to  rout 
All  her  array ;  her  female  pride  deject, 
Or  turn  to  reverent  awe !  for  beauty  stands 
In  the  admiration  only  of  weak  minds 
Led  captive;  cease  to  admire,  and  all  her  plumes 
Fall  flat,  and  shrink  into  a  trivial  toy, 
At  every  sudden  slighting  quite -abashed : 
Therefore  with  manlier  objects  we  must  try 
His  constancy ;  with  such  as  have  more  show 
Of  worth,  of  honour,  glory,  and  popular  praise ; 
Rocks,  whereon  greatest  men  have  oftest  wrecked ; 
Or  that  which  only  seems  to  satisfy 
Lawful  desires  of  nature,  not  beyond ; 
And  now  I  know  he  hungers,  where -no  food 
Is  to  be  found,  in  the  wide  wilderness: 
The  rest  commit  to  me ;  I  shall  let  pass 
No  advantage,  and  his  strength  as  oft  assay." 
He  ceased,  and  heard  their  grant  in  loud  ac- 
claim : 

Then  forthwith  to  him  takes  a  chosen  band 
Of  spirits,  likest  to  himself  in  guile, 
To  be  at  hand,  and  at  his  beck  appear, 
If  cause  were  to  unfold  some  active  scene 
Of  various  persons,  each  to  know  his  part  : 
Then  to  the  desert  takes  with  these  his  flight; 
Where,  still  from  shade  to  shade,  the  Son  of  God 
After  forty  days  fasting  had  remained, 
Now  hungering  first,  and  to  himself  thus  said. 


Where  will  this  end?  four  times  ten  days  I've 
passed 

Wandering  this  woody  maze,  and  human  food 
S"or  tasted,  nor  had  appetite ;  that  fast 
To  virtue  I  impute  not,  or  count  part 
Of  what  I  suffer  here ;  if  nature  need  not, 
Or  God  support  nature  without  repast 
Though  needing,  what  praise  is  it  to  endure  *? 
3ut  now  I  feel  I  hunger,  which  declares 
Mature  hath  need  of  what  she  asks ;  yet  God 
Can  satisfy  that  need  some  other  way, 
Though  hunger  still  remain ;  so  it  remain 
Without  this  body's  wasting,  I  content  me. 
And  from  the  sting  of  famine  fear  no  harm ; 
STor  mind  it,  fed  with  better  thoughts,  that  feed 
ie  hungering  more  to  do  my  Father's  will." 
It  was  the  hour  of  night,  when  thus  the  Son 
Communed  in  silent  walk,  then  laid  him  down 
Jnder  the  hospitable  covert  nigh 
Of  trees  thick  interwoven  ;  there  he  slept, 
And  dreamed,  as  appetite  is  wont  to  dream, 
Df  meats  and  drinks,  nature's  refreshment  sweet : 
Him  thought,  he  by  the  brook  of  Cherith  stood, 
And  saw  the  ravens  with  their  horny  beaks 
Food  to  Elijah  bringing,  even  and  morn, 
Though  ravenous,  taught  to  abstain  from  what 

they  brought: 
He  saw  the  prophet  also,  how  he  fled 
Into  the  desert,  and  how  there  he  slept 
Under  a  juniper;  then  how  awaked 
He  found  his  supper  on  the  coals  prepared, 
And  by  the  angel  was  bid  rise  and  eat, 
And  eat  the  second  time  after  repose, 
The  strength  whereof  sufficed  him  forty  days : 
Sometimes  that  with  Elijah  he  partook, 
Or  as  a  guest  with  Daniel  aj  his  pulse. 
Thus  wore  out  night ;  and  now  the  herald  lark 
Left  his  ground-nest,  high  towering  to  descry 
The  morn's  approach,  and  greet  her  with  his  song; 
As  lightly  from  his  grassy  couch  up  rose 
Our  Saviour,  and  found  all  was  but  a  dream ; 
Fasting  he  went  to  sleep,  -and  fasting  waked. 
Up  to  a  hill  anon  his  steps  he  reared, 
From  whose  high  top  to  ken  the  prospect  round, 
If  cottage  were  in  view,  sheep-cote,  or  herd ; 
But  cottage,  herd,  or  sheep-cote  none  he  saw; 
Only  in  a  bottom  saw  a  pleasant  grove, 
With  chant  of  tuneful  "birds  resounding  loud : 
Thither  he  bent  his  way,  determined  there 
To  rest  at  noon ;  and  entered  soon  the  shade 
High  roofed  and  walks  beneath,  and  alleys  brown, 
That  opened  in  the  midst  a  woody  scene ; 
Nature's  own  Work  it  seemed,  nature  taught  art, 
And,  to  a  superstitious  eye,  the  haunt 
Of  woodgods  and  woodnymphs:   he  viewed  it 

round. 

When  suddenly  a  man  before  him  stood, 
Not  rustic  as  before,  but  seemlier  clad, 
As  one  in  city,  or  court,  or  palace  bred, 


BOOK  if. 


PARADISE  REGAINED. 


105 


And  with  fair  speech  these  words  to  him  addressed. 

a  granted  leave  officious  I  return, 
But  much  more  wonder  that  the  Son  of  God 
In  this  wild  solitude  so  long  should  bide, 
Of  all  things  destitute,  and,  well  I  know, 
Not  without  huiKji-r.     Others  of  some  note, 
As  story  tells,  have  trod  this  wilderness ; 
The  fugitive  bondwoman,  with  her  son 
Outcast  Nebaioth.  yet  found  here  relief 
By  a  providing  angel;  all  the  race 
Of  Israel  here  had  famished,  had  not  God 
Rained  from  Heaven  manna ;  and  that  prophet 

bold, 

Native  of  Thebez,  wandering  here  was  fed 
Twice  by  a  voice  inviting  him  to  eat : 
Of  thee  these  forty  days  none  hath  regard, 
Forty  and  more  deserted  here  indeed." 

To  whom  thus  Jesus.    "  What  conclud'st  thou 

hence  1 
They  all  had  need ;•  I,  as  thou  seest,  have  none." 

"  How  hast  thou  hunger  then  7"  Satan  replied. 
"  Tell  me  if  food  were  now  before  thee  set, 
Would'st  thou  not  eat  7"    "  Thereafter  as  I  like 
The  giver,"  answered  Jesus.    "  Why  should  that 
Cause  thy  refusal  F  said  the  subtle  fiend. 
{:  Hast  thou  not  right  to  all  created  things  1 
Owe  not  all  creatures  by  just  right  to  thee 
Duty  and  service,  nor  to  stay  till  bid, 
But  tender  all  their  power  7  nor  mention  I 
Meats  by  the  law  unclean,  or  offered  first    • 
To  idols,  those  young  Daniel  could  refuse ; 
Nor  proffered  by  an  enemy,  though  who 
Would  scruple  that,  with  want  oppressed  7   Be- 
hold, 

Nature  ashamed,  or,  better  to  express, 
Troubled,  that  thou  shoukTst  hunger,  hath  pur- 
veyed 

From  all  the  elements  her  choicest  store, 
To  treat  thee,  as  beseems,  and  as  her  Lord, 
With  honour :  only  deign  to  sit  and  eat." 

He  spake  no  dream;  for,  as  his  words  had  end, 
Our  Saviour  lifting  up  his  eyes  beheld, 
In  ample  space  under  the  broadest  shade, 
A  table  richly  spread  in  regal  mode, 

.  dishes  piled,  and  meats  of  noblest  sort 
And  savour;  beasts  of  chase,  or  fowl  of  game, 
In  pastry  built,  or  from  the  spit,  or  boiled, 
Grisamber-steamed  ;*  all  fish,  from  sea  or  shore, 
Freshet  or  purling  brook,  of  shell  or  fin, 
And  exquisite^  name,  for  which  was  drained 
Pontus,  and  Lucrine  bay,  and  Afric  coast. 
(Alas,  how  simple,  to  these  cates  compared, 
Was  that  crude  apple  that  diverted  Eve !) 
And  at  a  stately  side-board,  by  the  wine 
That  fragrant  smell  diffused,  in  order  stood 
Tall  stripling  youths  rich  clad,  of  fairer  hue 


*  "  Griaambcr -steamed" — Scented  with  ambergris;  a  spe- 
cie* of  luxury  in  Mjhon's  time. 


Than  Ganymed  or  Hylas;  distant  more 

Under  the  trees  now  tripped,  now  solemn  stood, 

Nymphs  of  Diana's  train,  and  Naiades 

With  fruits  or  flowers  from  Amalthea's  horn, 

And  ladies  of  th'  Hesperides,  that  seemed 

Fairer  than  famed  of  old,  or  fabled  since 

Of  fairy  damsels,  met  in  forests  wide 

By  nights  of  Logres,  or  of  Lyones, 

Lancelot,  or  Pelleas,  or  Pellenore: 

And  all  the  while  harmonious  airs  were  heard 

Of  chiming  strings,  or  charming  pipes;  and  winds 

Of  gentlest  gale  Arabian  odours  fanned 

From  their  soft  wings,  and  Flora's  earliest  smells. 

Such  was  the  splendour;  and  the  Tempter  now 

His  invitation  earnestly  renewed. 

"  What  doubts  the  Son  of  God  to  sit  and  eat  1 
These  are  not  fruits  forbidden ;  no  interdict 
Defends  the  touching  of  these  viands  pure ; 
Their  taste  no  knowledge  works,  at  least  of  evil, 
But  life  preserves,  destroys  life's  enemy, 
Hunger,  with  sweet  restorative  delight. 
All  these  are  spirits  of  air,  and  woods,  and  springs, 
Thy  gentle  ministers,  who  come  to  pay 
Thee  homage,  and  acknowledge  thee  their  Lord : 
What  doubt'st  thou,  Son  of  God?  sit  down  and 
eat." 

To  whom  thus  Jesus  temperately  replied. 
"  Said'stthou  not  that  to  all  things  I  had  right? 
And  who  withholds  my  power  that  right  tooise  1 
Shall  I  receive  by  gift  what  of  my  own, 
When  and  where  likes  me  best,  I  can  command? 
I  can  at  will,  doubt  not,  as  soon  as  thou, 
Command  a  table  in  this  wilderness. 
And  call  swift  flights  of  angels  ministrant 
Arrayed  in  glory  on  my  cup  to  attend: 
Why  should'st  thou  then  obtrude  this  diligence, 
In  vain,  where  no  acceptance  it  can  find  1 
And  with  my  hunger  what  hast  thou  to  do  7 
Thy  pompous  delicacies  I  contemn, 
And  count  thy  specious  gifts  no  gifts,  but  guiles." 

To  whom  thus  answered  Satan  malcontent. 
"  That  I  have  also  power  to  give  thou  seest ; 
If  of  that  power  I  bring  thee  voluntary 
What  I  might  have  bestowed  on  whom  I  pleased, 
And  rather  opportunely  in  this  place 
Choose  to  impart  to  thy  apparent  need, 
Why  should'st  thou  not  accept  it  7  but  I  see 
What  I  can  do  or  offer  is  suspect; 
Of  these  things  others  quickly  will  dispose, 
Whose  pains  have  earned  thee  far-fet  spoil."  With 

that. 

Both  table  and  provision  vanished  quite 
With  sound  of  harpies'  wings  and  talons  heard ; 
Only  the  importune  Tempter  still  remained, 
And  with  these  words  his  temptation  pursued. 

"  By  hunger,  that  each  other  creature  tames, 
Thou  art  not  to  be  harmed,  therefore  not  moved; 
!  Thy  temperance,  invincible  besides, 
'For  no  allurements  yields  to  appetite; 


106 


MILTON'S  WORKS.  • 


BOOR  in. 


And  all  thy  heart  is  set  on  high  designs, 

High  actions:  but  wherewith  to  be  achieved? 

Great  acts  require  great  means  of  enterprise ; 

Thou  art  unknown,  unfriended,  low  of  birth, 

A  carpenter  thy  father  known,  thyself 

Bred  up  in  poverty  and  straits  at  home, 

Lost  in  a  desert  here  and  hunger-bit: 

Which  way,  or  from  what  hope  dost  thou  aspire 

To  greatness  1  whence  authority  derivest  1 

What  followers,  what  retinue  canst  thou  gain, 

Or  at  thy  heels  the  dizzy  multitude, 

Longer  than  thou  canst  feed  them  on  thy  cost  1 

Money  brings  honour,   friends,    conquest,    and 

realms : 

What  raised  Antipater  the  Edomite, 
And  his  son  Herod  placed  on  Judah's  throne, 
Thy  throne,  but  gold  that  got  him  puissant  friends] 
Therefore,  if  at  great  things  thou  would'st  arrive, 
Get  riches  first,  get  wealth,  and  treasure  heap, 
Not  difficult,  if  thou  hearken  to  me: 
Riches  are  mine,  fortune  is  in  my  hand ; 
They  whom  I  favour  thrive  in  wealth  amain 
While  virtue,  valour,  wisdom  sit  in  want." 

To  whom  thus  Jesus  patiently  replied. 
"  Yet  wealth  without  these  three  is  impotent 
To  gain  dominion,  or  to  keep  it  gained. 
Witness  those  ancient  empires  of  the  earth, 
In  height  of  all  their  flowing  wealth  dissolved: 
But  men  endued  with  these  have  oft  attained 
In  lowest  poverty  to  highest  deeds ; 
Gideon  and  Jeptlia,  and  the  shepherd  lad, 
Whose  offspring  on  the  throne  of  Judah  sat 
So  many  ages,  and  shall  yet  regain 
That  seat,  and  reign  in  Israel  without  end. 
Among  the  heathen,  (for  throughout  the  world 
To  me  is  not  unknown  what  hath  been  done 
Worthy  of  memorial,)  canst  thou  not  remember 
Quintals,  Fabricius,  Curius,  Regulus? 
For  I  esteem  those  names  of  men  so  poor, 
Who  could  do  mighty  things,  and  could  contemn 
Riches,  though  offered  from  the  hand  of  kings. 
And  what  in  me  seems  wanting,  but  that  I 
May  also  in  this  poverty  as  soon 
Accomplish  what  they  did,  perhaps,  and  more? 
Extol  not  riches  then,  the  toil  of  fools, 
The  wise  man's  cumbrance,  if  not  snare;  more  apt 
To  slacken  virtue,  and  abate  her  edge, 
Than  prompt  her  to  do  aught  may  merit  praise. 
What  if  with  like  aversion  I  reject 
Riches  and  realms?  yet  not,  for  that  a  crown, 
Golden  in  show,  is  but  a  wreath  of  thorns, 
Brings  dangers,   troubles,   cares,    and    sleepless 

nights, 

To  him  who  wears  the  regal  diadem, 
When  on  his  shoulders  each  man's  burden  lies; 
For  therein  stands  the  office  of  a  king, 
His  honour,  virtue,  merit,  and  chief  praise, 
That  for  the  public  all  this  weight  he  bears. 
Yet  he  who  reigns  within  himself,  and  rules 


Passions,  desires,  and  fears,  is  more  a  king ; 
Which  every  wise  and  virtuous  man  attains; 
And  who  attains  not,  ill  aspires  to  rule 
Cities  of  men,  or  headstrong  multitudes, 
Subject  himself  to  anarchy  within, 
Or  lawless  passions  in  him,  which  he  serves. 
But  to  guide  nations  in  the  way  of  truth 
By  saving  doctrine,  and  from  error  lead 
To  know,  and,  knowing,  worship  God  aright, 
Is  yet  more  kingly;  this  attracts  the  soul, 
Governs  the  inner  man,  the  nobler  part; 
That  other  o'er  the  body  only  reigns. 
And  oft  by  force,  which,  to  a  generous  mind, 
So  reigning,  can  be  no  sincere  delight. 
Besides,  to  give  a  kingdom  hath  been  thought 
Greater  and  nobler  done,  than  to  lay  down 
Far  more  magnanimous,  than  to  assume. 
Riches  are  needless  then,  both  for  themselves, 
And  for  thy  reason  why  they  should  be  sought, 
To  gain  a  sceptre,  oftest  better  missed." 


BOOK  III. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

Satan,  in  a  speech  of  much  flattering  commendation,  en- 
deavours to  awaken  in  Jesus  a  passion  for  glory,  by  particu- 
larizing various  instances  of  conquests  achieved,  and  great 
actions  performed,  by  persons  at  an  early  period  of  life.  Our 
Lord  replies,  by  showing  the  vanity  of  worldly  fame,  and  the 
improper  means  by  which  it  is  generally  attained ;  and  con- 
trasts with  it  the  true  glory  of  religious  patience  and  virtuous 
wisdom,  as  exemplified  in  the  character  of  Job.  Satan  justifies 
the  love  of  glory  from  the  example  of  God  himself,  who  re- 
quires it  from  all  his  creatures.  Jesus  detects  the  fallacy  of 
this  argument,  by  showing  that,  as  goodness  is  the  true  ground 
on  which  glory  is  due  to  the  great  Creator  of  all  things,  sinful 
man  can  have  no  right  whatever  to  il. — Satan  then  urges  our 
Lord  respecting  his  claim  to  the  throne  of  David :  he  tells  him 
that  the  kingdom  of  Judea,  being  at  that  time  a  province  of 
Rome,  can  not  be  got  possession  of  without  much  personal 
exertion  on  his  part,  and  presses  him  to  lose  no  time  in  begin- 
ning  to  reign.  Jesus  refers  Wm  to  the  time  allotted  for  this,  as 
for  all  other  things ;  and  after  intimating  somewhat  respecting 
his  own  previous  sufferings,  asks  Satan,  why  he  should  be  so 
solicitous  for  the  exaltation  of  one,  whose  rising  was  destined 
to  be  his  fall.  Satan  replies,  that  his  own  desperate  state,  by 
excluding  all  hope,  leaves  little  room  for  fear ;  and  that,  as  his 
own  punishment  was  equally  doomed,  he  is  not  interested  in 
preventing  the  reign  of  one.  from  whose  apparent  benevolence 
tie  might  rather  hope  for  some  interference  in  his  favour. — 
Satan  still  pursues  his  former  incitements;  and,  supposing 
that  the  seeming  reluctance  of  Jesus  to  be  thus  advanced  might 
arise  from  his  being  unacquainted  wilh  the  world  and  its 
glories,  conveys  him  to  the  summit  of  a  higJi  mountain,  and 
rom  thence  shows  him  most  of  the  kingdoms  of  Asia,  par- 
ticularly pointing  out  to  his  notice  some  extraordinary  mili- 
ary  preparations  of  the  Parthians  to  resist  the  incursions  of 
the  Scythians. '  He  then  informs  our  Lord,  that  he  showed 
him  this  purposely  that  he  might  see  how  necessary  military 
;xertions  are  to  retain  the  possession  of  kingdoms,  as  well  as 
o  subdue  them  at  first:  and  advises  him  to  consider  how  im- 
possible  it  was  to  maintain  Judea  against  two  such  powerful 
neighbours  as  the  Romans  and  Parthians,  and  how  necessary 
t  would  be  to  form  an  alliance  with  one  or  other  of  them.  At 
he  same  time  he  recommends,  and  engages  to  secure  to  him 


BOOK  ni. 


PARADISE  REGAINED. 


107 


that  of  the  Parthiaa- ;  and  tells  him  that  by  this  means  his 
power  will  be  defended  from  anything  that  Rome  or  Caaar 
might  attempt  agaimt  it,  and  that  he  will  be  able  to  extend 
and  esfieciiilly  to  accomplish,  what  was  par- 
ticularly necessary  to  make  the  throne  of  Judea  really  the 
throne  of  David,  the  deliverance  and  restoration  of  the  ten 
tribes,  still  in  a  state  of  captivity.  Jesus  having  briefly  no. 
liced  the  vanity  of  military  efforts  and  the  weakness  of  the 
arm  of  flesh,  says,  that  when  the  time  comes  for  ascending  his 
allotted  throne  he  shall  not  be  slack;  he  remarks  on  Satan's 
extraordinary  zeal  for  the  deliverance  of  the  Israelites,  to 
whom  he  had  always  shown  himself  an  enemy,  and  declares 
their  servitude  to  be  the  consequence  of  their  idolatry :  but 
adds,  that  at  a  future  ijme  it  may  perhaps  please  God  to  recall 
them,  and  restore  them  to  their  liberty  and  native  land. 

So  spake  the  Son  of  God ;  and  Satan  stood 
A  while,  as  mute  confounded  what  to  say, 
What  to  reply,  confuted,  and  convinced 
Of  his  weak  arguing  and  fallacious  drift ; 
At  length,  collecting  all  his  serpent  wiles, 
With  soothing  words  renewed,  him  thus  accosts. 

"  I  see  thou  knowest  what  is  of  use  to  know, 
What  best  to  say  canst  say,  to  do  canst  do ; 
Thy  actions  to  thy  words  accord ;  thy  words 
To  thy  large  heart  give  utterance  due ;  thy  heart 
Contains  of  good,  wise,  just,  the  perfect  shape. 
Should  kings  and  nations  from  thy  mouth  consult, 
Thy  counsel  would  be  as  the  oracle 
Urim  and  Thummim,  those  oraculous  gems 
On  Aaron's  breast ;  of  tongue  of  seers  old 
Infallible :  or  wert  thou  sought  to  deeds 
That  might  require  the  array  of  war,  thy  skill 
Of  conduct  would  be  such,  that  all  the  world 
Could  not  sustain  thy  prowess,  or  subsist 
In  battle,  though  against  thy  few  in  arms. 
These  godlike  virtues  wherefore  dost  thou  hide, 
Affecting  private  life,  or  more  obscure 
In  savage  wilderness  ]  wherefore  deprive 
.All  earth  her  wonder  at  thy  acts,  thyself, 
The  fame  and  glory;  glory  the  reward 
That  sole  excites  to  high  attempts,  the  flame 
Of  most  erected  spirits,  most  tempered  pure 
Ethereal,  who  all  pleasures  else  despise, 
All  treasures  and  all  gain  esteem  as  dross, 
And  dignities  and  powers  all  but  the  highest? 
Thy  years  are  ripe,  and  overripe ;  the  son 
Of  Macedonian  Philip  had  ere  these 
Won  Asia,  and  the  throne  of  Cyrus  held 
At  his  dispose;  young  Scipio  had  brought  down 
The  Carthaginian  pride ;  young  Pompey  quelled 
The  Pontic  king,  and  in  triumph  had  rode. 
Yet  years,  and  to  ripe  years  judgment  mature, 
duench  not  the  thirst  of  glory,  but  augment. 
Great  Julius,  whom  now  all  the  world  admires, 
The  more  he  grew  in  years,  the  more  inflamed 

.  lory,  wept  that  he  had  lived  so  long 
Inglorious :  but  thou  yet  art  not  too  late." 

To  whom  our  Saviour  calmly  thus  replied. 
"  Thou  neither  dost  persuade  me  to  seek  wealth 
For  empire's  sake,  nor  empire  to  affect 


i  For  glory's  sake,  by  all  thy  argument. 
For  what  is  glory  but  the  blaze  of  fame, 

j  The  people's  praise,  if  always  praise  unmixed'} 
And  what  the  people  but  a  herd  confused, 

!  A  miscellaneous  rabble,  who  extol 

j  Things  vulgar,  and,  well-weighed,  scarce  worth 
the  praise? 

|  They  praise,  and"  they  admire,  they  know  not  what, 

j  And  know  not  whom,  but  as  one  leads  the  other ; 
And  what  delight  to  be  by  such  extolled, 

I  To  live  upon  their  tongues  and  be  their  talk, 
Of  whom  to  be  dispraised  were  no  small  praise? 
His  lot  who  dares  be  singularly  good: 
The  intelligent  among  them  and  the  wise 
Are  few,  and  glory  scarce  of  few  is  raised. 
This  is  true  glory  and  renown,  when  God 
Looking  on  the  earth  with  approbation  marks 
The  just  man,  and  divulges  him  through  Heaven 
To  all  his  angels,  who  with  true  applause 
Recount  his  praises :  thus  he  did  to  Job, 
When,  to  extend  his  fame  through  Heaven  and 

earth, 

As  thou  to  thy  reproach  may'st  well  remember, 
He  asked  thee,  'Hast  thou  seen  my  servant  Job?.' 
Famous  he  was  in  Heaven,  on  earth  less  known; 
Where  glory  is  false  glory,  attributed 
To  things  not  glorious,  men  not  worthy  of  fame. 
They  err,  who  count  it  glorious,  to  subdue 
By  conquest  far  and  wide,  to  overrun 
Large  countries,  and  in  field  great  battles  win, 
Great  cities  by  assault:  what  do  these  worthies, 
But  rob  and  spoil,  burn,  slaughter,  and  enslave 
Peaceable  nations,  neighbouring,  or  remote, 
Made  captive,  yet  deserving  freedom  mpre 
Than  those  their  conquerors,  who  leave  behind 
Nothing  but  ruin  Wheresoe'er  they  rove, 
And  all  their  flourishing  works  of  peace  destroy; 
Then  swell  with  pride,  and  must  be  titled  gods, 
Great  benefactors  of  mankind,  deliverers, 
Worshipped  with  temple,  priest,  and  sacrifice? 
One  is  the  Son  of  Jove,  of  Mars  the  other ; 
Till  conqueror  Death  discover  them  scarce  men, 
Rolling  in  brutish  vices,  and  deformed, 
Violenj  or  shameful  death  their  due  reward. 
But  if  there  be  in  glory  aught  of  good, 
It  may  by  means  far  different  be  attained, 
Without  ambition,  war,  or  violence; 
By  deeds  of  peace,  by  wisdom  eminent, 
By  patience,  temperance:  I  mention  still 
Him,  whom  thy  wrongs  with   saintly  patience 

borne, 

Made  famous  hi  a  land  and  times  obscure ; 
Who  names  not  now  with  honour  patient  Job? 
Poor  Socrates,  (who  next  more  memorable?) 
By  what  he  taught,  and  suffered  for  so  doing, 
For  truth's  sake  suffering  death,  unjust,  lives  now 
Equal  in  fame  to  proudest  conquerors. 
Yet  if  for  fame  and  glory  aught  be  done, 
Aught  suffered ;  if  young  African  for  fame 


108 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  i... 


His  wasted  country  freed  from  Punic  rage  ; 
The  deed  Incomes  unpraised,  the  man  at  least, 
And  loses,  though  but  verbal,  his  reward. 
Shall  I  seek  glory  then,  as  vain  men  seek, 
Oft  not  deserved?  I  seek  not  mine,  but  his 
Who  sent  me,  and  thereby  witness  whence  I  am." 

To  whom  the  Tempter  murmuring  thus  replied. 
"Think  not  so  slight  of  glory;  therein  least 
Resembling  thy  great  Father :  he  seeks  glory, 
And  for  his  glory  all  things  made,  all  things 
Orders  and  governs ;  nor  content  in  Heaven 
By  all  his  angels  glorified,  requires 
Glory  from  men,  from  all  men,  good  or  bad, 
Wise  or  unwise,  «o  difference,  no  exemption; 
Above  all  sacrifice,  or  hallowed  gift, 
Glory  he  requires,  and  glory  he  receives, 
Promiscuous  from  all  nations,  Jew,  or  Greek, 
Or  barbarous,  nor  exception  hath  declared ; 
From  us,  his  foes  pronounced,  glory  he  exacts." 

To  whom  our  Saviour  fervently  replied. 
"And  reason;  since  Iris  word  all  things  produced, 
Though  chiefly  not  for  glory  as  prime  end, 
But  to  show  forth  his  goodness,  and  impart 
His  good  communicable  to  every  soul 
Freely ;  of  whom  what  could  he  less  expect 
Than  glory  and  benediction,  that  is,  thanks, 
The  slightest,  easiest,  readiest  recompense 
From  them,  who  could  return  him  nothing  else, 
And,  not  returning  that,  would  likeliest  render 
Contempt  instead,  dishonour,  obloquy'? 
Hard  recompense,  unsuitable  return 
For  so  much  good,  so  much  beneficence. 
But  why  should  man  seek  glory  who  of  his  own 
Hath  nothing,  and  to  whom  nothing  belongs 
But  condemnation,  ignominy,  and  shame? 
Who,  for  so  many  benefits  received, 
Turned  recreant  to  God,  ingrate  and  false, 
And  so  of  all  true  good  himself  despoiled, 
Yet,  sacrilegious,  to  himself  would  take 
That  which  to  God  alone  of  right  belongs : 
Yet  so  much  bounty  ia  in  God,  such  grace, 
That  who  advance  his  glory,  not  their  own, 
Them  he  himself  to  glory  will  advance." 

So  spake  the  Son  of  God;  and  here  again 
Satan  had  not  to  answer,  but  stood  struck 
With  guilt  of  his  own  sin ;  for  he  himself, 
Insatiable  of  glory,  had  lost  all ; 
Yet  of  another  plea  bethought  him  soon. 

"  Of  glory,  as  thou  wilt,"  said  he,  "  so  deem; 
Worth  or  not  worth  the  seeking,  let  it  pass. 
But  to  a  kingdom  thou  art  born,  ordained 
To  sit  upon  thy  father  David's  throne, 
By  mother's  side  thy  father;  though  thy  right 
Be  now  in  powerful  hands,  that  will  not  part 
Easily  from  possession  won  with  arms  : 
Judea  now  and  all  the  promised  land, 
Reduced  a  province  under  Roman  yoke,     • 
Obeys  Tiberius ;  nor  is  always  ruled 
With  temperate  sway;  oft  have  they  violated 


The  temple,  oft  the  law,  with  foul  affronts, 

Abominations  rather,  as  did  once 

Antiochus  :  and  think'st  thou  to  regain 

Thy  right  by  sitting  still  or  thus  retiring? 

So  did  not  Maccabeus :  he  indeed 

Retired  unto  the  desert,  but  with  arms ; 

And  o'er  a  mighty  king  so  oft  prevailed, 

That  by  strong  hand  his  family  obtained 

Though  priests,  the  crown,  and  David's  throne 

usurped, 

With  Modin  and  her  suburbs  once  content. 
If  kingdom  niove  thee'not,  let  rflove  theezeal 
And  duty;  zeal  and  duty  are  not  slow, 
But  on  occasion's^ forelock  watchful  wait, 
They  themselves  rather  are  occasion  best ; 
Zeal  of  thy  father's  house,  duty  to  free 
Thy  country  from  her  heathen  servitude. 
So  shall  thou  best  fulfil,  best  verify 
The  prophets  old  who  sung  thy  endless  reign ; 
The  happier  reign,  the  sooner  it  begins: 
Reign  then ;  what  canst  thou  better  do  the  while?" 

To  whom  our  Saviour  answer  thus  returned. 
"  All  things  are  best  fulfilled  in  their  due  time  ; 
And  time  there  is  for  all  things,  Truth  hath  said. 
If  of  my  reign  prophetic  writ  hath  told, 
That  it  shall  never  end,  so,  when  begin, ' 
The  Father  in  his  purpose  hath  decreed ; 
He  in  whose  hand  all  times  and  seasons  roll. 
What  if  he  hath  decreed  that  I  shall  first 
Be  tried  in  humble  state,  and  things  adverse, 
By  tribulations,  injuries,  insults, 
Contempts,  and  scorns,  and  snares,  and  violence, 
Suffering,  abstaining,  quietly  expecting, 
Without  distrust  or  doubt,  that  he  may  know 
What  I  can  suffer,  how  obey  ?  who.  best 
Can  suffer,  best  can  do;  best  reign,  who  first 
Well  hath  obeyed ;  just  trial,  ere  I  merit 
My  exaltation  without  change  or  end. 
But  what  concerns  it  thee  when  I  begin 
My  everlasting  kingdom  ?  why  art  thou 
Solicitous?  what  moves  thy  inquisition  ? 
Knowest  thou  not  that  my  rising  is  thy  fall, 
And  my  promotion  will  be  thy  destruction?" 

To  whom  the  Tempter  inly  racked,  replied. 
"  Let  that  come  when  it  comes ;  •  all  hope  is  lost 
Of  my  reception  into  grace  :  what  worse  ? 
For  where  no  hope  is  left,  is  left  no  fear : 
If  there  be  worse,  the  expectation  more 
Of  worse  torments  me  than  the  feeling  can. 
I  would  be  at  the  worst :  worst  is  my  port, 
My  harbour,-  and  my  ultimate  repose : 
The  end  I  would  attain,  my  final  good. 
My  error  was  my  error,  and  my  crime 
My  crime  ;  whatever,  for  itself  condemned ; 
And  will  dike  be  punished,  whether  thou  ' 
Reign  or  reign  not;  though  to  that  gentle  brow 
Willingly  could  I  fly,  and  hope  thy  reign, 
From  that  placid  aspect  and  meek  regard, 
Rather  than  aggravate  my  evil  state, 


BOOK  nr. 


PARADISE  REGAINED. 


109 


Would  stand  between  :nc  and  thy  Father's  ire 
(Whoee  ire  I  dread  more  than  the  fire  of  hell,) 
A  shelter,  and  a  kind  of  shading  cool 
Interposition,  as  a  summer's  cloud. 
If  I  then  to  the  worst  that  can  be  haste, 
Why  move  thy  feet  so  slow  to  what  is  best, 
Happiest,  both  to  thyself  and  all  the  world, 
That  thou,  who  worthiest  art,  should'st  be  their 

king? 

Perhaps  thou  lingorest  in  deep  thoughts  detained 
Of  the  enterprise  so  hazardous  and  high: 
No  wonder;  for  though  in  thee  be  united 
What  of  perfection  can  in  man  be  found, 
Or  human  nature  din  receive,  consider, 
Thy  life  hath  yet  bec"n  private,  most  part  spent 
At  home,  scarce  viewed  the  Galilean  towns, 
And  once  a  year  Jerusalem,  a  few  days' 
Short  sojourn  j  and  what  thence  could'st  thou  ob- 
serve 1 

The  world  thou  hast  not  seen,  much  less  her  glory, 
Empires  and  monarchs,  and  their  radiant  courts, 
Best  school  of  best  experience,  quickest  insight 
In  all  things  that  to  greatest  actions  lead. 
The  wisest,  unexperienced,  will  be  ever 
Timorous  and  loth;  with  novice  modesty, 
(As  he  who,  seeking  asses,  found  a  kingdom,) 
Irresolute,  unhardy,  unadventurous : 
But  I  will  bring  thee  where  thou  soon  shall  quit 
Those  rudiments,  and  see  before  thine  eyes 
The  monarchies  of  the  earth,  their  pomp  and  state; 
Sufficient  introduction  to  inform 
Thee,  of  thyself  so  apt,  in  regal  arts, 
And  regal  mysteries ,  that  thou  may'st  know 
How  best  their  opposition  to  withstand." 

With  that  (such  power  was  given  him  then)  he 

took 

The  Son  of  God  up  to  a  mountain  high. 
It  was  a  mountain  at  whose  verdant  feet 
A  spacious  plain,  outstretched  in  circuit  wide, 
Lay  pleasant ;  from  his  side  two  rivers  flowed, 
The  one  winding,  th'  other  straight,  and  left  be- 
tween 

Fair  champaign  with  less  rivers  interveined, 
Then  meeting  joined  their  tribute  to  the  sea ; 
Fertile  of  corn  the  glebe,  of  oil,  and  wine; 
With  herds  the  pastures  thronged,  with  flocks  the 

hills: 

Huge  cities  and  high  towered,  that  well  might  seem 
The  seats  of  mightiest  monarchs:  arid  so  large 
The  prospect  was,  that  here  and  there  was  room- 
For  barren  desert,  fountainless  and  dry. 
To  this  high  mountain  top  the  Tempter  brought 
Our  Saviour,  arid  new  train  of  words  began. 

"  Well  have  we  speeded,  and  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
Forest  and  field  and  flood,  temples  and  towers, 
But  shorter  many  a  league,  here  thou  behold 'st 
Assyria,  and  her  empire's  ancient  bounds, 
Araxes  and  the  Caspian  lake ;  thence  on 
As  far  as  Indus  east,  Euphrates  west. 


And  oft  beyond  :  to  south  the  Persian  bay, 

And,  inaccessible,  the  Arabian  drought : 

Here  Nineveh,  of  length  within  her  wall 

Several  days'  journey,  built  by  Ninus  old. 

Of  that  first  golden  monarchy  the  seat, 

And  seat  of  Salmanassar,  whose  success 

Israel  in  long  captivity  still  mourns  ; 

There  Babylon,  the  wonder  of  all  tongues, 

As  ancient,  but  rebuilt  by  him  who  twice 

Judah  and  all  thy  father  David's  house 

Led  captive,  and  Jerusalem  laid  waste, 

Till  Cyrus  set  them  free ;  Persepolis, 

His  city,  there  thou  seest,-  and  Bactra  there ; 

Ecbatana  her  structure  vast  there  shows, 

And  Hecatompylos  her  hundred  gates ; 

There  Susa  by  Choaspes,  amber  stream, 

The  drink  of  none  but  kings ;  of  later  fame, 

Built  by  Emathian  or  by  Parthian  hands,        • 

The  great  Seleucia,  Nisibis,  and  there 

Artaxata,  Teredon,  Ctesiphon, 

Turning  with  easy  eye  thou  mayest  behold. 

All  these  the  Parthian  (now  some  ages  past 

By  great  Arsaces  led,  who  founded  first 

That  empire)  under  his  dominion  holds, 

From  the  luxurious  kings  of  Antioch  won. 

And  just  in  time  thou  comest  to  have  a  view 

Of  his  great  power ;  for  now  the  Parthian  king 

In  Ctesiphon  hath  gathered  all  his  host 

Against  the  Scythian,  whose  incursions  wild 

Have  wasted  Sogdiana ;  to  her  aid 

He  marches  now  in  haste ;  see,  though  from  far, 

His  thousands,  in  what  martial  equipage 

They  issue  forth,  steel  bows  and  shafts  their  arms, 

Of  equal  dread  in  flight,  or  in  pursuit  ; 

All  horsemen,  in  which  fight  they  mpet  excel : 

See  how  in  warlike  muster  they  appear, 

In  rhombs,  and  wedges,  and  half-moons,  and 

wings." 

He  looked,  and  saw  what  numbers  numberless 
The  city  gates  outpoured,  light  armed  troops, 
In  coats  of  mail  and  military  pride ; 
In  mail  their  horses  clad,  yet  fleet  and  strong, 
Prancing  their  riders  bore,  the  flower  and  choice 
Of  many  provinces  from  bound  to  bound ; 
From  Arachosia,  from  Candaor  east, 
And  Margiana  to  the  Hyrcanian  cliffs 
Of  Caucasus,  and  dark  Iberian  dales ; 
From  Atropatia  and  the  neighbouring  plains 
Of  Adiabene,  Media,  and  the  south 
Of  Susiana,  to  Balsara's  haven. 
He  saw. them  in  their  forms  of  battle  ranged, 
How  quick  they  wheeled,  and,  flying,  behind  them 

shot 

Sharp  sleet  of  arrowy  showers  against  the  face 
Of  their  pursuers,  and  overcame  by  flight ; 
The  field  all  iron  cast  a  gleaming  brown ; 
Nor  wanted  clouds  of  foot,  nor  on  each  horn 
uirassiers  all  in  steel  for  standing  fight, 
hariots,  or  elephants  indorsed  with  towers 


110 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  in. 


Of  archers ;  nor  of  labouring  pioneers 
A  multitude,  with  spades  and  axes  armed 
To  lay  hills  plain,  fell  woods,  or  valleys  fill, 
Or  where  plain  was  raise  hill,  or  overlay 
With  bridges  rivers  proud,  as  with  a  yoke ; 
Mules  after  these,  camels  and  dromedaries, 
And  wagons,  fraught  with  utensils  of  war. 
Such  forces  met  not,  nor  so  wide  a  camp, 
When  Agrican  with  all  his  northern  powers 
Besieged  Albracca,  as  romances  tell, 
The  city  of  Gallaphrone,  from  whence  to  win 
The  fairest  of  her  sex  Angelica, 
His  daughter,  sought  by  many  prowest  knights, 
Both  Paynim  and  the  peers  of  Charlemagne. 
Such  and  so  numerous  was  their  chivalry : 
At  sight  whereof  the  fiend  yet  more  presumed, 
And  to  our  Saviour  thus  his  words  renewed. 

"  {That  thou  may'st  know  I  seek  not  to  engage 
Thy  virtue,  and  not  every  way  secure 
On  no  slight  grounds  thy  safety ;  hear,  and  mark 
To  what  end  I  have  brought  thee  hither,  and  shown 
All  this  fair  sight :  thy  kingdom,  though  foretold 
By  prophet  or  by  angel,  unless  thou 
Endeavour,  as  thy  father  David  did, 
Thou  never  shalt  obtain ;  prediction  still 
In  all  things,  and  all  men,  supposes  means ; 
Without  means  used,  what  it  predicts  revokes. 
But  s'ay  thou  wert  possessed  of  David's  throne, 
By  free  consent  of  all,  none  opposite, 
Samaritan  or  Jew ;  how  couldst  thou  hope 
Long  to  enjoy  it  quiet  and  secure, 
Between  two  such  enclosing  enemies, 
Roman  and  Parthian7?  therefore  one  of  these 
Thou  must  make  sure  thy  own ;  the  Parthian  first 
By  my  advice,,  as  nearer,  and  of  late 
Found  able  by  invasion  to  annoy 
Thy  country,  and  captive  lead  away  her  kings, 
Antigonus  and  old  Hyrcanus,  tound, 
Maugre  the  Roman:  it  shall  be  my  task 
To  render  thee  the  Parthian  at  dispose, 
Choose  which  thou  wilt,  by  conquest  or  by  league: 
By  him  thou. shalt  regain,  without  him  not, 
That  which  alone  can  truly  reins tal  thee 
In  David's  royal  seat,  his  true  successor, 
Deliverance  of  thy  brethren,  those  ten  tribes, 
Whose  offspring  in  his  territory  yet  serve, 
In  Habor,  and  among 'the  Medes  dispersed: 
Ten  sons  of  Jacob,  two  of  Joseph,  lost 
Thus  long  from  Israel,  serving,  as  of  old 
Their  fathers  in  the  land  of  Egypt  served, 
This  offer  sets  before  thee  to  deliver. 
These  if  from  servitude  thou  shalt  restore 
To  their  inheritance,  then,  nor  till  then, 
Thou  on  the  throne  of  David  in  full  glory, 
From  Egypt  to  Euphrates  and  beyond, 
Shalt  reign,  and  Rome  or  Ceesar  need  not  fear." 

To  whom  our  Saviour  answered  thus,  unmoved: 


"  Much  ostentation,  vain  of  fleshy  arm 
And  fragile  afms,  much  instrument  of  war, 
Long  in  preparing,  soon  to  nothing  brought, 
Before  mine  eyes  thou  hast  set;  and  in  my  ear 
Vented  much  policy,  and  projects  deep 
Of  enemies,  of  aids,  battles  and  leagues, 
Plausible  to  the  world,  to  me  worth  nought. 
Means  I  iriust  use,  thou  say'st;  prediction  else 
Will  unpredict,  and  fail  me  of  the  throne : 
My  time,  I  told  thee,  (and  that  time  for  thee 
Were  better  farthest  oft")  is  not  yet  come : 
When  that  comes,  think  not  thou  to  find  me  slack 
On  my  part  aught  endeavouring,  or  to  need 
Thy  polite  maxims,  or  that  cumbersome 
Luggage  of  war  there  shown'me,  argument 
Of  human  weakness  rather  than  of  strength. 
My  brethren,  as  thou  call'st  them,  those  ten  tribes 
I  must  deliver  if  I  mean  to  reign 
David's  true  heir,  and  Ids  full  sceptre  sway 
To  just  extent  over  all  Israel's  sons. 
But  whence  to  thee  this  zeaH  Where  was  it  then 
For  Israel,  or  for  David,  or  his  throne, 
When  thou  stood'st  up  his  tempter  to  the  pride 
Of  numbering  Israel,  which  cost  the  lives 
Of  threescore  and  ten  thousand  Israelites 
By  three  days'  pestilence?  such  was  thy  zeal 
To  Israel  then;  the  same  that  now  to  me! 
As  for  those  captive  tribes,  themselves  were  they 
Who  wrought  their  own  captivity,  fell  off 
From  God  to  worship  calves,  the  deities 
Of  Egypt,  Baal  next  and  Ashtaroth, 
And  all  the  idolatries  of  heathen  round, 
Besides  their  other  worse  than  heathenish  crimes; 
Nor  in  the  land  of  their  captivity 
Humbled  themselves,  or  penitent  besought 
The  God  of  their  forefathers;  but  so  died 
Impenitent,  and  left  a  race  behind 
Like  to  themselves,  distinguishable  scarce 
From  Gentiles,  but  by  circumcision  vain, 
And  God  with  idols  in  their  worship  joined. 
Should  I  of  these  the  liberty  regard, 
Who,  freed,  as  to  their  ancient  patrimony, 
Unhumbled,  unrepentant,  unreformcd, 
Headlong  would  follow ;  and  to  their  Gods  perhaps 
Of  Bethel  and  of  Dan;  no;  let  them  serve 
Their  enemies,  who  serve  idols  with  God. 
Yet  he  at  length,  (time  to  himself  best  known,) 
Remembering  Abraham,  by  some  wondrous  call 
May  bring  them  back,  repentant  and  sincere, 
And  at  their  passing  cleave  the  Assyrian  flood, 
While  to  their  native  land  with  joy  they  haste; 
As  the  Red  Sea  and  Jordan  once  he  cleft, 
When  to  the  promised  land  their  fathers  passed; 
To  his  due  time  and  providence  I  leave  them." 
So  spake  Israel's  true  king,  and  to  the  fiend 
Made  answer  meet,  that  made  void  all  his  wiles. 
So  fares  it  when  with  truth  falsehood  contends. 


BOOK  iv. 


PARADISE  REGAINED 


111 


BOOK  IV. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

Satan  persisting  in  the  temptation  of  our  Lord,  shows  him 
imperial  Rome  in  its  greatest  pomp  and  splendour,  as  a  power 
which  he  probably  would  prefer  before  that  of  the  Parthians 
and  tells  him  that  he  might  with  the  greatest  ease  expel  Tibe- 
rius, restore  the  Romans  to  their  liberty,  and  make  himself 
master  not  only  of  the  Roman  empire,  but  by  so  doing  of  the 
whole  world,  and  inclusively  of  the  throne  of  David.  Our 
Lord,  in  reply,  expresses  his  contempt  of  grandeur  and  world 
ly  power,  notices  the  luxury,  vanity,  and  profligacy  of  the 
Romans,  declaring  how  little  they  merited  to  be  restored  to 
that  liberty,  which  they  had  lost  by  their  misconduct,  and 
briefly  refers  to  the  greatness  of  his  own  future  kingdom.  Sa- 
tan, now  desperate,  to  enhance  the  value  of  his  proffered  gifts, 
professes  that  the  only  terms,  on  which  he  will  bestow  them, 
are  our  Saviour's  falling  down  and  worshipping  him.  Our 
Lord  expresses  a  firm  but  temperate  indignation  at  such  a 
proposition,  and  rebukes  the  Tempter  by  the  title  of  "Satan 
for  ever  damned."  Satan,  abashed,  attempts  to  justify  him- 
self; he  then  assumes  a  new  ground  of  temptation,  and,  pro- 
posing to  Jesus  the  intellectual  gratifications  of  wisdom  and 
knowledge,  points  out  to  him  the  celebrated  seat  of  ancient 
learning,  Athens,  its  schools,  and  other  various  resorts  of  learn- 
ed teachers  and  their  disciples ;  accompanying  the  view  with 
a  highly-finished  panegyric  on  the  Grecian  musicians,  poets, 
orators,  and  philosophers  of  the  different  sects.  Jesus  replies, 
by  showing  the  vanity  and  insufficiency  of  the  boasted  Hea- 
then philosophy ;  and  prefers  to  the  music,  poetry,  eloquence, 
and  didactic  policy  of  the  Greeks,  those  of  the  inspired  Hebrew 
writers.  Satan,  irritated  at  the  failure  of  all  his  attempts,  up- 
braids the  indiscretion  of  our  Saviour  in  rejecting  his  offers; 
and  having,  in  ridicule  of  his  expected  kingdom,  foretold  the 
Bufferings  that  our  Lord  was  to  undergo,  carries  him  back  into 
the  wilderness,  and  leaves  him  there.  Night  comes  on :  Satan 
raises  a  tremendous  storm,  and  attempts  further  to  alarm  Jesus 
with  frightful  dreams,  and  terrific  threatening  spectres ;  which 
however  have  no  effect  upon  him.  A  calm,  bright,  beautiful 
morning  succeeds  to  the  horrors  of  the  night.  Satan  again  pre- 
sents himself  to  our  blessed  Lord,  and,  from  noticing  the  storm 
of  the  preceding  night  as  pointed  chiefly  at  him,  takes  occasion 
once  more  to  insult  him  with  an  account  of  the  sufferings 
which  he  was  certainly  to  undergo.  This  only  draws  from 
our  Lord  a  brief  rebuke.  Satan,  now  at  the  height  of  his  des- 
peration, confesses  that  he  had  frequently  watched  Jesus  from 
his  birth,  purposely  to  discover  if  he  was  the  true  Messiah ; 
and,  collecting  from  what  passed  at  the  river  Jordan  that  he 
most  probably  was  so,  he  had  from  that  time  more  assidupus- 
ly  followed  him,  in  hopes  of  gaining  some  advantage  over 
him,  which  would  most  effectually  prove  that  he  was  not 
really  that  Divine  Person  destined  to  be  his  "fatal  Enemy." 
In  this  he  acknowledges  that  he  has  hitherto  completely  failed ; 
but  still  determines  to  make  one  more  trial  of  him.  Accord- 
ingly he  conveys  him  to  the  Temple  at  Jerusalem,  and,  placing 
him  on  a  pointed  eminence,  requires  him  to  prove  his  Divini- 
ty either  by  standing  there,  or  casting  himself  down  with  safety. 
Our  Lord  reproves  the  Tempter,  and  at  the  same  time  mani- 
festo his  own  Divinity  by  standing  on  this  dangerous  point 
fiatan,  amazed  and  terrified,  instantly  falls;  and  repairs  to  his 
infernal  compeers,  to  relate  the  bad  success  of  his  enterprise. 
Angels  in  the  mean  time  convey  our  blessed  Lord  to  a  beauti- 
ful valley,  and,  while  they  minister  to  him  a  repast  of  celestial 
fjod,  celebrate  his  victory  in  a  triumphant  hymn. 


PERPLEXED  and  troubled  at  his  bad  success 
The  tempter  stood,  nor  had  what  to  reply, 


Discovered  in  his  fraud,  thrown  from  his  hope 
So  oft,  and  the  persuasive  rhetoric 
That  sleeked  his  tongue,  and  won  so  much  on  Eve, 
So  little  Kere,  nay  lost;  but  Eve  was  Eve; 
This  far  his  overmatch,  who,  self-deceived 
And  rash,  beforehand  had  no  better  weighed 
The  strength  he  was  to  cope  with,  or  his  own 
But  as  a  man,  who  had  been  matchless  held 
In  cunning,, overreached  where  least  he  thought, 
To  salve  his  credit,  and  for  very  spfte, 
Still  will  be  tempting  him  who  foils  him  still, 
And  never  cease,  though  to  his  shame  the  more ; 
Or  as  a  swarm  of  flies  in  vintage  time, 
About  the  wine  press  where  sweet  must  is  poured, 
Beat  off',  returns  as  oft  with  humming  sound ; 
Or  surging  waves  against  a  solid  rock, 
Though  all  to  shivers  dashed,  the  assault  renew, 
Vain  battery !)  and  in  froth  or  bubbles  end ; 
So  Satan,  whom  repulse  upon  repulse 
Met  ever,  and  to  shameful  silence  brought, 
Yet  gives  not  o'er,  though  desperate  of  success, 
And  his  vain  importunity  pursues. 
He  brought  our  Saviour  to  the  western  side 
Of  that  high  mountain,  whence  he  might  behold 
Another  plain,  long,  but  in  breadth  not  wide, 
Washed  by  the  southern  sea,  and,  on  the  north, 
To  equal  length  backed  with  a  ridge  of  hills-, 
That  screened  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  and  seats  of 

men, 

Prom  cold  septentrion  blasts ;  thence  in  the  midst 
Divided  by  a  river,  of  whose  banks 
On  each  side  an  imperial  city  stood, 
With  towers  and  temples  proudly  elevate 
On  seven  small  hills,  with  palaces  adorned, 
Porches,  and  theatres,  baths,  aqueducts; 
Statues,  and  trophies,  and  triumphal  arcs, 
jrardens  and  groves  presented  to  his  eyes, 
Above  the  height  of  mountains  interposed : 
By  what  strange  parallax,  or  optic  skill 
Of  vision,  multiplied  through  air,  or  glass 
Of  telescope,  were  curious  to  inquire :) 
And  now  the  Tempter  thus  his  silence  broke. 
"  The  city  which  thou  seest  no  other  deem 
Than  great  apd  glorious  Rome,  queen  of  the  earth, 
So  far  renowned,  and  with  the  spoils  enriched 
Of  nations ;  there  the  capitol  thou  seest  j 
Above  the  rest  lifting  his  stately  head 
On  the  Tarpeian  rock,  her  citadel 
mpregnable;  and  there  mount  Palatine, 
The  imperial  palace,  compass  huge,  and  high 
The  constructure,  skill  of  noblest  architects, 
With  gilded  battlements  conspicuous  far, 
Turrets,  and  terrace?,  and  glittering  spires  : 
Vlany  a  fair  edifice  besides,  more  like 
houses  of  gods,  (so  well  I  have  disposed 
Vly  airy  microscope,)  thou  mayest  behold, 
Outside  and  inside  both,  pillars  and  roofs, 
Carved  work,  the  hand  of  famed  artificers, 
n  cedar,  marble,  ivory,  or  gold. 


112 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  iv. 


Thence  to  the  gates  cast  round  thine  eye,  and  see 

"What  conflux  issuing  forth,  or  entering  in; 

Praetors,  proconsuls  to  their  provinces 

Hasting,  or  on  return,  in  robes  of  state; 

.Lictors  and  rods,  the  ensigns  of  their  power, 

Legions  and  cohorts,  turms  of  horse  and^wings: 

•Or  embassies  from  regions  far  remote ; 

In  various  habits,  on  the  Appian  road, 

Or  on  the  Emilian ;  some  from  farthest  south, 

:Syene,  and  where  the  shadow  both  way  falls, 

Meroe,  Nilotic  isle,  and,  more  to  west, 

The  realm  of  Bocchus  to  the  Black-moor  sea,  ' 

From  the  Asian  kings,  and  Parthian  among  these ; 

From  India -and  the  golden  Chersonese, 

And  utmost  Indian  isle  Taprobane, 

Dusk  faces  with  white  silken  turbans  wreathed; 

From  Gallia,  GadeS,  and  the  British  west ; 

Germans,  and  Sythians,  and  Sarmatians,  north 

Beyond  Danubius  to  the  Tauric  pool. 

All  nations  now  to  Rome  obedience  pay; 

To  Rome's  great  emperor,  whose  wide  domain, 

In  ample  territory,  wealth,  and  power, 

Civility  of  manners,  arts,  and  arms, > 

And  long  renown,  thou  justly  mayest  prefer 

Before  the  Parthians.     These  two  thrones  except, 

The  rest  are  barbarous,  and  scarce  worth  the  sight, 

Shared  among  petty  kings  too  far  removed; 

These  having  shown  thep,  I  have  shown  fchee  all 

The  kingdoms  of  the  world,  and  all  their  glory. 

This  emperor  hath  no  son,  and  now  is  old, 

Old  and  lascivious,  and  from  Rome  retired 

To  Capreae,  an  island  small,  but  strong, 

On  the  Campanian  shore,  with  purpose  there 

His  horrid  lusts  in  private  to  enjoy, 

Committing  to  a  wicked  favourite 

All  public  cares,'  and  yet  of  him  suspicious ; 

Hated  of  all,  and  hating.     With  what  ease, 

Indued  with  regal  virtues  as  thou  art, 

Appearing,  and  beginning  noble*  deeds, 

Might'st  thou  expel  this  monster  from  his  throne, 

Now  made  a  sty;  and,  in  his  place  ascending, 

A  victor  people  freedom  servile  yoke! 

And  with  my  help  thou  mayest ;  to  me  the  power 

Is  given,  and  by  that  right  I  give  it  thee. 

Aim  therefore  at  no  less  than  all  the  world; 

Aim  at  the  highest ;  without  the  highest  attained, 

Will  be  for  thee  no  sitting,  or  npt  long, 

On  David's  throne,.be  prophesied  what  will." 

To  whom  the  Son  of  God,  unmoved,  replied. 
"  Nor  doth  this  grandeur  and  majestic  show 
Of  luxury,  though  called  magnificence, 
More  than  of  arms  before,  allure  mine  eye, 
Much  less  my  mind  ;  though  thou  shouldst  add  to 

tell 

Their  sumptuous  gluttonies,  and  gorgeous  feasts 
On  citron  tables  or  Atlantic  stone, 
(For  I  have  also  heard,  perhaps  have  read,) 
Their  wines  of  Setia,  Gales,  and  Falerne, 
Chios,  and  Crete,  and  how  they  quaff  in  gold, 


Crystal,  and  myrrhine  cups,  embossed  with  gems 
And  studs  of  pearl ;  to  me  should'st  tell,  who  thirst 
And  hunger  still.     Then  embassies  thou  showest 
From  nations  far  and  nigh :  what  honour  that, 
But  tedious  waste  of  time,  to  sit  and  hear 
So  many  hollow  compliments  and  lies, 
Outlandish  flatteries  ?  Then  proceed'st  to  talk 
Of  the  emperor,  how  easily  subdued, 
How  gloriously :  I  shall,  thou  sayest,  expel 
A  brutish  monster ;  what  if  I  withal 
Expel  a  devil  who  first  made  him  such? 
Let  his  tormentor  conscience  find  him  out ; 
For  him  I  was  not  sent;  nor  yet  to  free 
That  people,  victor  once,  now  vile  and  base; 
Deservedly  made  vassal,  who,  once  just, 
Frugal,  and  mild,  and  temperate,  conquered  well, 
But  govern  ill  the  nations  under  yoke, 
Peeling  their  provinces,  exhausted  all 
By  lust  and  rapine ;  first  ambitious  grown 
Of  triumph,  that  insulting  vanity ; 
Then'cruel,  by  their  sports  to  blood  inured 
Of  fighting  beasts,  and  men  to  beasts  exposed ; 
Luxurious  by  their  wealth,  and  greedier  still, 
And  from  the  daily  scene  effeminate. 
What  wise  and  valiant  man  would  seek  to  free 
These,. thus  degenerate,  by  themselves  enslaved"? 
Or  could  of  inward  slaves  make  outward  free? 
Know  therefore,  when  my  season  comes  to  sit 
On  David's  throne,  it  shall  be  like  a  tree 
Spreading  and  overshadowing  all  the  earth ; 
Or  as  a  stone,  that  shall  to  pieces  dash 
All  monarchies  besides  throughout  the  world, 
And  of  my  kingdom  there  shall  be  no  end; 
Means  there  shall  be  to  this ;  but  what  the  means, 
Is  not  for  thee  to  know,  nor  me  to  tell." 

To  whom  the  Tempter,  impudent,  replied. 
"  I  see  all  offers  made  by  me  how  slight 
Thou  valuest,  because  offered,  and  rejectest: 
Nothing  will  please  the  difficult  and  nice, 
Or  nothing  more  than  still  to  contradict: 
On  the  other  side  know  also  thou,  that  I 
On  what  I  offer  set  as  high  esteem, 
Nor  what  I  part  with  mean  to  give  for  nought; 
All  these,  which  in  a  moment  thou  behold'st, 
The  kingdoms  of  the  world,  to  thee  I  give, 
(For,  given  to  me,  I  give  to  whom  I  please,) 
No  trifle ;  yet  with  this  reserve,  not  else,    , 
On  this  condition,  if  thou  wilt  fall  down, 
And  worship  me  as  thy  superior  lord, 
(Easily  done,)  and  hold  them  all  of  me; 
For  what  can  less  so  great  a  gift  deserve?" 

Whom  thus  our  Saviour  answered  with  disdain. 
"  I  never  liked  thy  talk,  thy  offers  less ; 
Now  both  abhor,  since  thou  hast  dared  to  utter 
The  abominable  terms,  impious  condition : 
But  I  endure  the  time,  till  which  expired 
Thou  hast  permission  on  me.     It  is  written, 
The  first  of  all  commandments,  Thou  shalt  worship 
The  Lord  thy  God,  and  only  him  shalt  serve; 


BOOK  IT. 


PARADISE  REGAINED. 


113 


And  darest  thou  to  the  Son  of  God  propound 
To  worship  thee  accursed,  now  more  accursed 
For  this  attempt,  bolder  than  that  on  Eve, 
And  more  blasphemous  1  which  expect  to  rue. 
The  kingdoms  of  the  world  to  thee  were  given  ? 
Permitted  rather,  and  by  thee  usurped; 
Other  donation  none  thou  canst  produce. 
If  given,  by  whom  but  by  the  King  of  kings 
God  over  all  supreme?     If  given  to  thee, 
By  thee  how  fairly  is  the  giver  now 
Repaid!     But  gratitude  in  thee  is  lost 
Long  since.     Wert  thou  so  void  of  fear  or  shame, 
As  offer  them  to  me,  the  Son  of  God? 
To  me  my  own,  on  such  abhorred  pact, 
That  I  fall  down  and  worship  thee  as  God  1 
Get  thee  behind  me ;  plain  thou  now  appearest 
That  evil  one,  Satan  for  ever  damned." 

To  whom  the  Fiend,  with  fear  abashed,  replied: 
"  Be  not  so  sore  offended,  Son  of  God, 
Though  Sons  of  God  both  angels  are  and  men, 
If  I,  to  try  whether  in  higher  sort 
Than  these  thou  bearest  that  title,  have  proposed 
What  both  from  men  and  angels  I  receive, 
Tetrarchs  of  fire,  air,  flood,  and  on  the  earth, 
Nations  beside  from  all  the  quartered  winds, 
God  of  this  world  invoked,  and  world  beneath: 
Who  then  thou  art,  whose  coming  is  foretold 
To  me  most  fatal,  me  it  most  concerns. 
The  trial  hath  endamaged  thee  no  way, 
Rather  more  honoured  left  and  more  esteem ; 
Me  nought  advantaged,  missing  what  I  aimed. 
Therefore  let  pass,  as  they  are  transitory, 
The  kingdoms  of  this  world ;  I  shall  no  more 
Advise  thee ;  gain  them  as  thou  canst,  or  not. 
And  thou  thyself  seem'st  otherwise  inclined 
Than  to  a  worldly  crown,  addicted  more 
To  contemplation  and  profound  dispute, 
As  by  that  early  action  may  be  judged, 
When  slipping  from  thy  mother's  eye,  thou  went'st 
Alone  into  the  temple,  there  wast  found 
Among  the  gravest  Rabbies,  disputant 
On  points  and  questions  fitting  Moses'  chair, 
Teaching,  not  taught;  the  childhood  shows  the  man 
As  morning  shows  the  day.     Be  famous  then 
By  wisdom;  as  thy  empire  must  extend, 
So  let  extend  thy  mind  o'er  all  the  world 
In  knowledge,  all  things  in  it  comprehend. 
All  knowledge  is  not  couched  in  Moses'  law, 
The  Pentateuch,  or  what  the  Prophets  wrote ; 
The  Gentiles  also  know,  and  write,  and  teach 
To  admiration,  led  by  nature's  light, 
And  with  the  Gentiles  much  thou  must  converse, 
Ruling  them  by  persuasion  as  thou  meanest ; 
Without  their  learning  how  wilt  thou  with  them, 
Or  they  with  thee,  hold  conversation  meet  ? 
How  wilt  thou  reason  with  them,  how  refute 
Their  idolisms,  traditions,  paradoxes? 
Error  by  his  own  arms  is  best  evinced. 
Look  once  more,  ere  we  leave  this  specular  mount, 
10 


Westward,  much  nearer  by  south-west,  behold, 

Where  on  the  Egean  shore  a  city  stands, 

Built  nobly,  pure  the  air,  and  light  the  soil, 

Athens,  the  eye  of  Greece,  and  mother  of  arts 

And  eloquence,  native  to  famous  wits 

Or  hospitable,  in  .her  sweet  recess, 

City  or  suburban,  studious  walks  and  shades. 

See  there  the  oh' ve  grove  of  Academe, 

Plato's  retirement,  where  the  Attic  bird 

Trills  her  thick-warbled  notes  the  summer  long ; 

There  flowery  hill  Hymettus,  with  the  sound 

Of  bees'  industrious  murmur,  oft  invites 

To  studious  musing ;  there  Ilissus  rolls 

His  whispering  stream:  within  the  walls,  then 

•  view 

The  schools  of  ancient  sages;  his,  who  bred 
Great  Alexander  to  subdue  the  world, 
Lyceum  there,  and  painted  Stoa  next : 
There  shall  thou  hear  and  learn  the  secret  power 
Of  harmony,  in  tones  and  numbers  hit 
By  voice  or  hand ;  and  various  measured  verse, 
./Eolian  charms  and  Dorian  lyric  odes, 
And  his  who  gave  them  breath,  but  higher  sung, 
Blind  Melesigenes,  thence  Homer  called, 
Whose  poem  Phoebus  challenged  for  this  own: 
Thence  what  the  lofty  grave  tragedians  taught 
In  Chorus  or  Iambic,  teachers  best 
Of  moral  prudence,  with  delight  received 
In  brief  sententious  precepts,  while  they  treat 
Of  fate,  and  chance,  and  change  in  human  life, 
High  actions  and  high  passions  best  describing: 
Thence  to  the  famous  orators  repair, 
Those  ancient,  whose  resistless  eloquence 
Wielded  at  will  that  fierce  democratic, 
Shook  the  arsenal,  and  fulmined  over  Greece 
To  Macedon  and  Artaxerxes'  throne : 
To  sage  philosophy  next  lend  thine  ear, 
From  Heaven  descended  to  the  low-roofed  house 
Of  Socrates ;  see  there  his  tenement, 
Whom  well  inspired  the  oracle  pronounced 
Wisest  of  men ;  from  whose  mouth  issued  forth 
Mellifluous  streams,  that  watered  all  the  schools 
Of  Academics  old  and  new,  with  those 
Surnamed  Peripatetics,  and  the  sect 
Epicurean,  and  the  Stoic  severe; 
These  here  revolve,  or,  as  thou  likest,  at  home, 
Till  time  mature  thee  to  a  kingdom's  weight ; 
These  rules  will  render  thee  a  king  complete 
Within  thyself,  much  more  with  empire  joined." 

To  whom  our  Saviour  sagely  thus  replied : 
"  Think  not  but  that  I  know  these  things,  or  think 
I  know  them  not;  not  therefore  am  I  short 
Of  knowing  what  I  ought:  he  who  receives 
Light  from  above,  from  the  fountain  of  light, 
No  other  doctrine  needs,  though  granted  true : 
But  these  are  false,  or  little  else  but  dreams, 
Conjectures,  fancies,  built  on  nothing  firm. 
The  first  and  wisest  of  them  all  professed 
To  know  this  only,  that  he  nothing  knew; 


Ill 


MILTON'S  WORKS 


BOOK  iv. 


The  next  to  fabling  fell,  and  smooth  conceits; 

A  third  sort^doubted  all  things,  though  plain  sense ; 

Others  in  virtue  placed  felicity, 

But  virtue  joined  with  riches  and  long  life ; 

In  corporal  pleasure  he  and  careless  ease; 

The  Stoic  last  in  philosophic  pride, 

By  him  called  virtue ;  and  his  virtuous  man, 

Wise,  perfect  in  himself,  and  all  possessing 

Equal  to  God,  oft  shams  not  to  prefer, 

As  fearing  God  nor  man,  contemning  all 

Wealth,  pleasure,  pain  or  torment,  death  and  life, 

Which,  when  he  lists,  he  leaves,  or  boasts  he  can, 

For  all  his  tedious  talk  is  but  vain  boast, 

Or  subtle  shifts  conviction  to  evade. 

Alas !  what  can  they  teach,  and  not  mislead,    . 

Ignorant  of  themselves,  of  God  much  more, 

And  how  the  world  began,  and  how  man  fell 

Degraded  by  himself,  on  grace  depending  1 

Much  of  the  soul  they  talk,  but  all  awry, 

And  in  themselves  seek  virtue,  and  to  themselves 

All  glory  arrogate,  to  God  give  nqne ; 

Rather  accuse  him  under  usual  names, 

Fortune  and  fate,  as  one  regardless  quite 

Of  mortal  things.     Who  therefore  seeks  in  these 

True  wisdom  finds  her  not ;  or,  by  delusion, 

Far  worse,  her  false  resemblance  only  meets,    ; 

An  empty  cloud.     However,  many  books, 

Wise  men  have  said,  are  wearisome ;  who  reads 

Incessantly,  and  to  his  reading  brings  not 

A  spirit  and  judgment  equal  or  superior 

(And  what  he  brings,  what  needs  he  elsewhere 

seek'?) 

Uncertain  and  unsettled  still  remains, 
Deep  versed  in  books,  and  shallow  in  himself, 
Crude  or  intoxicate,  collecting  toys 
And  trifles  for  choice  matters,  worth  a  sponge : 
As  children  gathering  pebbles  on  the  shore. 
Or,  if  I  would  delight  my  private  hours 
With  music  or  with  poem,  where,  so  soon 
As  in  our  native  language,  can  I  find 
That  solace'?  all  our  law  and  story  strewed 
With  hymns,  our  psalms  with  artful  terms  in- 
scribed, 

Our  Hebrew  songs  and  harps,  in  Babylon 
That  pleased  so  well  our  victors'  ear,  declare 
That  rather  Greece  from  us  these  arts  derived ; 
111  imitated,  while  they  loudest  sing 
The  vices  of  their  deities,  and  their  own, 
In  fable,  hymn,  or  song,  so  personating 
Their  gods  ridiculous,  and  themselves  past  shame. 
Remove  their  swelling  epithets,  thick  laid 
As  varnish  on  a  harlot's  cheek,  the  rest, 
Thin  sown  with  aught  of  profit  or  delight, 
Will  far  be  found  unworthy  to  compare 
With  Sion's  songs,  to  all  true  tastes  excelling, 
Where  God  is  praised-  aright,  and  godlike  men, 
The  Holiest  of  Holies,  and  his  saints, 
(Such  are  from  God  inspired,  not  such  from  thee,] 
Unless  where  moral  virtue  is  expressed 


By  light  of  nature,  not  in  all  quite  lost. 
Their  orators  thou  then  extoll'st,  as  those 
The  top  of  eloquence ;  statists  indeed, 
And  lovers  of  their  country,  as  may  seem 
But  herein  to  our  prophets  far  beneath, 
As  men  divinely  taught,  and  better  teaching 
The  solid  rules  of  civil  government, 
fn  their  majestic  unaffected  style, 
Than  all  the  oratory  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
tn  them  is  plainest  taught,  and  easiest  learnt, 
What  makes  a  nation  happy,  and  keeps  it  so, 
What  ruins  kingdoms,  and  lays  cities  flat: 
These  only  with  our  law  best  form  a  king." 

So  spake  the  Son  of  God ;  but  Satan,  now 
duite  at  a  loss,  for  all  his  darts  were  spent, 
Thus  to  our  Saviour  with  stern  brow  replied. 
'  Since  neither  wealth  nor  honour,  arms  nor  arts, 
Kingdom  nor  empire  pleases  thee,  nor  aught 
By  me  proposed  in  life  contemplative 
Or  active,  tended  on  by  glory  or  fame, 
What  dost  thou  in  this  world  1  the  wildernegs 
For  thee  is  fittest  place ;  I  found  thee  there, 
And  thither  will  return  thee ;  yet  remember 
What  I  foretell  thee,  soon  thou  shalt  have  cause 
To  wish  thou  never  hadst  rejected  thus 
Nicely  or  cautiously  my  offered  aid, 
Which  would  have  set  thee  in  short  time  with  ease 
On  David's  throne,  or  throne  of  all  the  world, 
Now  at  full  age,  fulness  of  time,  thy  season, 
When  prophecies  of  thee  are  best  fulfilled. 
Now  contrary,  if  I  read  aught  in  Heaven, 
Or  Heaven  write  aught  of  fate,  by  what  the  stars 
Voluminous,  or  single  characters, 
In  their  conjunction  met,  give  me  to  spell, 
Sorrows,  and  labours,  opposition,  hate 
Attend  thee,  scorns,  reproaches,  injuries, 
Violence  and  stripes,  and  lastly  cruel  death ; 
A  kingdom  they  portend  thee,  but  what  kingdom. 
Real  or  allegoric,  I  discern  not ; 
Nor  when ;  eternal  sure,  as  without  end, 
Without  beginning ;  for  no  date  prefixed 
Directs  me  in  the  starry  rubric  set." 

So  saying,  he  took,  (for  still  he  knew  his  power 
Not  yet  expired,)  and  to  the  wilderness 
Brought  back  the  Son  of  God,  and  left  him  there, 
Feigning  to  disappear.     Darkness  now  rose, 
As  daylight  sunk,  and  brought  in  lowering  night, 
Her  shadowy  offspring,  unsubstantial  both, 
Privation  mere  of  light  and  absent  day, 
Our  Saviour  meek  and  with  untroubled  mind 
After  his  airy  jaunt,  though  hurried  sore, 
Hungry  and  cold,  betook  him  to  his  rest, 
Wherever,  under  some  concourse  of  shades, 
Whose  branching  arms  thick  intertwined  might 

shield 

From  dews  and  damps  of  night  his  sheltered  head ; 
But,  sheltered,  slept  in  vain ;  for  at  his  head 
The  Tempter  watched,  and  soon  with  ugly  dreams 
Disturbed  his  sleep.    And  either  tropic  now 


BOOK  iv. 


PARADISE  REGAINED. 


115 


'Gan  thunder,  and  both  ends  of  Heaven ;   the 

clouds, 

From  many  a  horrid  rift,  abortive  poured 
Fierce  rain  with  lightning  mixed,  water  with  fire 
In  ruin  reconciled  :  nor  slept  the  winds 
Within  their  stony  caves,  but  rushed  abroad 
From  the  four  hinges  of  the  world,  and  fell 
( >n  the  vexed  wilderness,  whose  tallest  pines, 
Though  rooted  deep  as  high,  and  sturdiest  oaks, 
Bowed  their  still' necks,  loadcnwith  stormy  blasts, 
Or  torn  up  sheer.     Ill  wast  thou  shrouded  then, 
O  patient  Son  of  God,  yet  only  stood'st 
Unshaken !  Nor  yet  stayed  the  terror  there ; 
Infernal  ghosts,  and  hellish  furies  round 
Environed  thee,  some  howled,  some  yelled,  some 

shrieked, 

Some  bent  at  thee  their  fiery  darts,  while  thou 
Sat'st  unappalled  in  calm  and  sinless  peace ! 
Thus  passed  the  night  so  foul,  till  morning  fair 
Came  forth,  with  pilgrim  steps,  in  amice  gray, 
Who  with  her  radiant  finger  stilled  the  roar 
Of  thunder,  chased  the  clouds,  and  laid  the  winds, 
And  grisly  spectres,  which  the  fiend  had  raised 
To  tempt  the  Son  of  God  with  terrors  dire. 
And  now  the  sun  with  more  effectual  beams 
Had  cheered  the  face  of  earth,  and  dried  the  wet 
From  drooping  plant  or  dropping  tree;  the  birds, 
Who  all  things  now  behold  more  fresh  and  green, 
After  a  night  of  storm  so  ruinous, 
Cleared  up  their  choicest  notes  in  bush  and  spray, 
To  gratulate  the  sweet  return  of  morn. 
Nor  yet,  amidst  this  joy  and  brightest  morn, 
Was  absent,  after  all  his  mischief  done, 
The  prince  of  darkness;  glad  would  also  seem 
Of  this  fair  change,  and  to  our  Saviour  came; 
Yet  with  no  new  device,  (they  all  were  spent,) 
Rather  by  this  his  last  affront  resolved, 
Desperate  of  better  course,  to  vent  his  rage 
And  mad  despite  to  be  so  oft  repelled. 
Him  walking  on  a  sunny  hill  he  found, 
Backed  on  the  north  and  west  by  a  thick  wood ; 
Out  of  the  wood  he  starts  in  wonted  shape, 
And  in  a  careless  mood  thus  to  him  said. 

"  Fair  morning  yet  betides  thee,  Son  of  God, 
After  a  dismal  night:  I  heard  the  wrack, 
As  earth  and  sky  would  mingle ;  but  myself 
Was  distant;  and  these  flaws,  though  mortals  fear 

them 

As  dangerous  to  the  pillared  frame  of  Heaven, 
Or  to  the  earth's  dark  basis  underneath, 
Are  to  the  main  as  inconsiderable 
And  harmless,  if  not  wholesome  as  a  sneeze 
To  man's  less  universe,  and  soon  are  gone; 
Yet,  as  being  ofttimes  noxious  where  they  light 
On  man,  beast,  plant,  wasteful  and  turbulent, 
Like  turbulcncies  in  the  affairs  of  men, 
Over  whose  heads  they  roar,  and  seem  to  point, 
They  oft  foresignify  and  threaten  ill : 
This  tempest  at  this  desert  most  was  bent ; 


Of  men  at  thee,  for  only  thou  here  dwell  st. 
Did  I  not  tell  thee,  if  thou  did'st  reject 
The  perfect  season  offered  with  my  aid 
To  win  thy  destined  seat,  but  wilt  prolong 
All  to  the  push  of  fate,  pursue  thy  way 
Of  gaining  David's  throne,  no  man  knows  when, 
For  both  the  when  and  how  is  no  where  toldl 
Thou  shall  be  what  thou  art  ordained,  no  doubt ; 
For  angels  have  proclaimed  it,  but  concealing 
The  time  and  means.    Each  act  is  rightliest  done, 
Not  when  it  must,  but  when  it  may  be  best: 
If  thou  observe  not  this,  be  sure  to  find, 
What  I  foretold  thee,  many  a  hard  assay 
Of  dangers,  and  adversities,  and  pains, 
Ere  thou  of  Israel's  sceptre  get  fast  hold; 
Whereof  this  ominous  night,   that  closed  thee 

round, 

So  many  terrors,  voices,  prodigies, 
May  warn  thee  as  a  sure  foregoing  sign." 

So  talked  he,  while  the  Son  of  God  went  on 
And  stayed  not,  but  in  brief  him  answered  thus. 

"  Me  worse  than  wet  thou  find'st  not;  other 

harm 

Those  terrors  which  thou  speak'st  of,  did  me  none; 
I  never  feared  they  could,  though  noising  loud 
And  tlireatening  high ;  what  they  can  do,  as  signs 
Betokening,  or  ill  boding,  I  contemn 
As  false  portents,  not  sent  from  God,  but  thee; 
Who,  knowing  I  shall  reign  past  thy  preventing, 
Obtrud'st  thy  offered  aid,  that  I,  accepting, 
At  least  might  seem  to  hold  all  power  of  thee, 
Ambitious  spirit!    and  would'st  be  thought  my 

God; 

And  storm'st  refused,  thinking  to  terrify 
Me  to  thy  will!  desist,  (thou  art  discerned, 
And  toil'st  in  vain,)  nor  me  in  vain  molest." 

To  whom  the  fiend,  now  swollen  with  rage,  re- 
plied, 

"  Then  hear,  O  Son  of  David,  virgin-born, 
For  Son  of  God  to  me  is  yet  in  doubt; 
Of  the  Messiah  I  had  heard  foretold 
By  all  the  prophets ;  of  thy  birth  at  length, 
Announced  by  Gabriel,  with  the  first  I  knew, 
And  of  the  angelic  song  in  Bethlehem  field, 
On  thy  birthnight,  that  sung  thee  Saviour  born. 
From  that  time  seldom  have  I  ceased  to  eye 
Thy  infancy,  thy  childhood,  and  thy  youth, 
Thy  manhood  last,  though  yet  in  private  bred , 
Till  at  the  ford  of  Jordan,  whither  all 
Flock  to  the  Baptist,  I  among  the  rest, 
(Though  not  to  be    baptized,)  by  voice    from 

Heaven. 

Heard  thee  pronounced  the  Son  of  God  beloved. 
Thenceforth  I  thought  thee  worth  my  nearer  view 
And  narrower  scrutiny,  that  I  might  learn 
In  what  degree  or  meaning  thou  art  called 
The  Son  of  God,  which  bears  no  single  sense. 
The  Son  of  God  I  also  am,  or  was ; 
And  if  I  was,  I  am;  relation  stands; 


116 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  iv. 


All  men  are  sons  of  God;  yet  thee  I  thought 

In  some  respect  far  higher  so  declared : 

Therefore  1  watched  thy  footsteps  from  that  hour, 

And  followed  thee  still  on  to  this  waste  wild; 

Where,  by  all  best  conjectures,  I  collect 

Thou  art  to  be  my  fatal  enemy : 

Good  reason  then,  if  I  beforehand  seek 

To  understand  my  adversary,  who 

And  what  he  is;  his  wisdom,  power,  intent; 

By  parle  or  composition,  truce  or  league, 

To  win  him,  or  win  from  him  what  I  can : 

An  opportunity  I  here  have  had 

To  try  thee,  sift  thee,  and  confess  have  found  thee 

Proof  against  all  temptation,  as  a  rock 

Of  adamant,  and  as  a  centre  firm; 

To  the  utmost  of  mere  man  both  wi&  and  good, 

Not  more ;  for  honours,  riches,  kingdoms,  glory, 

Have  been  before  contemned,  and  may  again : 

Therefore  to  know  what  more  thou  art  than  man, 

Worth  naming  Son  of  God  by  voice  from  Heaven, 

Another  method  I  must  now  begin." 

So  saying  he  caught  him  up,  and,  without  wing 
Of  hippogrif,  bore  through  the  air  sublime, 
Over  the  wilderness  and  o'er  the  plain, 
Till  underneath  them  fair  Jerusalem, , 
The  holy  city,  lifted  high  her  towers, 
And  higher  yet  the  glorious  temple  reared 
Her  pile,  far  off  appearing  like  a  mount 
Of  alabaster,  topt  with  golden  spires : 
There  on  the  highest  pinnacle  he  set 
The  Son  of  God ;  and  added  thus  in  scorn. 

"  There  stand,  if  thou  wilt  stand;  to  stand  up- 
right 

Will  ask  thee  skill;  I  to  thy  Father's  house 
Have  brought  thee,  and  highest  placed:  highest  is 

best: 

Now  show  thy  progeny ;  if  not  to  stand, 
Cast  thyself  down  ;  safely,  if  Son  of  God : 
For  it  is  written.  '  He  will  give  command 
Concerning  thee  to  his  angels,  in  their  hands 
They  shall  uplift  thee,  lest  at  any  time 
Thou  chance  to  dash  thy  foot  against  a  stone.'  " 

To  whom  thus  Jesus.   "  Alscvit  is  written, 
'  Tempt  not  the  Lord  thy  God  :* "  he  said,  and 

stood: 

But  Satan,  smitten  with  amazement,  fell. 
As  when  earth's  son  Antaeus  (to  compare 
Small  things  with  greatest)  in  Irassa  strove 
With  Jove's  Alcides,  and,  oft  foiled,  still  rose, 
Receiving  from  his  mother  earth  new  strength, 
Fresh  from  his  fall,  and  fiercer  grapple  joined, 
Throttled  at  length  in  the  air,  expired  and  fell ; 
So,  after  many  a  foil,  the  Tempter  proud, 
Renewing  fresh  assaults  amidst  his  pride, 
Fell  whence  he  stood  to  see  his  victor  fall : 
And  as  that  Theban  monster,  that  proposed 
Her  riddle,  and  him,  who  solved  it  not  devoured, 
That  once  found  out  and  solved,  for  grief  and  spite 


Cast  herself  headlong  from  the  Ismenian  steep; 

So,  struck  with  dread  and  anguish,  fell  the  fiend, 

And  to  his  crew,  that  sat  consulting,  brought 

(Joyless  triumphals  of  his  hoped  success) 

Ruin,  and  desperation,  and  dismay, 

Who  durst  so  proudly  tempt  the  Son  of  God. 

So  Satan  fell ;  and  straight  a  fiery  globe 

Of  angels  on  full  sail  of  wing  flew  nigh, 

Who  on  their  plumy  vans  received  him  soft 

From  his  uneasy  station,  and  upbore, 

As  on  a  floating  couch,  through  the  blithe  air; 

Then,  in  a  flowery  valley,  set  him  down 

On  a  green  bank,  and  set  before  him  spread 

A  table  of  celestial  food,  divine 

Ambrosial  fruits,  fetched  from  the  tree  of  life, 

And,  from  the  fount  of  life,  ambrosial  drink, 

That  soon  refreshed  him  wearied,  and  repaired 

What  hunger,  if  aught  hunger  had  impaired, 

Or  thirst ;  and,  as  he  fed,  angelic  choirs 

Sung  heavenly  anthems  of  his  victory 

Over  temptation  and  the  tempter  proud. 

"  True  image  of  the  Father ;  whether  throned 
In  the  bosom  of  bliss,  and  light  of  light 
Conceiving,  or,  remote  from  Heaven,  inshrined 
In  fleshly  tabernacle,  and  human  form, 
Wandering  the  wilderness ;  whatever  place, 
Habit,  or  state,  or  motion,  still  expressing 
The  Son  of  God,  with  godlike  force  endued 
Against  thy  attempter  of  thy  Father's  throne, 
And  thief  of  Paradise !  him  long  of  old 
Thou  did'st  debel,  and  down  from  Heaven  cast 
With  all  his  army ;  now  thou  hast  avenged 
Supplanted  Adam,  and,  by  vanquishing 
Temptation,  hast  regained  lost  Paradise, 
And  frustrated  the  conquest  fraudulent. 
He  never  more  henceforth  will  dare  set  foot 
In  Paradise  to  tempt ;  his  snares  are  broke  : 
For,  though  that  seat  of  earthly  bliss  be  failed, 
A  fairer  Paradise  is  founded  now 
For  Adam  and  his  chosen  sons,  whom  thou, 
A  Saviour,  art  come  down  to  reinstal, 
Where  they  shall  dwell  secure,  when  time  shall  be 
Of  tempter  and  temptation  without  fear. 
But  thou,  infernal  serpent !  shalt  not  long 
Rule  in  the  clouds;  like  an  autumnal  star, 
Or  lightning,  thou  shalt  fall  from  Heaven,  trod 

down 

Under  his  feet ;  for  proof,  ere  this  thou  feel'st 
Thy  wound,  (yet  not  thy  last  and  deadliest  wound,) 
By  this  repulse  received,  and  hold'st  in  hell 
No  triumph ;  in  all  her  gates  Abaddon  rues 
Thy  bold  attempt.     Hereafter  learn  with  awe 
To  dread  the  Son  of  God:  he,  all  unarmed, 
Shall  chase  thee  with  the  terror  of  his  voice 
From  thy  demoniac  holds,  possession  foul, 
Thee  and  thy  legions ;  yelling  they  shall  fly 
And  beg  to  hide  them  in  a  herd  of  swine, 
Lest  he  command  them  down  into  the  deep, 


BOOK  iv. 


PARADISE  REGAINED. 


117 


Bound,  and  to  torment  sent  before  their  time. — 
Hail,  Son  of  the  Most  High,  heir  of  both  worlds, 
•dueller  of  Satan !  on  thy  glorious  work, 
Now  enter,  and  begin  to  save  mankind." 


Thus  they  the  Son  of  God,  our  Saviour  meek, 
Sung  victor,  and  from  heavenly  feast  refreshed, 
Brought  on  his  way  with  joy ;  he  unobserved, 
Home  to  his  mother's  house  private  returned. 


Samson 


DRAMATIC  POEM. 


Tga-yocftai  /uifMtrt;  <wgat|«a>f  fTrxJ'sLtsts,  x.  <r.  A. 

Aristot.  Poet.  Cap.  6.' 

Tragcedia  est  imitatio  actionis  serioe,  &c.  per  misericordiam  et  raetum  perficiens  talium  affectuum  lustrationem. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

Samson,  made  captive,  blind,  and  now  in  the  prison  at  Ga- 
za, there  to  labour  as  in  a  common  workhouse,  on  a  festival 
day,  in  the  general  cessations  from  labour,  comes  forth  into  the 
open  air,  to  a  place  nigh,  somewhat  retired,  there  to  sit  awhile 
and  bemoan  his  condition.  Where  he  happens  at  length  to 
be  visited  by  certain  friends  and  equals  of  his  tribe,  which 
make  the  Chorus,  who  seek  to  comfort  him  what  they  can; 
then  by  his  old  father  Manoah,  who  endeavours  the  like,  and 
withal  tells  him  his  purpose  to  procure  his  liberty  by  ransom ; 
lastly,  that  this  feast  was  proclaimed  by  the  Philistines  as  a  day 
of  thanksgiving  for  their  deliverance  from  the  hands  of  Sam- 
ron,  which  yet  more  troubles  him.  Manoah  then  departs  to 
prosecute  his  endeavour  with  the  Philistine  lords  for  Samson's 
redemption;  who  in  the  mean-while  is  visited  by  other  per- 
Bons ;  and  lastly  by  a  public  officer  to  require  his  coming  to 
the  feast  before  the  lords  and  people,  to  play  or  show  his 
strength  in  their  presence  ;  he  at  first  refuses,  dismissing  the 
public  officer  with  absolute  denial  to  come ;  at  length,  per- 
suaded inwardly  that  this  was  from  God,  he  yields  to  go  along 
with  him,  who  came  now  the  second  time  with  great  threat- 
enings  to  fetch  him :  the  Chorus  yet  remaining  on  the  place, 
Manoah  returns  full  of  joyful  hope,  to  procure  ere  long  his  son's 
deliverance :  in  the  midst  of  which  discourse  an  Hebrew 
comes  in  haste,  confusedly  at  first,  and  afterwards  more  dis- 
tinctly, relating  the  catastrophe,  what  Samson  had  done  to  the 
Philistines,  and  by  accident  to  himself;  wherewith  the  tra- 
gedy ends. 


THE  PERSONS. 
Samson. 

Manoah,  the  Father  of  Samaon. 
Dalila,  his  wife. 
Harapha  of  Gath. 
Public  Officer. 
Messenger. 
Chorus  of  Da.nit.es. 

The  Scene  before  the  Prison  in  Gaza. 


SAMSON  AGONISTES. 

SAMSON,  [Attendant  leading  him.] 

A  I^TTLE  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand 
To  these  dark  steps,  a  little  further  on ; 


For  yonder  bank  hath  choice  of  sun  or  shade  : 
There  -I  am  wont  to  sit  when  any  chance 
Relieves  me  from  my  task  of  servile  toil, 
Daily  in  the  common  prison  else  enjoined  me, 
Where  I,  a  prisoner  chained,  scarce  freely  draw 
The  air  imprisoned  also,  close  and  damp, 
Unwholesome  draught :  but  here  I  feel  amends, 
The  breath  of  Heaven  fresh  blowing,  pure  and 

sweet, 

With  dayspring  born ;  here  leave  me  to  respire. 
This  day  a  solemn  feast  the  people  hold 
To  Dagon  their  sea  idol,  and  forbid 
Laborious  works ;  unwillingly  this  rest 
Their  superstition  yields  me;  hence  with  leave 
Retiring  from  the  popular  noise,  I  seek 
This  unfrequented  place  to  find  some  ease, 
Ease  to  the  body  some,  none  to  the  mind 
From  restless  thoughts,  that,  like  a  deadly  swarm 
Of  hornets  armed,  no  sooner  found  alone, 
But  rush  upon  me  thronging,  and  present 
Times  past,  what  once  I  was,  and  what  am  now 
O  wherefore  was  my  birth  from  Heaven  foretold 
Twice  by  an  angel,  who  at  last  in  sight 
Of  both  my  parents  all  inflames  ascended 
From  off  the  altar,  where  an  offering  burned, 
As  in  a  fiery  column  charioting 
His  gbdlike  presence,  and  from  some  great  act 
Or  benefit  revealed  to  Abraham's  race  1 
Why  was  my  breeding  ordered  and  prescribed 
As  of  a  person  separate  to  God, 
Designed  for  great  exploits ;  if  I  must  die 
Betrayed,  captived,  and  both  my  eyes  put  out, 
Made  of  my  enemies  the  scorn  and  gaze, 
To  grind  in  brazen  fetters  under  task 
With  this  heaven-gifted  strength?    O  glorious 

strength, 

Put  to  the  labour  of  a  beast,  deb'ased 
Lower  than  bondslave !  Promise  was  that  1 
Should  Israel  from  Philistian  yoke  deliver ; 
Ask  for  this  great  deliverer  now,  and  find  him 
Eyeless  in  Gaza  at  the  mill  with  slaves, 
Himself  in  bonds  under  Philistian  yoke: 


118 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


Yet  stay,  let  me  not  rashly  call  in  doubt 

Divine  prediction ;  what  if  all  foretold 

Had  been  fulfilled  but  through  mine  own  default, 

Whom  have  I  to  complain  of  but  myself, 

Who  this  high  gift  of  strength  committed  to  me, 

In  what  part  lodged,  how  easily  bereft  me, 

Under  the  seal  of  silence  could  not  keep, 

But  weakly  to  a  woman  must  reveal  it, 

O'ercome  with  importunity  and  tears  1 

O  impotence  of  mind,  in  body  strong ! 

But  what  is  strength  without  a  double  share 

Of  wisdom  1  vast,  unwieldy,  burdensome, 

Proudly  secure,  yet  liable  to  fall 

By  weakest  subtleties;  not  made  to  rule, 

But  to  subserve  where  wisdom  bears  command ! 

God,  when  he  gave  me  strength,  to  show  withal 

How  slight  the  gift  was,  hung  it  in  my  hair. 

But  peace,  I  must  not  quarrel  with  the  will 

Of  highest  dispensation,  which  herein 

Haply  had  ends  above  my  reach  to  know; 

Suffices  that  to  me  strength  is  my  bane, 

And  proves  the  source  of  all  my  miseries; 

So  many,  and  so  huge,  that  each  apart 

Would  ask  a  life  to  wail ;  but  chief  of  all, 

O  loss  of  sight,  of  thee  I  most  complain  1 

Blind  among  enemies,  O  worse  than  chains, 

Dungeon,  or  beggary,  or  decrepit  age! 

Light,  the  prime  work  of  God,  to  me  is  extinct, 

And  all  her  various  objects  of  delight 

Annulled,  which  might  in  part  my  grief  have 

eased, 

Inferior  to  the  vilest  now  become 
Of  man  or  worm;  the  vilest  here  excel  me; 
They  creep,  yet  see ;  I,  dark  in  light,  exposed 
To  daily  fraud,  contempt,  abuse,  and  wrong, 
Within  doors,  or  without,  still  as  a  fool, 
In  power  of  others,  never  in  my  own; 
Scarce  half  I  seem  to  live,  dead  more  than  half. 
O  dark,  dark,  dark,  amid  the  blaze  of  noon, 
Irrecoverably  dark,  total  eclipse 
Without  all  hope  of  day ! 
O  first  created  beam,  and  thou  great  Word, 
"  Let  there  be  light,  and  light  was  over  all ;" 
Why  am  I  thus  bereaved  thy  prime  decree  7 
The  sun  to  me  is  dark, 
And  silent  as  the  moon, 
When  she  deserts  the  night, 
Hid  in  her  vacant  interlunar  cave. 
Since  light  so  necessary  is  to  life, 
And  almost  life  itself,  if  it  be  true 
That  light  is  in  the  soul, 
She  all  in  every  part;  why  was  the  sight 
To  such  a  tender  ball  as  the  eye  confined, 
So  obvious  and  so  easy  to  be  quenched'? 
And  not,  as  feeling,  through  all  parts  diffused, 
That  she  might  look  at  will  through  every  pore  7 
Then  had  I  not  been  thus  exiled  from  light 
As  in  the  land  of  darkness,  yet  in  light, 
To  live  a  life  half  dead,  a  living  death, 


And  buried;  but,  O  yet  more  miserable ! 

Myself  my  sepulchre,  a  moving  grave ; 

Buried,  yet  not  exempt,   • 

By  privilege  of  death  and  burial, 

From  worst  of  other  evils,  pains  and  wrongs; 

But  made  hereby  obnoxious  more 

To  all  the  miseries  of  life, 

Life  in  captivity 

Among  inhuman  foes. 

But  who  are  these  7  for  with  joint  pace  I  hear 

The  tread  of  many  feet  steering  this  way ; 

Perhaps  my  enemies,  who  come  to  stare 

At  my  affliction,  and  perhaps  to  insult, 

Their  daily  practice  to  afflict  me  more. 

[Enter]  Chorus. 
Chor.  This,  this  is  he :  softly  awhile, 

Let  us  not  break  in  upon  him : 

O  change  beyond  report,  thought,  or  belief! 

See  how  he  lies  at  random,  carelessly  diffused, 

With  languished  head  unpropt, 

As  one  past  hope,  abandoned, 

And  by  himself  given  over; 

In  slavish  habit,  ill-fitted  weeds 

O'erworn  and' soiled; 

Or  do  my  eyes  misrepresent  1    Can  this  be  he, 

That  heroic,  that  renowned, 

Irresistible  Samson?  whom  unarmed 

No  strength  of  man  or  fiercest  wild  beast  could 
withstand ; 

Who  tore  the  lion,  as  the  lion  tears  the  kid ; 

Ran  on  embattled  armies  clad  in  iron, 

And,  weaponless  himself, 

Made  arms  ridiculous,  useless  the  forgery 

Of  brazen  shield  and  spear,  the  hammered  cuirass, 

Chalybean  tempered  steel,  and  frock  of  mail 

Adamantean  proof  7 

But  safest  he  who  stood  aloof, 

When  insupportably  his  foot  advanced, 

In  scorn  of  their  proud  arms  and  warlike  tools, 

Spurned  them  to  death  by  troops.     The  bold  As- 
calonite 

Fled  from  his  lion  ramp;  old  warriors  turned 

Their  plated  backs  under  his  heel ; 

Or,  groveling,  soiled  their  crested  helmets  in  the 
dust. 

Then  with  what  trivial  weapon  come  to  hand, 

The  jaw  of  a  dead  ass,  his  sword  of  bone, 

A  thousand  foreskins  fell,  the  flower  of  Palestine, 

In  Rameth-lechi  famous  to  this  day, 

Then  by  main  force  pulled  up,  and  on  his  shoul- 
ders bore 

The  gates  of  Azza,  post,  and  massy  bar, 

Up  to  the  hill  by  Hebron,  seat  of  giants  old. 

No  journey  of  a  Sabbath  day,  and  loaded  so; 

Like  whom  the  Gentiles  feign  to  bear  up  Heaven. 

Which  shall  I  first  bewail, 

Thy  bondage,  or  lost  sight, 

Prison  within  prison 


SAMSON  AGONISTES. 


119 


Inseparably  dark 7 

Thou  art  become  (O  worst  imprisonment!) 

The  dungeon  of  thyself ;  thy  soul, 

(Which  men  enjoying  sight  oft  without  cause 

complain,) 

Imprisoned  now  indeed, 
In  real  darkness  of  the  body  dwells, 
Shut  up  from  outward  light 
To  incorporate  with  gloomy  night ; 
For  inward  light,  alas! 
Puts  forth  no  visual  beam. 

0  mirror  of  our  fickle  state, 
Since  man  on  earth  unparalleled ! 
The  rarer  thy  example  stands, 

By  how  much  from  the  top  of  wondrous  glory, 

Strongest  of  mortal  men, 

To  lowest  pitch  of  abject  fortune  thou  art  fallen. 

For  him  I  reckon  not  in  high  estate 

Whom  long  descent  of  birth, 

Or  the  sphere  of  fortune,  raises; 

But  thee  whose  strength,  while  virtue  was  her 
mate, 

Might  have  subdued  the  earth, 

Universally  crowned  with  highest  praises. 

Sams.  I  hear  the  sound  of  words;  their  sense 
the  air 

Dissolves  unjointed  ere  it  reach  my  ear. 

Char.  He  speaks,  let  us  draw  nigh.    Matchless 
in  might, 

The  glory  late  of  Israel,  now  the  grief; 

We  come  thy  friends  and  neighbours  not  un- 
known, 

From  Eshtaol  and  Zora's  fruitful  vale, 

To  visit  or  bewail  thee;  or,  if  better, 

Counsel  or  consolation  we  may  bring, 

Salve  to  thy  sores:  apt  words  have  power  to  swage 

The  tumours  of  a  troubled  mind. 

And  are  as  balm  to  festered  wounds. 

Sams.  Your  coming,  friends,  revives  me,  for  I 
learn 

Now  of  my  own  experience,  not  by  talk, 

How  counterfeit  a  coin  they  are  who  friends 

Bear  in  their  superscription,  (of  the  most 

1  would  be  Understood:)  in  prosperous  days 
They  swarm,  but  in  adverse  withdraw  their  head. 
Not  to  lie  found,  though  sought.  Ye  see,  O  friends', 
How  many  evils  have  enclosed  me  round : 

Yet  that  which  was  the  worst  now  least  afflicts  me, 
Blindness;  for  had  I  sight,  confused  with  shame, 
How  could  I  once  look  up,  or  heave  the  head, 
Who,  like  a  foolish  pilot,  have  shipwrecked 
My  vessel  trusted  to  me  from  above, 
Gloriously  rigged ;  and  for  a  word,  a  tear, 
Fool !  have  divulged  the  secret  gift  of  God 
To  a  deceitful  woman  1  tell  me,  friends, 
Am  I  not  sung  and  proverbed  for  a  fool 
In  every  street  7  do  they  not  say,  how  well 
Are  come  upon  him  his  deserts  7  yet  why  7 
Immeasurable  strength  they  might  behold 


In  me,  of  wisdom  nothing  more  than  mean ; 
This  with  the  other  should,  at  least,  have  paired, 
These  two,  proportioned  ill,  drove  me  transverse. 

Chor.  Tax  not  divine  disposal ;  wisest  men 
Have  erred,  and  by  bad  women  been  deceived; 
And  shall  again,  pretend  they  ne'er  so  wise. 
Deject  not  then  so  overmuch  thyself, 
Who  hast  of  sorrow  thy  full  load  besides ; 
Yet,  truth  to  say,  I  oft  have  heard  men  wonder 
Why  thou  should'st  wed  Philistian  woman  rather 
Than  of  thine  own  tribe  fairer,  or  as  fair, 
At  least  of  thy  own  nation,  and  as  noble. 

Sams.  The  first  I  saw  at  Timna,  and  she  pleased 
Me,  pot  my  parents,  that  I  sought  to  wed 
The  daughter  of  an  infidel:  they  knew  not 
That  what  I  mentioned  was  of  God :  I  knew 
From  intimate  impulse,  and  therefore  urged 
The  marriage  on ;  that  by  occasion  hence 
I  might  begin  Israel's  deliverance, 
The  work  to  which  I  was  divinely  called. 
She  proving  false,  the  next  I  took  to  wife 
(O  that  I  never  had!  fond  wish  too  late) 
Was  in  the  vale  of  Sorec,  Dalila, 
That  specious  monster,  my  accomplished  snare. 
I  thought  it  lawful  from  my  former  act, 
And  the  same  end ;  still  watching  to  oppress 
Israel's  oppressors :  of  what  now  I  suffer 
She  was  not  the  prime  cause,  but  I  myself, 
Who,  vanquished  with  a  peal  of  words,  (O  weak- 
ness!) 
Gave  up  my  fort  of  silence  to  a  woman. 

Choi-.  In  seeking  just  occasion  to  provoke 
The  Philistine,  thy  country's  enemy, 
Thou  never  wast  remiss,  I  bear  thee  witness: 
Yet  Israel  still  serves  with  all  his  sons. 

Sams.  That  fault  I  take  not  on  me,  but  transfer 
On  Israel's  governors,  and  heads  of  tribes, 
Who,  seeing  those  great  acts  wliich  God  had  done 
Singly  by  me  against  their  conquerors, 
Acknowledged  not,  or  not  at  all  considered, 
Deliverance  offered :  I  on  the  other  side 
Used  no  ambition  to  commend  my  deeds ; 
The  deeds  themselves,  though  mute,  spoke  loud 

the  doer : 

But  they  persisted  deaf,  and  would  not  seem 
To  count  them  things  worth  notice,  till  at  length 
Their  lords  the  Philistines  with  gathered  powers 
Entered  Judea  seeking  me,  who  then 
Safe  to  the  rock  of  Etham  was  retired ; 
Not  flying,  but  forecasting  in  what  place 
To  set  upon  them,  what  advantaged  best : 
Meanwhile  the  men  of  Judah,  to  prevent 
The  harass  of  their  land,  beset  me  round: 
I  willingly  on  some  conditions  came 
Into  their  hands,  and  they  as  gladly  yield  me 
To  the  uncircumcised  a  welcome  prey, 
Bound  with   two  cords;   but  cords  to  me  were 

threads 
Touched  with  the  flame :  on  their  whole  host  I  flow 


120 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


Unarmed,  and  with  a  trivial  weapon  felled 
Their  choicest  youth ;  they  only  lived  who  fled. 
Had  Judah  that  day  joined,  or  one  whole  tribe, 
They  had  by  this  possessed  the  towers  of  Gath, 
And  lorded  over  them  whom  they  now  serve : 
But  what  more  oft,  in  nations  grown  corrupt, 
And  by  their  vices  brought  to  servitude, 
Than  to  love  bondage  more  than  liberty, 
Bondage  with  ease  than  strenuous  liberty : 
And  to  despise,  or  envy,  or  suspect 
WTiom  God  hath  of  his  special  favour  raised 
As  their  deliverer ;  if  he  aught  begin, 
How  frequent  to  desert  him,  and  at  last 
To  heap  ingratitude  on  worthiest  deeds  1     . 

Chor.  Thy  words  to  my  remembrance  bring 
How  Succoth  and  the  fort  of  Penuel 
Their  great  deliverer  contemned, 
The  matchless  Gideon,  in  pursuit 
Of  Madian  and  her  vanquished  kings : 
And  how  ingrateful  Ephraim 
Had  dealt  with  Jephtha,  who  by  argument, 
Not  worse  than  by  his  shield  and  spear, 
Defended  Israel  from  the  Ammonite, 
Had  not  his  prowess  quelled  their  pride  • 
In  that  sore  battle,  when  so  many  died 
Without  reprieve,  adjudged  to  death, 
For  want  of  well  pronouncing  Shibboleth. 
,     Sams.  Of  such  example  add  me  to  the  roll ; 
Me  easily  indeed  mine  may  neglect, 
But  God's  proposed  deliverance  not  so. 

Chor.  Just  are  the  ways  of  God, 
And  justifiable  to  men ; 
Unless  there  be  who  think  not  God  at  all :  • 
If  any  be,  they  walk  obscure ; 
For  of  such  doctrine  never  was  their  school, 
But  the  heart  of  the  fool, 
And  no  man  therein  doctor  but  himself. 

Yet  more  they  be,  who  doubt  his  ways  not  iust, 
As  to  his  own  edicts  found  contradicting, 
Then  give  the  reigns  to  wandering  thought, 
Regardless  of  his  glory's  diminution ; 
TiH  by  their  own  perplexities  involved, 
They  ravel  more,  still  less  resolved, 
But  never  find  self-satisfying  solution. 

As  if  they  would  confine  the  Interminable, 
And  tie  him  to  his  own  prescript, 
Who  made  our  laws  to  bind  us,  not  himself, 
And  hath  full  right  to  exempt 
Whom  so  it  pleases  him  by  choice 
From  national  obstriction,  without  taint 
Of  sin,  or  legal  debt ; 
For  with  his  own  laws  he  can  best  dispense. 

He  would  not  else,  who  never  wanted  means, 
Nor  in  respect  of  the  enemy  just  cause, 
To  set  his  people  free, 
Have  prompted  this  heroic  Nazarite, 
Against  his  vow  of  strictest  purity, 
To  seek  in  marriage  that  fallacious  bride, 
Unclean,  unchaste. 


Down,  reason,  then ;  -at  least,  vain  reasonings, 

down; 

Though  reason  here  aver, 
That  moral  verdict  quits  her  of  unclean : 
Unchaste  was  subsequent,  her  stain  not  his. 

But  see  here  comes  thy  reverend  sire 
With  careful  step,  locks  white  as  down, 
Old  Manoah :  advise 
Forthwith  how  thou  ought'st  to  receive  him. 

Sams.  Ay  me,  another  inward  grief,  awaked 
With  mention  of  that  name,  renews  the  assault. 

[Enter]  Manoah. 

Man.  Brethren  and  men  of  Dan,  for  such  ye 

seem, 

Though  in  this  uncouth  place;  if  old  respect, 
As  I  suppose,  towards  your  once  gloried  friend, 
My  son,  now  captive,  hither  hath  informed 
|  Your  younger  feet,  while  mine  cast  back  with  age 
Came  lagging  after ;  say  if  he  be  here. 

Chor.  As  signal  now  in  low  dejected  state, 
As  erst  in  highest,  behold  him  where  he  lies. 

Man.  O  miserable  change !  is  this  the  man, 
That  invincible  Samson,  far  renowned, 
The  dread  of  Israel's  foes,  who  with  a  strength 
Equivalent  to  angels  walked  their  streets, 
None  offering  fight ;  who  single  combatant 
Duelled  their  armies  ranked  in  proud  array, 
Himself  an  army,  now  unequal  match 
To  save  himself  against  a  coward  armed 
At  one  spear's  length.     O  everfailing  trust 
In  mortal  strength !  and  oh !  what  not  in  man 
Deceivable  and  vain7?  Nay,  what  thing  good 
Prayed  for,  but  often  proves  our  wo,  our  bane  1 
I  prayed  for  children,  and  thought  barrenness 
In  wedlock  a  reproach;  I  gained  a  son, 
And  such  a  son  as  all  men  hailed  me  happy; 
Who  would  be  now  a  father  in  my  stead  1 
O  wherefore  did  God  grant  me  my  request, 
And  as  a  blessing  with  such  pomp  adorned? 
Why  are  his  gifts  desirable,  to  tempt 
Our  earnest  prayers,  then,  given  with  solemn  hand 
As  graces,  draw  a  scorpion's  tail  behind? 
For  this  did  the  angel  twice  descend  1  for  this 
Ordained  thy  nurture  holy,  as  of  a  plant 
Select,  and  sacred,  glorious  for  awhile, 
The  miracle  of  men ;  then  in  an  hour 
Insnared,  assaulted,  overcome,  led  bound, 
Thy  foes'  derision,  captive,  poor,  and  blind,     • 
Into  a  dungeon  thrust,  to  work  with  slaves  1 
Alas !  methinks  whom  God  hath  chosen  once 
To  worthiest  deeds,  if  he  through  frailty  err, 
He  should  not  so  o'erwhelm,  and  as  a  thrall 
Subject  him  to  foul  indignities, 
Be  it  but  for  honour's  sake  of  former  deeds. 

Sams.   Appoint  not  heavenly  disposition,*  fa- 
ther; 


*  Appoint  not  heavenly  disposition."— Arraign  not— sum- 
mon not  to  answer. 


SAMSON  AGONISTES. 


121 


Nothing  of  all  these  evils  hath  befallen  me 
But  justly:  I  myself  have  brought  them  on, 
Sole  author  I,  sole  cause:  if  aught  seem  vile, 
As  vile  hath  been  my  folly,  who  have  profaned 
The  mystery  of  God  given  me  under  pledge 
Of  vow,  and  have  betrayed  it  to  a  woman, 
A  Canaanite,  my  faithless  enemy. 
This  well  I  knew,  nor  was  at  all  surprised, 
But  warned  by  oft  experience :  did  not  she 
Of  Tirana  first  betray  me,  and  reveal 
The  secret  wrested  from  me  in  her  height 
Of  nuptial  love  professed,  carry  it  straight   • 
To  them  who  had  corrupted  her,  my  spies, 
And  rivals  1  In  this  other  was  there  found 
More  faith,  who  also  in  her  prime  of  love, 
Spousal  embraces,  vitiated  with  gold, 
Though  offered  only,  by  the  scent  conceived 
Her  spurious  first-born,  treason  against  me  1 
Thrice  she  assayed  with  flattering  prayers  and 

sighs, 

And  amorous  reproaches,  to  win  from  me 
My  capital  secret,  in  what  part  my  strength 
Lay  stored,  in  what  part  summed,  that  she  might 

know 

Thrice  I  deluded  her,  and  turned  to*sport 
Her  importunity,  each  time  perceiving 
How  openly,  and  with  what  impudence 
She  purposed  to  betray  me,  and  (which  was  worse 
Than  undissembled  hate)  with  what  contempt 
She  sought  to  make  me  traitor  to  myself; 
Yet  the  fourth  time,  when,  mustering  all  her  wiles, 
With  blandished  parleys,  feminine  assaults. 
Tongue  batteries,  she  surceased  not,  day  nor  night 
To  storm  me  overwatched,  and  wearied  out, 
At  times  when  men  seek  most  repose  and  rest 
I  yielded,  and  unlocked  her  all  my  heart, 
Who,  with  a  grain  of  manhood  well  resolved, 
Might  easily  have  shook  off  all  her  snares : 
But  foul  effeminacy  held  me  yoked 
Her  bondslave ;  O  indignity,  O  blot, 
To  honour  and  religion !  servile  mind 
Rewarded  well  with  servile  punishment! 
The  base  degree  to  which  I  now  am  fallen, 
These  rags,  this  grinding  is  not  yet  so  base 
As  was  my  former  servitude  ignoble, 
Unmanly,  ignominious,  infamous, 
True  slavery,  and  that  blindness  worse  than  this, 
That  saw  not  how  degenerately  I  served. 

Man.  I  can  not  praise  thy  marriage  choices,  s/m, 
Rather  approved  them  not;  but  thou  didst  plead 
Divine  impulsion  prompting  how  thou  might'st 
Find  some  occasion  to  infest  our  foes. 
I  state  not  that;  this  I  am  sure,  our  foes 
Found  soon  occasion  thereby  to  make  thee 
Their  captive,  and  their  triumph;  thou  the  sooner 
Temptation  foundest,  or  over  potent  charms, 
To  violate  the  sacred  trust  of  silence 
Deposited  within  thee;  which  to  have  kept 
Tacit,  was  in  thy  power:  true;  and  thou  bearest 


Enough,  and  more,  the  burden  of  that  fault 
Bitterly  hast  thou  paid,  and  still  art  paying, 
That  rigid  score.     A  worse  thing  yet  remains; 
This  day  the  Philistines  a  popular  feast 
Here  celebrate  in  Gaza;  and  proclaim 
Great  pomp,  and  sacrifice,  and  praises  loud, 
To  Dagon  as  their  God,  who  hath  delivered 
Thee,  Samson,  bound  and  blind  into  their  hands, 
Them  out  of  thine,  who  slewest  them  many  a  slain, 
So  Dagon  shall  be  magnified,  and  God, 
Besides  whom  is  no  God,  compared  with  idols, 
Disglorified,  blasphemed,  and  had  in  scorn 
By  the  idolatrous  rout  amidst  their  wine; 
Which  to  have  come  to  pass  by  means  of  thee, 
Samson,  of  all  thy  sufferings,  think  the  heaviest, 
Of  all  reproach  the  most  with  shame  that  ever 
Could  have  befallen  thee  and  thy  father's  house.  > 

Sams.' Father,  I  do  acknowledge  and  confess 
That  I  this  honour,  I  this  pomp  have  brought 
To  Dagon,  and  advanced  his  praises  high 
Among  the  Heathen  round;  to  God  have  brought 
Dishonour,  obloquy,  and  oped  the  mouths 
Of  idolists  and  atheists;  have  brought  scandal 
To  Israel,  diffidence  of  God,  and  doubt 
In  feeble  hearts,  propense  enough  before 
To  waver,  or  fall  off  and  join  with  idols; 
Which  is  my  chief  affliction,  shame  and  sorrow 
The  anguish  of  my  soul,  that  suffers  not 
Mine  eye  to  harbour  sleep,  or  thoughts  to  rest. 
This  only  hope  relieves  me,  that  the  strife 
With  me  hath  end',  all  the  contest  is  now 
'Twixt  God  and  Dagon;  Dagon  hath  presumed, 
Me  overthrown,  to  enter  lists  with  God, 
His  deity  comparing  and  preferring 
Before  the  God  of  Abraham.     He,  be  sure, 
Will  not  connive,  or  linger,  thus  provoked, 
But  will  arise,  and  his  great  name  assert: 
Dagon  must  stoop,  and  shall  ere  long  receive 
Such  a  discomfit  as  shall  quite  despoil  him 
Of  all  these  boasted  trophies  won  on  me, 
And  with  confusing  blank  his  worshippers. 

Man.  With  cause  this  hope  relieves  thee,  and 

these  words 

I  as  a  prophecy  receive;  for  God, 
Nothing  more  certain,  will  not  long  defer 
To  vindicate  the  glory  of  his  name 
Against  all  competition,  nor  will  long 
Endure  it  doubtful  whether  God  be  Lord, 
Or  Dagon.    But  for  thee  what  shall  be  done  1 
Thou  must  not,  in  the  meanwhile,  here  forgot, 
Lie  in  this  miserable  loathsome  plight, 
Neglected.     I  already  have  made  way 
To  some  Philistian  lords,  with  whom  to  treat 
About  thy  ransom:  well  they  may  by  this 
Have  satisfied  their  utmost  of  revenge 
By  pains  and  slaveries,  worse  than  death,  inflicted 
On  thee,  who  now  no  more  canst  do  them  harm. 

Sams.  Spare  that  proposal,  father;  spare  the 
trouble 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


Of  that  solicitation;  let  me  here, 
As  I  deserve,  pay  on  my  punishment; 
And^expiate,  if  possible,  my  crime, 
Shameful  garrulity.     To  have  revealed 
Secrets  of  men,  the  secrets  of  a  friend, 
How  heinous  had  the  fact  been,  how  deserving 
Contempt,  and  scorn  of  all,  to  be  excluded 
All  friendship,  and  avoided  as  a  blab, 
The  mark  of  fool  set  on  his  front  1 
But  I  God's  counsel  have  not  kept,  his  holy  secret 
Presumptuously  have  published,  impiously, 
Weakly  at  least,  and  shamefully;  a  sin 
That  Gentiles  in  their  parables  condemn 
To  their  abyss  and  horrid  pains  confined. 
I      Man.  Be  penitent,  and  for  thy  fault  contrit 
But  act  not  in  thy  own  affliction,  son: 
Repent  the  sin;  but,  if  the  punishment 
Thou  canst  avoid,  self  preservation  bids ; 
Or  the  execution  leave  to  high  disposal, 
And  let  another  hand,  not  thine,  exact 
Thy  penal  forfeit  from  thyself:  perhaps 
God  will  relent,  and  quit  thee  all  his  debt; 
Who  ever  more  approves,  and  more  accepts, 
(Best  pleased  with  humble  and  filial  submission,) 
Him,  who,  imploring  mercy,  sues  for  life, 
Than  who,  self-rigorous,  chooses  death  as  due; 
Which  argues  overjust,  and  self-displeased, 
For  self-offence,  more  than  for  God  offended. 
Reject  not  then  what  offered  means,  who  knows 
But  God  hath  set  before  us,  to  return  thee 
Home  to  thy  country  and  his  sacred  house, 
Where  thou  may'st  bring  thy  offerings,  to  avert 
His  further  ire,  with  prayers  and  vows  renewed  1 

Sams.  His  pardon  I  implore;  but  as  for  life 
To  what  end  should  I  seek  it  1  when  in  strength 
All  mortals  I  excelled,  and  great  in  hopes 
With  youthful  courage,  and  magnanimous  thoughts 
Of  birth  from  Heaven  foretold,  and  high  exploits, 
Full  of  divine  instinct,  after  some  proof 
Of  acts  indeed  heroic,  far  beyond 
The  sons  of  Anak,  famous  now  and  blazed 
Fearless  of  danger,  like  a  petty  god 
I  walked  about  admired  of  all  and  dreaded 
On  hostile  ground,  none  daring  my  affront.* 
Then  swollen  with  pride  into  the  snare  I  fell 
Of  fair  fallacious  looks,  venereal  trains, 
Softened  with  pleasure  and  voluptuous  life ; 
At  length  to  lay  my  head  and  hallowed  pledge 
Of  all  my  strength  in  the  lascivious  lap 
Of  a  deceitful  concubine,  who  shore  me 
Like  a  tame  wether,  all  my  precious  fleece, 
Then  turned  me  out  ridiculous,  despoiled, 
Shaven,  and  disarmed  among  mine  enemies. 

Chor.  Desire  of  wine  and  all  delicious  drinks, 
Which  many  a  famous  warrior  overturns, 
Thou  could'st  repress;  nor  did  the  dancing  ruby 


*  "  None  daring  my  affront"— to  front  or  face  in  a  hostile 
manner. 


Sparkling,  outpoured,  the  flavour  or  the  smell, 
Or  taste  that  cheers  the  heart  of  gods  and  men, 
Allure  thee  from  the  cool  crystalline  stream. 
Sams.    Wherever  fountain  or  fresh  current 

flowed 

Against  the  eastern  ray,  translucent,  pure, 
With  touch  ethereal  of  Heaven's  fiery  rod, 
I  drank,  from  the  clear  milky  juice  allaying 
Thirst,  and  refreshed:  nor  envied  them  the  grape 
Whose  heads    that  turbulent  liquor  fills   with 

fumes. 
Chor.  O  madness,  to  think  use  of  strongest 

wines 

And  strongest  drinks,  our  chief  support  of  health, 
When  God  with  these  forbidden  made  choice  to 

rear  * 

His  mighty  champion,  strong  above  compare, 
Whose  drink  was  only  from  the  liquid  brook. 
Sams.  But  what  availed  this  temperance,  not 

complete 

Against  another  object  more  enticing?  • 
What  boots  it  at  one  gate  to  make  defence, 
And  at  another  to  let  in  the  foe, 
Effeminately  vanquished  1  by  which  means, 
Now  blind,  disheartened,  shamed,  dishonoured, 

quelled, 

To  what  can  I  be  useful,  wherein  serve 
My  nation,  and  the  work  from  Heaven  imposed, 
But  to  sit  idle  on  the  household  hearth, 
A  burdenous  drone ;  to  visitants  a  gaze, 
Or  pitied  object,  these  redundant  locks 
Robustious  to  no  purpose  clustering  down, 
Vain  monument  of  strength ;  till  length  of  years 
And  sedentary  numbness  craze  thy  limbs 
To  a  contemptible  old  age  obscure  7 
Here  rather  let  me  drudge  and  earn  my  bread ; 
Till  vermin  or  the  draff  of  servile  food, 
Consume  me,  and  oft  invocated  death 
Hasten  the  welcome  end  of  all  my  pains. 
Man.  Wilt  thou  then  serve  the  Philistines  with 

that  gift 

Which  was  expressly  given  thee  to  annoy  them? 
Better  at  home  lie  bedrid,  not  only  idle, 
Inglorious,  unemployed,  with  age  outworn. 
But  God,  who  caused  a  fountain  at  thy  prayer 
From  the  dry  ground  to  spring,  thy  thirst  to  allay 
After  the  brunt  of  battle,  can  as  easy 
Cause  light  again  within  thy  eyes  to  .spring, 
Wherewith  to  serve  him  better  than  thou  hast; 
And  I  persuade  me  so;  why  else  this  strength 
Miraculous  yet  remaining  in  those  locks'? 
His  might  continues  in  thee  not  for  naught, 
Nor  shall  his  wondrous  gifts  be  frustrate  thus. 
Sams.     All  otherwise  to  me  my  thoughts  por- 
tend, 
That  these  dark  orbs  no  more  shall  treat  with 

light, 

Nor  the  other  light  of  life  continue  long, 
But  yield  to  double  darkness  nigh  at  hand: 


SAMSON  AGONISTES. 


123 


So  much  I  feel  my  genial  spirits  droop, 
My  hopes  all  flat,  nature  within  me  seems 
In  all  her  functions  weary  of  herself; 
My  race  of  glory  run,  and  race  of  shame, 
And  I  shall  shortly  l»e  with  them  that  rest. 

^fan.  Believe  not  these  suggestions,  which  pro- 
ceed 

From  anguish  of  the  mind  and  humours  black, 
That  mingle  with  my  fancy.    I  however 
Must  not  omit  a  father's  timely  care 
To  prosecute  the  means  of  thy  deliverance 
By  ransom,  or  how  else :  meanwhile  be  calm, 
And  healing  words  from  these  thy  friends  admit. 

[Exit. 

Sams.  O  that  torment  should  not  be  confined 
To  the  body's  wounds  and  sores, 
With  maladies  innumerable 
In  heart,  head,  breast,  and  reins ; 
But  must  secret  passage  find 
To  the  inmost  mind, 
There  exercise  all  his  fierce  accidents, 
And  on  her  purest  spirits  prey, 
A»  on  entrails,  joints,  and  limbs, 
With  answerable  pains,  but  more  intense, 
Though  void  of  corporal  sense. 

My  griefs  not  only  pain  me 
As  a  lingering  disease, 
But,  finding  no  redress,  ferment  and  rage; 
Nor  less  than  wounds  immedicable 
Rankle,  and  fester,  and  gangrene, 
To  black  mortification. 
Thoughts,   my  tormentors,  armed  with   deadly 

stings, 

Mangle  my  apprehensive  tenderest  parts, 
Exasperate,  exulcerate,  and  raise 
Dire  inflammation,  which  no  cooling  herb 
Or  medicinal  liquor  can  assuage, 
Nor  breath  of  vernal  air  from  snowy  Alp. 
Sleep  hath  forsook  and  given  me  o'er 
To  death's  benumbing  opium  as  my  only  cure; 
Thence  .faintings.  swoonings  of  despair, 
And  sense  of  Heaven's  desertion. 

I  was  his  nursling  once,  and  choice  delight, 
His  destined  from  the  womb, 
Promised  by  heavenly  message  twice  descending. 
Under  his  special  eye 

'Abstemious  I  grew  up,  a*nd  thrived  amain ; 
He  led  me  on  to  mightiest  deeds, 
Above  the  nerve  of  mortal  arm, 
Against  the uncircumcised,  our  enemies: 
But  now  hath  cast  me  off  as  never  known, 
And  to  those  cruel  enemies: 
Whom  I  by  his  appointment  had  provoked, 
Left  me  all  helpless  with  the  irreparable  loss 
Of  sight,  reserved  alive  to  be  repeated, 
The  subject  of  their  cruelty  or  scorn. 
Nor  am  I  in  the  list  of  them  that  hope; 
Hopeless  are  all  my  evils,  all  remediless : 
This  once  prayer  yet  remains,  might  I  be  heard, 


No  long  petition,  speedy  death, 

The  close  of  all  my  miseries,  and  the  balm. 

Chor.  Many  are  the  sayings  of  the  wise, 
In  ancient  and  in  modern  books  enrolled, 
Extolling  patience  as  the  truest  fortitude ; 
And  to  the  bearing  well  of  all  calamities, 
All  chances  incident  to  man's  frail  life, 
Consolatories  writ 
With  studied  argument,  and  much   persuasion 

sought, 

Lenient  of  grief  and  anxious  thought: 
But  with  the  afflicted  in  his  pangs  their  sound 
Little  prevails,  or  rather  seems  a  tune 
Harsh,  and  of  dissonant  mood  from  his  complaint; 
Unless  he  feel  within 
Some  source  of  consolation  from  above, 
Secret  refreshings,  that  repair  his  strength, 
And  fainting  spirits  uphold. 

God  of  our  fathers,  what  is  man ! 
That  thou  towards  him  with  hand  so  various, 
Or  might  I  say  contrarious, 
Temperest  thy  providence  through  his  short  course 
Not  evenly,  as  thou  rulest 
The  angelic  orders,  and  inferior  creatures  mute, 
Irrational  and  brute. 

Nor  do  I  name  of  men  the  common  rout, 
That  wandering  loose  about 
Grow  up  and  perish  as  the  summer  fly 
Heads  without  name  no  more  remembered; 
But  such  as  thou  hast  solemnly  elected, 
With  gifts  and  graces  eminently  adorned, 
To  some  great  work,  thy  glory, 
And  people's  safety,  which  in  part  they  effect : 
Yet  toward  these  thus  dignified,  thou  oft, 
Amidst  their  height  of  noon, 
Changest  thy  countenance,  and  thy  hand,  with  no 

regard 

Of  highest  favours  past 
From  thee  on  them,  or  them  to  thee  of  service. 

Nor  only  dost  degrade  them,  or  remit 
To  life  obscured,  which  were  a  fair  dismission, 
But  thro  west  them  lower  than  thou  didst  exalt 

them  high ; 

Unseemly  falls  in  human  eye, 
Too  grievous  for  the  trespass  or  omission ; 
Oft  leavest  them  to  the  hostile  sword 
Of  heathen  and  'profane,  their  carcasses 
To  dogs  and  fowls  a  prey,  or  else  captived  ; 
Or  to  the  unjust  tribunals,  under  change  of  times, 
And  condemnation  of  the  ingrateful  multitude. 
If  these  they  'scape,  perhaps  in  poverty 
With  sickness  and  disease  thou  bow'st  them  down, 
Painful  diseases  and  deformed 
In  crude  old  age ; 

Though  not  disordinate,  yet  causeless  suffering 
The  punishment  of  dissolute  days :  in  fine 
Just  or  unjust  alike  seem  miserable, 
For  oft  alike  both  come  to  evil  end. 
So  deal  not  with  this  once  thy  glorious  champion, 


124 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


The  image  of  thy  strength,  and  mighty  minister. 
What  do  I  beg  1  how  hast  thou  dealt  already ! 
Behold  him  in  this  state  calamitous,  and  turn 
His  labours,  for  thou  canst,  to  peaceful  end. 

But  who  is  tins'?  what  thing  of  sea  or  land? 
Female  of  sex  it  seems, 
That  so  bedecked,  ornate,  and  gay, 
Conies  this  way  sailing 
Like  a  stately  ship 
Of  Tarsus,  bound  for  the  isles 
Of  Javan  or  Gadire, 

With  all  her  bravery  on,  and  tackle  trim, 
Sails  filled,  and  streamers  waving, 
Courted  by  all  the  winds  that  hold  them  play. 
An  amber  scent  of  odorous  perfume 
Her  harbinger,  a  damsel  train  behind ; 
Some  rich  Philistian  matron  she  may  seem ; 
And  now  at  nearer  view,  no  other  certain 
Than  Dalila,  thy  wife. 
Sams.  My  wife !  my  traitress :  let  her  not  come 

near  me. 
I     Chor.  Yet  on  she  moves,  now  stands  and  eyes 

thee  fixed, 

About  to  have  spoke ;  but  now,  with  head  declined, 
Like  a  fair  flower  surcharged  with  dew,  she  weeps, 
And  words  addressed  seern  into  tears  dissolved,- 
Wetting  the  borders  of  her  silken  veil  : 
But  now  again  she  makes  address  to  speak. 

[Enter]  Dalila. 

Dal.  With  doubtful  feet  and  wavering  resolution 
I  came,  still  dreading  thy  displeasure,  Samson, 
Which  to  have  merited,  without  excuse, 
I  can  not  but  acknowledge ;  yet,  if  tears, 
May  expiate,  (though  the  fact  more  evil  drew 
In  the  perverse  event  than  I  foresaw,) 
My  penance  hath  not  slackened,  though  my  par- 
don 

No  way  assured.     But  conjugal  affection, 
Prevailing  over  fear  and  timorous  doubt, 
Hath  led  me  on,  desirous  to  behold 
Once  more  thy  face,  and  know  of  thy  estate, 
If  aught  in  my  ability  may  serve 
To  lighten  what  thou  sufferest,  and  appease 
Thy  mind  with  what  amends  is  in  my  power, 
Though  late,-  yet  in  some  part  to  recompense 
My  rash,  but  more  unfortunate  misdeed. 

Sams.  Out,  out,  hyena!  these  are  thy  wonted 

arts, 

And  arts  of  every  woman  false  like  thee, 
To  break  all  faith,  all  vows,  deceive,  betray, 
Then  as  repentant  to  submit,  beseech, 
And  reconcilement  move  with  feigned  remorse, 
Confess,  and  promise  wonders  in  her  change ; 
Not  truly  penitent,  but  chief  to  try 
Her  husband,  how  for  urged  his  patience  bears, 
His  virtue  or  weakness  which  way  to  assail ; 
Then  with  more  cautious  and  instructed  skill 
Again  transgresses,  and  again  submits; 


That  wisest  and  best  men,  full  oft  beguiled, 
With  goodness  principled  not  to  reject 
The  penitent,  but  ever  to  forgive, 
Are  drawn  to  wear  out  miserable  days, 
Entangled  with  a  poisonous  bosom  snake, 
If  not  by  quick  destruction  soon  cut  off, 
As  I  by  .thee,  to  ages  an  example. 
Dal.  Yet  hear  me,  Samson ;  not  that  I  endea- 
vour 

To  lessen  or  extenuate  my  offence, 
But  that  on  the  other  side,  if  it  be  weighed 
By  itself,  with  aggravations  not  surcharged, 
Or  else  with  just  allowance  counterpoised, 
I  may,  if  possible,  thy  pardon  find 
The  easier  toward  me,  or  thy  hatred  less. 
First  granting,  as  I  do,  it  was  a  weakness 
In  me,  but  incident  to  all  our  sex, 
Curiosity,  inquisitive,  importune 
Of  secrets,  then  with  like  infirmity 
To  publish  them,  both  common  female  faults : 
Was  it  not  weakness  also  to  make  known 
For  importunity,  that  is,  for  nought, 
Wherein  consisted  all  thy  strength  and  safety  1 
To  what  I  did  thou  showed'st  me  first  the  way. 
But  I  to  enemies  revealed,  and  should  not : 
Nor  should'st  thou  have  trusted  that  to  woman's 

frailty ; 

Ere  I  to  thee,  thou  to  thyself  wast  cruel. 
Let  weakness  then  with  weakness  come  to  parle, 
So  near  related,  or  the  same  of  kind, 
Thine  forgive  mine ;  that  men  may  censure  thine 
The  gentler,  if  severely  thou  exact  not 
More  strength  from  me,  than  in  thyself  was  found. 
And  what  if  love,  which  thou  interpret'st  hate, 
The  jealousy  of  love,  powerful  of  sway 
In  human  hearts,  nor  less  in  mine  towards  thee, 
Caused  what  I  did  7     I  saw  thee  mutable 
Of  fancy,  feared  lest  one  day  thou  would'st  leave 

me 

As  her  at  Tirana,  sought  by  all  means  therefore 
How  to  endear,  and  hold  thee  to  me  firmest : 
No  better  way  I  saw  than  by  importuning 
To  learn  thy  secrets,  get  into  my  power 
Thy  key  of  strength  and  safety :  thou  wilt  say, 
Why  then  revealed  1     I  was  assured  by  those 
Who  tempted  me,  that  nothing  was  designed 
Against  thee  but  safe  custody,  and  hold : 
That  made  for  me ,  I  knew  that  liberty 
Would  draw  thee  forth  to  perilous  enterprises; 
While  I  at  home  sat  full  of  cares  and  fears, 
Wailing  thy  absence  in  my  widowed  bed ; 
Here  I  should  still  enjoy  thee,  day  and  nigh 
Mine  and  love's  prisoner,  not  the  Philistines', 
Whole  to  myself,  unhazarded  abroad, 
Fearless  at  home  of  partners  in  my  love. 
These  reasons  in  love's  law  have  past  for  good, 
Though  fond  and  reasonless  to  some  perhaps ; 
And  love  hath  oft,  well  meaning,  wrought  much 
wo, 


SAMSON  AGONISTES. 


123 


Yet  always  pity  or  pardon  hath  obtained. 
But  not  like  all  others,  not  austere 
As  thou  art  strong,  inflexible  as  steel. 
If  thou  in  strength  all  mortals  dost  exceed, 
In  uncompassionate  anger  do  not  so. 

Sams.  How  cunningly  the  sorceress  displays 
Her  own  transgressions,  to  upbraid  me  mine ! 
That  malice,  not  repentance,  brought  thee  hither 
By  this  appears;  I  gave,  thou  say'st,  the  example 
I  led  the  way ;  bitter  reproach,  but  true ; 
I  to  myself  was  false  ere  thou  to  me; 
Such  pardon  therefore  as  I  give  my  folly, 
Take  to  thy  wicked  deed;  which  when  thou  seest 
Impartial,  self-severe,  inexorable, 
Thou  wilt  renounce  thy  seeking,  and  much  rather 
Confess  it  feigned :  weakness  is  thy  excuse, 
And  I  believe  it;  weakness  to  resist 
Philistian  gold :  if  weakness  may  excuse, 
What  murderer,  what  traitor,  parricide, 
Incestuous,  sacrilegious,  but  may  plead  it  1 
All  wickedness  is  weakness:  that  plea  therefore 
With  God  or  man  will  gain  thee  no  remission. 
But  love  constrained  thee;  call  it  furious  rage 
To  satisfy  thy  lust :  love  seeks  to  have  love ; 
My  love  how  could'st  thou  hope,  who  took'st  the 

way 

To  raise  in  me  inexpiable  hate, 
Knowing,  as  needs  I  must,  by  thee  betrayed  1 
In  vain  thou  strivest  to  cover  shame  with  shame, 
Or  by  evasions  thy  crime  uncoverest  more. 

Dal.  Since  thou  determin'st  weakness  for  no  plea 
In  man  or  woman,  though  to  thy  own  condemning 
Hear  what  assaults  I  had,  what  snares  besides, 
What  sieges  girt  me  round,  ere  I  consented ; 
Which  might  have  awed  the  best  resolved  of  men, 
The  constantest,  to  have  yielded  without  blame. 
It  was  not  gold,  as  to  my  charge  thou  lay'st, 
That  wrought  with  me:  thou  know'st  the  magis- 
trates 

And  princes  of  my  country  came  in  person, 
Solicited,  commanded,  threatened,  urged, 
Adjured  by  all  the  bonds  of  civil  duty 
And  of  religion,  pressed  how  just  it  was, 
How  honourable,  how  glorious,  to  entrap 
A  common  enemy,  who  had  destroyed 
Such  numbers  of  our  nation :  and  the  priest 
Was  not  behind,  but  ever  at  my  ear, 
Preaching  how  meritorious  with  the  gods 
It  would  be  to  ensnare  an  irreligious 
Dishonourer  of  Dagon:  what  had  I 
To  oppose  against  such  powerful  arguments'? 
Only  my  love  of  thee  held  long  debate, 
And  combated  in  silence  all  these  reasons 
With  haj d  contest :  at  length  that  grounded  maxim, 
So  rife  and  celebrated  in  the  mouths 
Of  wisest  men,  that  to  the  public  good 
Private  respects  must  yield,  with  grave  authority 
Took  full  possession  of  me,  and  prevailed; 
Virtue,  as  I  thought,  truth,  duty,  so  enjoining. 


Sams.   I  thought  where  all  thy  circling  wiles 

would  end; 

In  feigned  religion,  smooth  hypocrisy ! 
But  had  thy  love,  still  odiously  pretended, 
Been,  as  it  ought,  sincere,  it  would  have  taught 

thee 

Far  other  reasonings,  brought  forth  other  deeds. 
I,  before  all  the  daughters  of  my  tribe 
And  of  my  nation,  chose  thee  from  among 
My  enemies,  loved  thee,  as  too  well  thou  knew'st; 
Too  well ;  unbosomed  all  my  secrets  to  thee, 
Not  out  of  levity,  but  overpowered 
By  thy  request,  who  could  deny  thee  nothing ; 
Yet  now  am  judged  an  enemy.     Why  then 
Didst  thou  at  first  receive  me  for  thy  husband, 
Then,  as  since  then,  thy  country's  foe  professed  1 
Being  once  a  wife,  for  me  thou  wast  to  leave 
Parents  and  country;  nor  was  I  their  subject, 
Nor  under  their  protection,  but  my  own, 
Thou  mine,  not  theirs:  if  aught  against  my  life 
Thy  country  sought  of  thee,  it  sought  unjustly, 
Against  the  law  of  nature,  law  of  nations ; 
No  more  thy  country,  but  an  impious  crew 
Of  men  conspiring  to  uphold  their  state 
By  worse  than  hostile  deeds,  violating  the  ends 
For  which  our  country  is  a  name  so  dear; 
Not  therefore  to  be  obeyed.   But  zeal  moved  thee; 
To  please  thy  gods  thou  did'st  it;  gods  unable 
To  acquit  themselves  and  prosecute  their  foes 
But  by  ungodly  deeds,  the  contradiction 
Of  their  own  deity,  gods  can  not  be; 
Less  therefore  to  be  pleased,  obeyed,  or  feared 
These  false  pretexts  and  varnished  colours  failing, 
Bare  in  thy  guilt,  how  foul  must  thou  appear! 

Dal.  In  argument  with  men  a  woman  ever 
Goes  by  the  worse,  whatever  be  her  cause. 

Sams.  For  want  of  words  no  doubt,  or  lack  of 

breath ; 
Witness  when  I  was  worried  with  thy  peals. 

Dal.  I  was  a  fool,  too  rash,  and  quite  mistaken 
In  what  I  thought  would  have  succeeded  best. 
Let  me  obtain  forgiveness  of  thee,  Samson ; 
Afford  me  place  to  show  what  recompense 
Towards  thee  I  intend  for  what  I  have  misdone, 
Misguided ;  only  what  remains  past  cure 
Bear  not  too  sensibly,  nor  still  insist 
To  afflict  thyself  in  vain:  though  sight  be  lost, 
Life  yet  hath  many  solaces,  enjoyed 
Where  other  senses  want  not  their  delights 
At  home  in  leisure  and  domestic  ease, 
Exempt  from  many  a  care  and  chance,  to  which 
Eyesight  exposes  daily  men  abroad. 
[  to  the  lords  will  intercede,  not  doubting 
Their  favourable  ear,  that  I  may  fetch  thee 

m  forth  this  loathsome  prison-house,  to  abide 
With  me,  where  my  redoubled  love  and  care 
With  nursing  diligence,  to  me  glad  office, 
Vlay  ever  tend  about  thee  to  old  age, 
With  all  things  grateful  cheered,  and  so  supplied. 


126 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


That  what  by  me  thou  hast  lost  thou  least  shalt 
miss. 

Sams.  No,  no ;  of  my  condition  take  no  care ; 
It  fits  not;  thou  and  I  long  since  are  twain: 
Nor  think  me  so  unwary  or  accursed, 
To  bring  my  feet  again  into  the  snare 
Where  once  I  have  been  caught:  I  know  thy  trains, 
Though  dearly  to  my  cost,  thy  gins,  and  toils ; 
Thy  fair  enchanted  cup,  and  warbling  charms, 
No  more  on  me  have  power;  their  force  is  nulled ; 
So  much  of  adder's  wisdom  I  have  learned, 
To  fence  my  ear  against  thy  sorceries. 
If  in  my  flower  of  youth  and  strength,  when  all 

men 
Loved,  honoured,  feared  me,  thou  alone  could'st 

hate  me, 

Thy  husband,  slight  me,  sell  me,  and  forego  me ; 
How  would'st  thou  use  me  now,  blind  and  thereby 
Deceivable,  in  most  things  as  a  child 
Helpless,  thence  easily  contemned  and  scorned, 
And  last  neglected  I    How  wouldst  thou  insult, 
When  I  must  live  uxorious  to  thy  will 
In  perfect  thraldom;  how  again  betray  me, 
f-     Bearing  my  words  and  doings  to  the  lords 

To  gloss  upon,  and,  censuring,  frown  or  smile ! 

This  jail  I  count  the  house  of  liberty 

To  thine,  whose  doors  my  feet  shall  never  enter. 

Dal.  Let  me  approach  at  least  and  touch  thy 
hand. 

Sams.  Not  for  thy  life,  lest  fierce  remembrance 

wake 

My  sudden  rage  to  tear  thce  joint  by  joint. 
At  distance  I  forgive  thee ;  go  with  that ; 
Bewail  thy  falsehood,  and  the  pious  works 
It  hath  brought  forth  to  make  thee  memorable 
Among  illustrious  women,  faithful  wives ! 
Cherish  thy  hastened  widowhood  with  the  gold 
Of  matrimonial  treason !  so  farewell. 

Dal.  I  see  thou  art  implacable,  more  deaf 
To  prayers  than  winds  and  seas;  yet  winds  to  seas 
Are  reconciled  at  length,  and  sea  to  shore ; 
Thy  anger,  unappeasable,  still  rages, 
Eternal  tempest,  never  to  be  calmed. 
Why  do  I  humble  thus  myself,  and,  suing 
For  peace,  reap  nothing  but  repulse  and  hate ; 
Bid  go  with  evil  omen,  and  the  brand 
Of  infamy  upon  my  name  denounced  1 
To  mix  with  thy  concernments  I  desist 
Henceforth,  nor  too  much  disapprove  my  own. 
Fame,  if  not  double-faced,  is  double-mouthed, 
And  with  contrary  blasts  proclaims  most  deeds ; 
On  both  his  wings,  one  black,  the  other  white, 
Bears  greatest  names  in  his  wild  airy  flight. 
My  name  perhaps  among  the  circumcised 
In  Dan,  in  Judah,  and  the  bordering  tribes 
To  all  posterity  may  stand  defamed, 
With  malediction  mentioned,  and  the  blot 
Of  falsehood  most  unconjugal  traduced. 
But  in  my  country  where  I  most  desire, 


In  Ecron,  Gaza,  Asdod,  and  in  Gath, 

I  shall  be  named  among  the  famousest 

Of  women,  sung  at  solemn  festivals. 

Living  and  dead  recorded,  who,  to  save 

Her  country  from  a  fierce  destroyer,  chose 

Above  the  faith  of  wedlock  bands ;  my  tomb 

With  odours  visited  and  annual  flowers ; 

Not  less  renowned  than  in  mount  Ephraim 

Jael,  who  with  inhospitable  guile 

Smote  Sisera  sleeping,  through  the  temples  nailed, 

Nor  shall  I  count  it  heinous  to  enjoy 

The  public  marks  of  honour  and  reward, 

Conferred  upon  me  for  the  piety 

Which  to  my  country  I  was  judged  to  have  shown. 

At  this  whoever  envies  or  repines, 

I  leave  him  to  his  lot,  and  like  my  own.       [Exit.] 

Chor.  She's  gone,  a  manifest  serpent  by  her  sting 
Discovered  in  the  end  till  now  concealed. 

Sams.  So  let  her  go;  God  sent  her  to  debase  me, 
And  aggravate  my  folly,  who  committed 
To  such  a  viper  his  most  secret  trust 
Of  secrecy,  my  safety,  and  my  life. 

Chor.  Yet  beauty,  though  injurious,  hath  strange 

power, 

After  offence  returning,  to  regain 
Love  once  possessed,  nor  can  be  easily 
Repulsed,  without  much  inward  passion  felt 
And  secret  sting  of  amorous  remorse. 

Sams.  Love-quarrels  oft  in  pleasing  concord  end, 
Not  wedlock  treachery  endangering  life. 

Chor.  It  is  not  virtue,  wisdom,  valour,  wit, 
Strength,  comeliness  of  shape,  or  amplest  merit,. 
That  woman's  love  can  win  or  long  inherit ;     , 
But  what  it  is,  hard  is  to  say, 
Harder  to  hit, 

Which  way  soever  men  refer  it,) 
Much  like  thy  riddle,  Samson,  in  one  day 
Or  seven,  though  one  should  musing  sit. 
[f  any  of  these  or  all  the  Timnian  bride 
Had  not  so  soon  preferred 
Thy  paranymph,  worthless  to  thee  compared, 
Successor  in  thy  bed, 
Nor  both  so  loosely  disallied 
Their  nuptials,  nor  this  last  so  treacherously 
Ead  shorn  the  fatal  harvest  of  thy  head. 
[s  it  for  that  such  outward  ornament 
Was  lavished  on  their  sex,  that  inward  gifts 
Were  left  for  haste  unfinished,  judgment  scant, 

apacity  not  raised  to  apprehend 
Or  value  what  is  best 
In  choice,  but  oftest  to  affect  the  wrong, 
Or  was  too  much  of  self-love  mixed, 
Of  constancy  no  root  infixed, 
That  either  they  love  nothing,  or  not  long'* 

Whate'cr  it  be,  to  wisest  men  and  best? 
Secerning  at  first  all  heavenly  under  virgin  veil, 
Soft,  modest,  meek,  demure. 
Once  joined,  the  contrary  she  proves,  a  thorn 
Intestine,  far  within  defensive  arms 


SAMSON  AGONISTES. 


127 


A  cleaving  mischief,  in  his  way  to  virtue 

Adverse  and  turbulent,  or  by  her  charms 

Draws  him  awry  enslaved 

With  dotage,  and  his  sense  depraved 

To  folly,  and  shameful  deeds  which  ruin  ends. 

What  pilot  so  expert  but  needs  must  wreck, 

Embarked  with  such  a  steer's-mate  at  the  helm? 

Favoured  of  Heaven,  who  finds 
One  virtuous,  rarely  found, 
That  in  domestic  good  combines : 
Happy  that  house !  his  way  to  peace  is  smooth : 
But  virtue,  which  breaks  through  all  opposition, 
And  all  temptation  can  remove, 
Most  shines,  and  most  is  acceptable  above. 

Therefore  God's  universal  law 
Gave  to  the  man  despotic  power 
Over  his  female  in  due  awe, 
Nor  from  that  right  to  part  an  hour, 
Smile  she  or  lower: 
So  shall  he  least  confusion  draw 
On  his  whole  life,  not  swayed 
By  female  usurpation,  or  dismayed. 

But  had  we  best  retire  ?  I  see  a  storm. 

Same.  Fair  days  have  oft  contracted  wind  and 
rain. 

Chor.  But  this  another  kind  of  tempest  brings. 

Sams.  Be  less  obstruse,  my  riddling  days  are 
past. 

Chor.   Look  now  for  no  enchanting  voice,  nor 

fear 

The  bait  of  honied  words;  a  rougher  tongue 
Draws  hitherward ;  I  know  him  by  his  stride, 
The  giant  Harapha  of  Gath,  his  look 
Haughty,  as  is  his  pile  high-built  and  proud. 
Comes  he  in  peace  7  what  wind  hath  blown  him 

hither 

I  less  conjecture  than  when  first  I  saw 
The  sumptuous  Dalila  floating  this  way: 
His  habit  carries  peace,  his  brow  defiance. 

Sams.  Or  peace  or  not,  alike  to  me  he  comes. 

Chor.  His  fraught  we  soon  shall  know,  he  HOW 
arrives. 

[Enter]  Harapha. 

Har.  I  come  not,  Samson,  to  condole  thy  chance, 
As  these  perhaps,  yet  wish  it  had  not  been, 
Though  for  no  friendly  intent.     I  am  of  Gathj 
Men  call  me  Harapha,  of  stock  renowned 
As  Og,  or  Anak,  and  the  Emims  old 
That  Kiriathaim  held ;  thou  knowest  me  now, 
If  thou  at  all  art  known.     Much  I  have  heard 
Of  thy  prodigious  might  and  feats  performed, 
Incredible  to  me,  in  this  displeased, 
That  I  was  never  present  on  the  place 
Of  those  encounters,  where  we  might  have  tried 
/    Each  other's  force  in  camp  or  listed  field ; 
}    And  now  am  come  to  see  of  whom  such  noise 
i    Hath  walked  about,  and  each  limb  to  survey, 
If  thy  appearance  answer  loud  report. 


Sams.  The  way  to  know  were  not  to  see,  but 
taste. 

Har.  Dost  thou  already  single  me?  I  thought 
Gyves  and  the  mill  had  tamed  thee.  O  that  fortune 
Had  brought  me  to  the  field,  where  thou  art  famed 
To  have  wrought  such  wonders  with  an  ass's  jaw ! 
I  should  have  forced  thee  soon  with  other  arms, 
Or  left  thy  cascass  where  the  ass  lay  thrown: 
So  had  the  glory  of  prowess  been  recovered 
To  Palestine,  won  by  a  Philistine, 
F.rom  the  unforeskinned  race,  of  whom  thou  bearest 
The  highest  name  for  valiant  acts ;  that  honour, 
Certain  to  have  won  by  mortal  duel  from  thee, 
I  lose,  prevented  by  thy  eyes  put  out. 

Sams.  Boast  not  of  what  thou  would'st  have 

done,  but  do 
What  then  thou  would'st ;  thou  seest  it  in  thy  hand. 

Har.  To  combat  with  a  blind  man  I  disdain, 
And  thou  hast  need  much  washing  to  be  touched. 

Sams.  Such  usage  as  your  honourable  lords, 
Afford  me,  assassinated  and  betrayed, 
Who  durst  not  with  their  whole  united  powers 
In  fight  withstand  me  single  and  unarmed, 
Nor  in  the  house  with  chamber-ambushes 
Close-banded  durst  attack  me,  no,  not  sleeping, 
Till  they  had  hired  a  woman  with  their  gold 
Breaking  her  marriage  faith  to  circumvent  me. 
Therefore,  without  feigned  shifts,  let  be  assigned 
Some  narrow  place  enclosed,  where  sight  may  give 

thee, 

Or  rather  flight,  no  great  advantage  on  me ; 
Then  put  on  all  .thy  gorgeous  arms,  thy  helmet 
And  brigandine  of  brass,  thy  broad  habergeon, 
Vantbrass  and  greaves,  and  gauntlet,  add  thy 

spear, 

A  weaver's  beam,  and  seven-limes  folded  shield ; 
I  only  with  an  oaken  staff  will  meet  thee, 
And  raise  such  outcries  on  thy  clattered  iron, 
Which  long  shall  not  withhold  me  from  thy  head, 
That  in  a  little  time,  while  breath  remains  thee, 
Thou  oft  shall  wish  thyself  al  Galh,  to  boast 
Again  in  safety  whal  Ihou  wouldst  have  done 
To  Samson,  but  shall  never  see  Galh  more. 

Har.  Thou  dursl  nol  Ihus  disparage  glorious 

arms, 

Which  grealesl  heroes  have  in  battle  worn, 
Their  ornamenl  and  safety,  had  not  spells, 
And  black  enchantments,  some  magician's  art, 
Armed  thee  or  charmed  thee  strong,  which  thou 

from  Heaven 
Feigned'st  at  thy  birth  was  given  thee  in  thy  hair, 
Where  strength  can  least  abide,  though  all  thy 

hairs 

Were  bristles  ranged  like  those  that  ridge  the  back 
Df  chafed  wild  boars,  or  ruffled  porcupines. 

Sams.  I  know  no  spells,  use  no  forbidden  arts, 
My  trust  is  in  the  living  God,  who  gave  me 
At  my  nalivily  this  strength,  diffused 
Xo  less  through  all  my  sinews,  joints  and  bones. 


128 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


That  thine,  while  I  preserved  these  locks  unshorn, 

The  pledge  of  my  unviolated'vow. 

For  proof  hereof,  if  Dagon  be*  thy  god, 

Go  to  his  temple,  invocate  his  aid 

With  solemnest  devotion,  spread  before  him 

How  highly  it  concerns  his  glory  now 

To  frustrate  and  dissolve  these  magic  spells, 

Which  I  to  be  the  power  of  Israel's  God 

Avow,  and  challenge  Dagon  to  the  test, 

Offering  to  combat  thee  his  champion  bold, 

With  the  utmost  of  his  godhead  seconded  : 

Then  thou  shalt  see,  or  rather,  to  thy  sorrow, 

Soon  feel,  whose  god  is  strongest,  thine  or  mine. 

Har.  Presume  not  on  thy  God,  whate'er  he  be : 
Thee  he  regards  not,  owns  not,  hath  cut  off 
duite  from  this  people,  and  delivered  up 
Into  thy  enemies'  hand,  permitted  them 
To  put  out  both  thine  eyes,  and  fettered  send  thee 
Into  the  common  prison,  there  to  grind 
Among  the  slaves  and  asses  thy  comrades, 
As  good  for  nothing  else ;  no  better  service 
With  those  thy  boisterous  locks,  no  worthy  match 
For  valour  to  assail,  nor  by  the  sword 
Of  noble  warrior,  so  to  stain  his  honour, 
But  by  the  barber's  razor  best  subdued. 

Sams.  All  these  indignities,  for  such  they  are 
From  thine,  these  evils  I  deserve,  and  more, 
Acknowledge  them  from  God  inflicted  on  me 
Justly,  yet  despair  not  of  his  final  pardon, 
W^hose  ear  is  ever  open,  and  his  eye 
Gracious  to  readmit  the  suppliant: 
In  confidence  whereof  1  once  again 
Defy  thee  to  the  trial  of  mortal  fight, 
By  combat  to  decide  whose  god  is  God, 
Thine,  or  whom  I  with  Israel's  sons  adore. 

Har.  Fair  honour  that  thou  dost  thy  God,  in 

trusting 

He  will  accept  thee  to  defend  his  cause, 
A  murderer,  a  revolter,  and  a  robber ! 

Sams.  Tongue-doughty  giant,  how  dost  thou 
prove  me  these  1 

Har.  Is  not  thy  nation  subject  to  our  lords  1 
Their  magistrates  confessed  it  when  they  took  thee 
As  a  league  breaker,  and  delivered  bound 
Into  our  hands :  for  hadst  thou  not  committed 
Notorious  murder  on  those  thirty  men 
At  Ascalon,  who  never  did  thee  harm, 
Then  like  a  robber  stripped'st  them  of  their  robes'? 
The  Philistines,  when  thou  hadst  broke  the  league, 
W^ent  up  with  armed  powers  thee  only  seekingj 
To  others  did  no  violence  or  spoil. 

Sams.  Among  the  daughters  of  the  Philistines 
I  chose  a  wife,  which  argued  me  no  foe ; 
And  in  your  city  held  my  nuptial  feast : 
But  your  ill  meaning  politician  lords, 
Under  pretence  of  bridal  friends  and  guests, 
Appointed  to  await  me  thirty  spies, 
Who,  threatening  cruel  death,  constrained  the 
bride 


To  wring  from  me,  and  tell  to  them,  rny  secret, 
That  solved  the  riddle  which  I  had  proposed. 
When  I  perceived  all  set  on  enmity, 
As  on  my  enemies,  wherever  chanced, 
I  used  hostility,  and  took  their  sp*oil, 
To  pay  my  underminers  in  their  coin. 
My  nation  was  subjected  to  your  lords; 
It  was  the  force  of  conquest :  force  with  force 
Is  well  ejected  when  the  conquered  can. 
But  I,  a  private  person,  whom  my  country 
As  a  league  bearer  gave  up  bound,  presumed 
Single  rebellion.,*  and  did  hostile  acts. 
I  was  no  private,  but  a  person  raised 
With  strength  sufficient,  and  command  from  Hea- 
ven 

To  free  my  country :  if  their  servile  minds 
Me,  their  deliverer  sent,  would  not  receive, 
But  to  their  masters  gave  me  up  for  nought, 
The  un worthier  they;  whence  to  this  day  they 

serve. 

I  was  to  do  my  part  from  Heaven  assigned, 
And  hath  performed  it,  if  my  known  offence 
Hath  not  disabled  me,  not  all  your  force ; 
These  shifts  refuted,  answer  thy  appellant, 
Though  by  his  blindness  maimed  for  high  at- 
tempts, 

Who  now  defies  thee  thrice  to  single  fight, 
As  a  petty  enterprise  of  small  enforce. 

Har.  With  thee !  a  man  condemned,  a  slave  en- 
rolled. 

Due  by  the  law  to  capital  punishment ! 
To  fight  with  thee  no  man  of  arms  will  deign. 

Sams.  Cam'st  thou  for  this,  vain  boaster,  to  sur- 
vey me, 

To  descant  on  my  strength,  and  give  thy  verdict! 
Come  nearer;  part  not  hence  so  slight  informed ; 
But  take  good  heed  my  hand  survey  not  thee. 

Har.  O  Baal-zebub !  can  my  ears  unused 
Hear  these  dishonours,  and  not  render  death"? 

Sams.  No  man  withholds  thee,  nothing  from  thy 

hand 

Fear  I  incurable ;  bring  up  thy  van, 
My  heels  are  fettered  but  my  fist  is  free. 

Har.  This  insolence  other  kind  of  answer  fits. 

Sams.  Go,  baffled  coward !  lest  I  run  upon  thee, 
Though  in  these  chains,  bulk  without  spirit  vast, 
And  with  one  buffet  lay  thy  structure  low, 
Or  swing  thee  in  the  air,  then  dash  thee  down 
To  the  hazard  of  thy  brains  and  shattered  sides. 

Har.  By  Astaroth,  ere  long  thou  shalt  lament 
These  braveries,  in  irons  loaden  on  thee.     [Exit.] 

Chor.  His  giantship  is  gone  somewhat  crest- 
fallen, 

Stalking  with  less  unconscionable  strides, 
And  lower  looks,  but  in  a  sultry  chafe. 

Sams.  I  dread  him  not,  nor  all  his  giant  brood, 
Though  fame  divulge  him  father  of  five  sons, 
All  of  gigantic  size,  Goliah  chief. 

Chor.  He  will  directly  to  the  lords,  I  fear, 


SAMSON  AGONISTES. 


129 


And  with  malicious  counsel  stir  them  up 
Some  way  or  other  yet  further  to  afflict  thee. 

Sams.  He  must  allege  some  cause,  and  offered 

fight 

Will  not  dare  mention,  lest  a  question  rise 
Whether  he  durst  accept  the  offer  or  not; 
And,  that  he  durst  not,  plain  enough  appeared. 
Much  more  affliction  than  already  felt 
They  can  not  well  impose,  nor  I  sustain ; 
If  they  intend  advantage  of  my  labours, 
The  work  of  many  hands  which  earns  my  keeping 
With  no  small  profit  daily  to  my  owners. 
But  come  what  will,  my  deadliest  foe  will  prove 
My  speediest  friend,  by  death  to  rid  me  hence ; 
The  worst  that  he  can  give,  to  me  the  best. 
Yet  so  it  may  fall  out,  because  their  end 
Is  hate,  not  help  to  me,  it  may  with  mine 
Draw  their  own  ruin  who  attempt  the  deed. 

Chor.  O  how  comely  it  is,  and  how  reviving 
To  the  spirits  of  just  men  long  oppressed! 
When  God  into  the  hantls  of  their  deliverer 
Puts  invincible  might 

To  quell  the  mighty  of  the  earth,  the  oppressor, 
The  brute  and  boisterous  force  of  violent  men, 
Hardy  and  industrious  to  support 
Tyrannic  power,  but  raging  to  pursue 
The  righteous  and  all  such  as  honour  truth; 
He  all  their  ammunition 
And  feats  of  war  defeats, 
With  plain  heroic  magnitude  of  mind 
And  celestial  vigour  armed: 
Their  armouries  and  magazines  contemns, 
Renders  them  useless ;  while 
With  winged  expedition, 
Swift  as  the  lightning  glance,  he  executes 
His  errand  on  the  wicked,  who,  surprised, 
Lose  their  defence,  distracted  and  amazed. 

But  patience  is  more  oft  the  exercise 
Of  saints,  the  trial  of  their  fortitude, 
Making  them  each  his  own  deliverer, 
And  victor  over  all 
That  tyranny  or  fortune  can  inflict. 
Either  of  these  is  in  thy  lot, 
Samson,  with  might  endued 
Above  the  sons  of  men ;  but  sight  bereaved 
May  chance  to  number  thee  with  those 
Whom  patience  finally  must  crown. 

This  idol's  day  hath  been  to  thee  no  day  of  rest, 
Labouring  thy  mind 
More  than  the  working  day  thy  hands. 
And  yet  perhaps  more  trouble  is  behind, 
For  I  descry  this  way 
Some  other  tending;  in  his  hand 
A  sceptre  or  quaint  staff  he  bears, 
Comes  on  amain,  speed  in  his  look. 
By  his  habit  I  discern  him  now 
A  public  officer,  and  now  at  hand. 
His  message  will  be  short  and  voluble. 
11 


[Enter]  Officer. 

Off.  Hebrews,  the  prisoner  Samson  here  I  seek. 

Chor.  His  manacles  remark  him,  there  he  sits. 

Off.  Samson,  to  thee  our  lords  thus  bade  me  say; 
This  day  to  Dagon  is  a  solemn  feast, 
With  sacrifices,  triumph,  pomp,  and  games: 
Thy  strength  they  know  surpassing  human  rate, 
And  now  some  public  proof  thereof  require 
To  honour  this  great  feast,  and  great  assembly; 
Rise  therefore  with  all  speed,  and  come  along, 
Where  I  will  see  thee  heartened,  and  fresh  clad, 
To  appear,  as  fits,  before  the  illustrious  lords. 

Sams.  Thou  knowest  I  am  an  Hebrew,  there- 
fore tell  them, 

Our  law  forbids  at  their  religious  rites 
My  presence,  for  that  cause  I  can  not  come. 

Off.  This  answer,  be  assured,  will  not  content 
them. 

Sams.  Have  they  not  sword-players,  and  every 

sort 

Of  gymnic  artists,  wrestlers,  riders,  runners, 
Jugglers,  and  dancers,  antics,  mummers,  mimics, 
But  they  must  pick  me  out  with  shackles  tired, 
And  over-laboured  at  their  public  mill, 
To  make  them  sport  with  bh'nd  activity"? 
Do  they  not  seek  occasion  of  new  quarrels 
On  my  refusal  to  distress  me  more, 
Or  make  a  game  of  my  calamities'? 
Return  the  way  thou  cam'st,  I  will  not  come. 

Off.     Regard  thyself;   this  will   offend  them 
highly. 

Sams.   Myself!   my  conscience   and  internal 

peace. 

Can  they  think  me  so  broken,  so  debased 
With  corporal  servitude,  that  my  mind  ever 
Will  condescend  to  such  absurd  commands? 
Although  their  drudge,  to  be  their  fool  or  jester, 
And  in  my  midst  of  sorrow  and  heart-grief 
To  show  them  feats,  and  play  before  their  god, 
The  worst  of  all  indignities,  yet  on  me 
Joined  with  extreme  contempt  1  I  will  not  come. 

Off.    My  message  was  imposed  on  me  with 

speed, 
Brooks  no  delay  :  is  this  thy  resolution  *? 

Sams.  So  take  it  with  what  speed  thy  message 
needs. 

Off.  I  am  sorry  what  this  stoutness  will  produce. 

[Exit. 

Sams.  Perhaps  thou  shalt  have  cause  to  sorrow 
indeed. 

Chor.    Consider,    Samson;    matters  now  are 

strained 

Up  to  the  height,  whether  to  hofd  or  break: 
He's  gone,  and  who  knows  how  he  may  report 
Thy  words  by  adding  fuel  to  the  flame? 
Expect  another  message  more  imperious, 
More  lordly  thundering  than  thou  well  wilt  bear. 

Sams.  Shall  I  abuse  this  consecrated  gift 


130 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


Of  strength,  again  returning  with  my  hair, 
After  my  great  transgression;  so  requite 
Favour  renewed,  and  add  a  greater  sin 
By  prostituting  holy  things  to  idols  1 
A  Nazarite  in  place  abominable, 
Vaunting  my  strength  in  honour  to  their  Dagon ! 
Besides,  how  vile,  contemptible,  ridiculous, 
What  act  more  execrably  unclean,  profane ! 

Chor.  Yet  with  this  strength  thou  serv'st  the 

Philistines, 
Idolatrous,  uncircumcised,  unclean. 

Sams.  Not  in  their  idol- worship,  but  by  labour 
Honest  and  lawful,  to  deserve  my  food 
Of  those  who  have  me  in  their  ci\al  power. 

Chor.  Where  the  heart  joins  not,  outward  acts 
defile  not. 

Sams.  Where  outward  force  constrains,   the 

sentence  holds, 

But  who  constrains  me  to  the  temple  of  Dagon, 
Not  dragging  1    The  Philistine  lords  command. 
Commands  are  no  constraints.     If  I  obey  them, 
I  do  it  freely,  venturing  to  displease 
God  for  the  fear  of  man,  and  man  prefer, 
Set  God  behind;  which  in  his  jealousy 
Shall  never,  unrepented,  find  forgiveness. 
Yet  that  he  may  dispense  with  me,  or  thee, 
Present  in  temples  at  idolatrous  rites 
For  some  important  cause  thou  need'st  not  doubt. 

Chor.  How  thou  wilt  here  come  off  surmounts 
my  reach. 

Sams.  Be  of  good  courage ;  I  begin  to  feel 
Some  rousing  motions  in  me,  which  dispose 
To  something  extraordinary  my  thoughts. 
I  with  this  messenger  will  go  along, 
Nothing  to  do,  be  sure,  that  may  dishonour 
Our  law,  or  stain  my  vow  of  Nazarite. 
If  there  be  aught  of  presage  in  the  mind, 
This  day  will  be  remarkable  in  my  life 
By  some  great  act,  or  of  my  days  the  last. 

Chor.  In  time  thou  hast  resolved,  the  man  re- 
turns. 

[Enter]  Officer. 

Off.  Samson,  this  second  message  from  our  lords 
To  thee  I  am  bid  say.    Art  thou  our  slave, 
Our  captive,  at  the  public  mill  our  drudge, 
And  darest  thou  at  our  sending  and  command 
Dispute  thy  coming'?  come  without  delay; 
Or  we  shall  find  such  engines  to  assail 
And  hamper  thee,  as  thou  shall  come  of  force, 
Though  thou  wert  firmlier  fastened  than  a  rock. 

Sams.  I  could  be  well  content  to  try  their  art, 
Which  to  no  few  of  them  would  prove  pernicious, 
Yet,  knowing  their  advantages  too  many, 
Because  they  shall   not  trail  me   through  their 

streets 

Like  a  wild  beast,  I  am  content  to  go. 
Masters'  commands  come  with  a  power  resistless 
To  such  as  owe  them  absolute  subjection; 


And  for  a  life  who  will  not  change  his  purpose  7 
(So  mutable  are  all  the  ways  of  men;) 
Yet  this  be  sure,  in  nothing  to  comply 
Scandalous  or  forbidden  in  our  law. 

Off.  I  praise  thy  resolutions:  doflf  these  links: 
By  this  compliance  thou  wilt  win  the  lords 
To  favour,  and  perhaps  to.  set  thee  free. 

Sams.  Brethren,  farewell ;  your  company  along 
I  will  not  wish,  lest  it  perhaps  offend  them 
To  see  me  girt  with  friends :  and  how  the  sight 
Of  me,  as  of  a  common  enemy, 
So  dreaded  once,  may  now  exasperate  them, 
I  know  not:  lords  are  lordliest  in  their  wines; 
And  the  well-feasted  priest  then  soonest  fired 
With  zeal,  if  aught  religion  seem  concerned ; 
No  less  the  people,  on  their  holy-days, 
Impetuous,  insolent,  unquenchable : 
Happen  what  may,  of  me  expect  to  hear 
Nothing  dishonourable,  impure,  unworthy 
Our  God,  our  law,  my  nation,  or  myself, 
The  last  of  me  or  no  I  can  not  warrant.     [Exit.] 

Chor.  Go,  and  the  Holy  One 
Of  Israel  be  thy  guide 
To  what  may  serve  his  glory  best,  and  spread  his 

name 

Great  among  the  heathen  round : 
Send  thee  the  angel  of  thy  birth,  to  stand 
Fast  by  thy  side,  who  from  thy  father's  field 
Rode  up  in  flames  after  his  message  told 
Of  thy  conception,  and  be  now  a  shield 
Of  fire;  that  Spirit,  that  first  rushed  on  thee 
In  the  camp  of  Dan, 
Be  efficacious  in  thee  now  at  need ! 
For  never  was  from  Heaven  imparted 
Measure  of  strength  so  great  to  mortal  seed, 
As  in  thy  wondrous  actions  hath  been  seen. — 
But  wherefore  comes  old  Manoah  in  such  haste 
With  youthful  steps  1  much  livelier  than  erewhile 
He  seems  ;  supposing  here  to  find  his  son, 
Or  of  him  bringing  to  us  some  glad  news  ^ 

[Enter]  Manoah. 

Man.  Peace  with  you,  brethren;   my  induce- 
ment hither 

Was  not  at  present  here  to  find  my  son, 
By  order  of  the  lords  now  parted  hence 
To  come  and  play  before  them  at  their  feast. 
I  heard  all  as  I  came,  the  city  rings, 
And  numbers  thither  flock :  I  had  no  will, 
Lest  I  should  see  him  forced  to  things  unseemly. 
But  that  which  moved  my  coming  now,  was  chiefly 
To  give  ye  part  with  me  what  hope  I  have 
With  good  success  to  work  his  liberty. 

Chor.  That  hope  would  much  rejoice  us  to  par- 
take 
With  thee ;  say,  reverend  sire,  we  thirst  to  hear. 

Man.  I  have  attempted  one  by  one  the  lords, 
Either  at  home,  or  through  the  high  street  passing, 
With  supplication  prone  and  father's  tears, 


SAMSON  AGONISTES. 


131 


To  accept  of  ransom  for  my  son,  their  prisoner. 
Some  much  averse  I  found  and  wondrous  harsh, 
Contemptuous,  proud,  set  on  revenge  and  spite, 
That  part  most  reverenced  Dagon  and  his  priests; 
Others  more  moderate  seeming,  but  their  aim 
Private  reward,  for  which  both  God  and  state 
They  easily  would  set  to  sale :  a  third 
More  generous  far  and  civil,  who  confessed 
They  had  enough  revenged ;  having  reduced 
Their  foe  to  misery  beneath  their  fears, 
The  rest  was  magnanimity  to  remit, 
If  some  convenient  ransom  were  proposed.— 
What  noise  or  shout  was  that  1  it  tore  the  sky. 

Cftor.  Doubtless  the  people  shouting  to  behold 
Their  once  great  dread,  captive,  and  blind  before 

them, 
Or  at  some  proof  of  strength  before  them  shown. 

A/an.  His  ransom,  if  my  whole  inheritance 
May  compass  it,  shall  willingly  be  paid 
And  numbered  down:  much  rather  I  shall  choose 
To  live  the  poorest  in  my  tribe,  than  richest, 
And  he  in  that  calamitous  prison  left. 
No,  I  am  fixed  not  to  part  hence  without  him. 
For  his  redemption  all  my  patrimony, 
If  need  be,  I  am  ready  to  forego 
And  quit;  not  wanting  him,   I  shall  want  no- 
thing. 

Chor.  Fathers  are  wont  to  lay  up  for  their  sons, 
Thou  for  thy  son  art  bent  to  lay  out  all ; 
Sons  wont  to  nurse  their  parents  in  old  age, 
Thou  in  old  age  carcst  how  to  nurse  thy  son, 
Made  older  than  thy  age  through  eyesight  lost. 

Man.  It  shall  be  my  delight  to  tend  his  eyes. 
And  view  him  sitting  in  the  house,  ennobled 
With  all  those  high  exploits  by  him  achieved. 
And  on  his  shoulders  waving  down  those  locks 
That  of  a  nation  armed  the  strength  contained: 
And  I  persuade  me,  God  had  not  permitted 
His  strength  again  togrovtf  up  with  his  hair, 
Garrisoned  round  about  him  like  a  camp 
Of  faithful  soldiery,  were  not  his  purpose 
To  use  him  further  yet  in  some  great  service ; 
Not  to  sit  idle  with  so  great  a  gift 
Useless,  and  thence  ridiculous  about  him. 
And  since  his  strength  with  eyesight  was  not  lost, 
God  will  restore  him  eyesight  to  his  strength. 

Chor.  Thy  hopes  are  not  ill  founded,  nor  seem 

vain 

Of  his  delivery,  and  thy  joy  thereon 
Conceived  agreeable  to  a  father's  love, 
In  both  which  we,  as  next,  participate. 

Man.  I  know  your  friendly  minds  and — O  what 

noise! — 

Mercy  of  heaven,  what  hideous  noise  was  that  1 
Horribly  loud,  unlike  the  former  shout. 

Chor.  Noise  call  you  that,  or  universal  groan, 
As  if  the  whole  inhabitation  perished! 
Blood,  death,  and  deathful  deeds  are  in  that  noise, 
Ruin,  destruction  at  the  utmost  point. 


Man.  Of  ruin  indeed  raethought  I  heard  the 

noise; 
Oh!  it  continues,  they  have  slain  my  son. 

Chor.  Thy  son  is  rather  slaying  them;   that 

outcry 
From  slaughter  of  one  foe  could  not  ascend. 

Man.  Some  dismal  accident  it  needs  must  be ; 
What  shall  we  do,  stay  here  or  run  and  seel 

Chor.  Best  keep  together  here,  lest,  running 

thither, 

We  unawares  run  into  danger's  mouth. 
This  evil  on  the  Philistines  is  fallen; 
From  whom  could  else  a  general  cry  be  heard  1 
The  sufferers  then  will  scarce  molest  us  here 
From  other  hands  we  need  not  much  to  fear. 
What  if,  his  eyesight  (for  to  Israel's  God 
Nothing  is  hard)  by  miracle  restored, 
He  now  be  dealing  dole  among  his  foes, 
And  over  heaps  of  slaughtered  walk  his  wayl 

Man.    That  were  a  joy  presumptuous  to  be 
thought. 

Chor.  Yet  God  hath  wrought  things  as  incre- 
dible 
For  his  people  of  old ;  what  hinders  now  1 

Man.  He  can,  I  know,  but  doubt  to  think  he 

will; 

Yet  hope  would  fain  subscribe,  and  tempts  belief. 
A  little  stay  will  bring  some  notice  hither. 

Chor.  Of  good  or  bad  so  great,  of  bad  the  sooner ; 
For  evil  news  rides  post,  while  good  news  baits. 
And  to  our  wish  I  see  one  hither  speeding, 
An  Hebrew,  as  I  guess,  and  of  our  tribe. 

[Enter]  Messenger. 

Mess.  O  whither  shall  I  run,  or  which  way  fly 
The  sight  of  this  so  horrid  spectacle, 
Which  erst  my  eyes  beheld  and  yet  behold  7 
For  dire  imagination  still  pursues  me. 
But  providence  or  instinct  of  nature  seems, 
Or  reason  though  disturbed,  and  scarce  consulted, 
To  have  guided  me  aright  I  know  not  how, 
To  thee  first,  reverend  Manoah,  and  to  these 
My  countrymen,  whom  here  1  knew  remaining, 
As  at  some  distance  from  the  place  of  horror, 
So  in  the  sad  event  too  much  concerned. 

Man.  The  accident  was  loud,  and  here  before 

thee 

With  rueful  cry,  yet  what  it  was  we  hear  not; 
No  preface  needs,  thou  seest  we  long  to  know. 

Mess.  It  would  burst  forth,  but  I  recover  breath 
And  sense  distract,  to  know  well  what  I  utter. 

Man.  Tell  us  the  sum,  the  circumstance  defer. 

Mess.  Gaza  yet  stands,  but  all  her  sons  are  fallen, 
All  in  a  moment  overwhelmed  and  fallen. 

Man.  Sad,  but  thou  know'st  to  Israelites  not 

saddest 
The  desolation  of  a  hostile  city. 

Mess.  Feed  on  that  first;  there  may  in  grief  be 
surfeit. 


132 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


Man.  Relate  by  whom. 

Mess.  By  Samson. 

Man.  That  still  lessens 

The  sorrow,  and  converts  it  nigh  to  joy. 

Mess.  Ah,  Manoah,  I  refrain  too  suddenly 
To  utter  what  will  come  at  last  too  soon; 
Lest  evil  tidings,  with  too  rude  irruption 
Hitting  thy  aged  ear,  should  pierce  too  deep. 

Man.  Suspense  in  news  is  torture;  speak  them 
out. 

Mess.  Take  then  the  worst  in  .brief,  Samson  is 
dead. 

Man.  The  worst  indeed !  O  all  my  hopes  de- 
feated 

To  free  him  hence !  but  death,  who  sets  all  free, 
Hath  paid  his  ransom  now  and  full  discharge. 
What  windy  joy  this  day  had  I  conceived 
Hopeful  of  his  delivery,  which  now  proves 
Abortive  as  the  first-born  bloom  of  spring 
Nipt  with  the  lagging  rear  of  winter's  frost ! 
Yet  ere  I  give  the  reins  to  grief,  say  first, 
How  died  he ;  death  to  life  is  crown  or  shame. 
All  by  him  fell,  thou  sayest;  by  whom  fell  he? 
What  glorious  hand   gave  Samson   his  death's 
wound  1 

Mess.  Unwounded  of  his  enemies  he  fell. 

Man.  Wearied  with  slaughter  then,  or  how? 
explain. 

Mess.  By  his  own  hands. 

Man.  Self-violence?  what  cause   . 

Brought  him  so  soon  at  variance  with  himself 
Among  his  foes? 

Mess.  Inevitable  cause 

At  once  both  to  destroy  and  be  destroyed; 
The  edifice,  where  all  were  met  to  see  him, 
Upon  their  heads  and  on  his  own  he  pulled. 

Man.  O  lastly  overstrong  against  thyself! 
A  dreadful  way  thou  took'st  to  thy  revenge. 
More  than  enough  we  know ;  but  while  things  yet 
Are  in  confusion,  give  us,  if  thou  canst, 
Eyewitness  of  what  first  or  last  was  done, 
Relation  more  particular  and  distinct. 

Mess.  Occasions  drew  me  early  to  this  city; 
And,  as  the  gates  I  entered  with  sunrise, 
The  morning  trumpets  festival  proclaimed 
Through  each  high  street :  little  I  had  despatched, 
When  all  abroad  was  rumoured  that  this  day 
Samson  should  be  brought  forth,  to  show  the  people 
Proof  of  his  mighty  strength  in  feats  and  games ; 
I  sorrowed  at  his  captive  state,  but  minded 
Not  to  be  absent  at  that  spectacle. 
The  building  was  a  spacious  theatre 
Half-round,  on  two  main  pillars  vaulted  high, 
With  seats  where  all  the  lords,  and  each  degree 
Of  sort,  might  sit  in  order  to  behold; 
The  other  side  was  open,  where  the  throng 
On  banks  and  scaffolds  under  sky  might  stand; 
I  among  these  aloof  obscurely  stood. 
The  feast  and  noon  grew  high,  and  sacrifice 


Had  filled  their  hearts  with  mirth,  high  cheer,  and 

wine, 

When  to  their  sports  they  turned.     Immediately 
Was  Samson  as  a  public  servant  brought, 
In  their  state  livery  clad ;  before  him  pipes 
And  timbrels,  on  each  side  went  armed  guards, 
Both  horse  and  foot,  before  him  and  behind 
Archers,  and  slingers,  cataphracts,  and  spears. 
At  sight  of  him  the  people  with  a  shout 
Rifted  the  air,  clamouring  their  god  with  praise 
Who  had  made  their  dreadful  enemy  their  thrall. 
He  patient,  but  undaunted,  where  they  led  him, 
Came  to  the  place ;  and  what  was  set  before  him, 
Which  without  help  of  eye  might  be  assayed, 
To  heave,  pull,  draw,  or  break,  he  still  performed 
All  with  incredible,  stupendous  force, 
None  daring  to  appear  antagonist. 
At  length  for  intermission  sake  they  led  hirn 
Between  the  pillars;  he  his  guide  requested 
(For  so  from  such  as  nearer  stood  we  heard) 
As  overtired  to  let  him  lean  a  while 
With  both  his  arms  on  those  two  massy  pillars, 
That  to  the  arched'roof  gave  main  support. 
He,  unsuspicious,  led  him ;  which,  when  Samson 
Felt  in  his  arms,  with  head  a  while  inclined, 
And  eyes  fast  fixed  he  stood,  as  one  who  prayed, 
Or  some  great  matter  in  his  mind  revolved : 
At  last,  with  head  erect,  thus  cried  aloud ; 
"Hitherto,  lords,  what  your  commands  imposed 
I  have  performed,  as  reason  was,  obeying, 
Not  without  wonder  or  delight  beheld : 
Now  of  my  own  accord  such  other  trial 
I  mean  to  show  you  of  my  strength,  yet  greater, 
As  with  amaze  stiall  strike  all  who  behold.' 
This  uttered,  straining  all  his  nerves  he  bowed 
As  with  the  force  of  winds  and  waters  pent, 
When  mountains  tremble,  those  two  massy  pillars 
With  horrible  convulsion  to  and  fro 
He  tugged,  he  shook,  tilMown  they  came,  and  drew 
The  whole  roof  after  them  with  burst  of  thunder 
Upon  the  heads  of  all  who  sat  beneath, 
Lords,  ladies,  captains,  counsellors,  or  priests, 
Their  choice  nobility  and  flower,  not  only 
Of  this  but  each  Philistian  city  round, 
Met  from  all  parts  to  solemnize  this  feast. 
Samson,  with  these  immixed,  inevitably 
Pulled  down  the  same  destruction  on  himself; 
The  vulgar  only  scaped  who  stood  without. 

Chor.  O  dearly-bought  revenge,  yet  glorious ! 
Living  or  dying  thou  hast  fulfilled 
The  work  for  which  thou  wast  foretold 
To  Israel,  and  now  liest  victorious 
Among  thy  slain,  self-killed, 
Not  willingly,  but  tangled  in  the  fold 
Of  dire  necessity,  whose  law  in  death  conjoined 
Thee  with  thy  slaughtered  foes,  in  number  more 
Than  all  thy  life  hath  slain  before. 

1  Scmichor.  While  their  hearts  were  jocund  and 
sublime 


SAMSON  AGONISTES. 


133 


Drunk  with  idolatry,  druiik  with  wine, 

And  fat  regorged  of  bulls  and  goats, 

Chanting  their  idol,  and  preferring 

Before  our  living  Dread  who  dwells 

In  Silo,  his  bright  sanctuary: 

Among  them  he  a  spirit  of  phrenzy  sent, 

Who  hurt  their  minds, 

And  urged  them  on  with  mad  desire 

To  call  in  haste  for  their  destroyer ; 

They,  only  set  on  sport  and  play, 

Unweetingly  importuned 

Their  own  destruction  to  come  speedy  upon  them. 

So  fond  are  mortal  men, 

Fallen  into  wrath  divine, 

As  their  own  ruin  on  themselves  to  invite, 

Insensate  left,  or  to  sense  reprobate, 

And  with  blindness  internal  struck. 

2  Semichor.  But  he,  though  blind  of  sight, 
Despised  and  thought  extinguished  quite 
With  inward  eyes  illuminated, 
His  fiery  virtue  roused 
From  under  ashes  into  sudden  flame, 
And  as  an  evening  dragon  came, 
Assailant  on  the  perched  roosts 
And  nests  in  order  ranged 
Of  tame  villatic  fowl;  but  as  an  eagle 
His  cloudless  thunder  bolted  on  their  heads. 
So  virtue,  given  for  lost, 
Depressed,  and  overthrown,  as  seemed, 
Like  that  self-begotten  bird 
In  the  Arabian  woods  embossed, 
That  no  second  knows  nor  third, 
And  lay  ere  while  a  holocaust, 
From  out  her  ashy  womb  now  teemed, 
Revives,  reflourishes,  then  vigorous  most 
When  most  unactive  deemed ; 
And,  though  her  body  die,  her  fame  survives 
A  secular  bird  ages  of  lives. 

Man.  Come,  come;   no  time  for  lamentation 

now, 

Nor  much  more  cause ;  Samson  hath  quit  himself 
Like  Samson,  and  heroicly  hath  finished 
A  life  heroic :  on  his  enemies 
Fully  revenged,  hath  left  them  years  of  mourning, 
And  lamentation  to  the  sons  of  Caphtor 


Through  all  Philistian  bounds;  to  Israel 
Honour  hath  left,  and  freedom,  let  but  them 
Find  courage  to  lay  hold  on  this  occasion ; 
To  himself  and  father's  house  eternal  fame ; 
And,  which  is  best  and  happiest  yet,  all  this 
With  God  not  parted  from  him,  as  was  feared, 
But  favouring  and  assisting  to  the  end. 
Nothing  is  here  for  tears,  nothing  to  wail 
Or  knock  the  breast ;  no  weakness,  no  contempt, 
Dispraise,  or  blame;  nbthing  but  well  and  fair, 
And  what  may  quiet  us  in  a  death  so  noble. 
Let  us  go  find  the  body,  where  it  lies 
Soaked  in  his  enemies'  blood ;  and  from  the  stream 
With  lavers  pure,  and  cleansing  herbs,  wash  off 
The  clotted  gore.    I,  with  what  speed  the  while, 
(Gaza  is  not  in  plight  to  say  us  nay,) 
Will  send  for  all  my  kindred,  all  my  friends, 
To  fetch  him  hence,  and  solemnly  attend 
With  silent  obsequy  and  funeral  train, 
Home  to  his  father's  house;  there  will  I  build  him 
A  monument,  and  plant  it  round  with  shade 
Of  laurel  evergreen,  and  branching  palm, 
With  all  his  trophies  hung,  and  acts  enrolled 
In  copious  legend,  or  sweet  lyric  song. 
Thither  shall  all  the  valiant  youth  resort, 
And  from  his  memory  inflame  their  breasts 
To  matchless  valour,  and  adventures  high: 
The  virgins  also  shall,  on  feastful  days, 
Visit  his  tomb  with  flowers ;  only  bewailing 
His  lot  unfortunate  in  nuptial  choice, 
From  whence  captivity  and  loss  of  eyes. 

Chor.  All  is  best,  though  we  oft  doubt, 
What  the  unsearchable  dispose 
Of  highest  Wisdom  brings  about, 
And  ever  best  found  in  the  cjose. 
Oft  he  seems  to  hide  his  face, 
But  unexpectedly  returns. 
And  to  his  faithful  champion  hath  in  place 
Bore  witness  gloriously;  whence  Gaza  mourns, 
And  all  that  band  them  to  resist 
His  uncontrollable  intent: 
His  servants  he,  with  new  acquist 
Of  true  experience,  from  this  great  event 
With  peace  and  consolation  hath  dismissed 
And  calm  of  mind  all  passion  spent. 


134 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


A  MASK, 

PRESENTED  AT  LUDLOW  CASTLE,  1643,  BEFORE 
;  JOHN,  EARL  OF  BRIDGEWATER, 

THEN  PRESIDENT  OF  WALES. 


*  TO  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE 
JOHN  LORD  VISCOUNT  BRACKLEY,t 

Son  and  Heir-Apparent  to  the  Earl  of  Brklgewater,  <fec. 
MY  LORD, 

THIS  poem,  which  received  its  first  occasion  of 
birth  from  yourself  and  others  of  your  noble  family, 
and  much  honour  from  your  own  person  in  the 
performance,  now  returns  again  to  make  a  final 
dedication  of  itself  to  you.  Although  not  openly 
acknowledged  by  the  author,*  yet  it  is  a  legitimate 
offspring,  so  lovely  and  so  much  desired,  that  the 
often  copying  of  it  hath  tired  my  pen  to  give  my 
several  friends  satisfaction,  and  brought  me  to  a 
necessity  of  producing  it  to  the  public  view;  and 
now  to  offer  it  up  in  all  rightful  devotion  to  those 
fair  hopes,  and  rare  endowments  of  your  much  pro- 
mising youth,  which  give  a  full  assurance,  to  all 
that  know  you,  of  a  future  excellence.  Live, 
sweet  Lord,  to  be  the  honour  of  your  name,  and 
receive  this  as  your  own,  from  the  hands  of  him, 
who  hath  by  many  favours  been  long  obliged  to 
your  most  honoured  parents,  and  as  in  this  repre- 
sentation your  attendant  Thyrsis,  so  now  in  all 
real  expression,  your  faithful  and  most  humble 
servant,  •  H.  LA  WES. 


THE  PERSONS. 

The  Attendant  Spirit,  afterwards  in  the  habit  ofThyrsis. 

Comus  icith  his  Crew. 

The  Lady. 

First  Brother. 

Second  Brother. 

Sabrina,  the  Nymph. 

THE  CHIEF  PERSONS,  WHO  PRESENTED,  WERE 
The  Lord  Brackley. 
Mr.  Thomas  Egerton,  his  brother, 
The  lady  Alice  Egerton. 


COMUS. 

The  first  scene  discovers  a  wild  Wood. 
THE  ATTENDANT  SPIRIT  descends  or  enters. 

BEFORE  the  starry  threshold  of  Jove's  court 
My  mansion  is,  where  those  immortal  shapes 


*  This  is  the  dedication  to  Lawes's  edition  of  the  Mask,  10,'}7. 

t  The  first  Brother  in  the  Mask.      Warton. 

J  It  never  appeared  under  Milton's  name,  till  the  year  1645. 


Of  bright  aerial  spirits  live  insphered 
In  regions  mild  of  calm  and  serene  air, 
Above  the  smoke  and  stir  of  this  dim  spot, 
Which  men  call  Earth;  and,  with  low-thoughted 

care 

Confined  and  pester'd  in  this  pin-fold  here, 
Strive  to  keep  up  a  frail  and  feverish  being, 
Unmindful  of  the  crown  that  Virtue  gives, 
After  this  mortal  change,  to  her  true  servants, 
Amongst  the  enthroned  gods  on  sainted  seats. 
Yet  some  there  be,  that  by  due  steps  aspire 
To  lay  their  just  hands  on  that  golden  key, 
That  opes  the  palace  of  Eternity: 
To  such  my  errand  is;  and,  but  for  such, 
I  would  not  soil  these  purQ  ambrosial  weeds 
With  the  rank  vapours  of  this  sin-worn  mould. 

But  to  my  task.     Neptune,  besides  the  sway 
Of  every  salt  flood,  and  each  ebbing  stream, 
Took  in  by  lot  'twixt  high  and  nether  Jove 
Imperial  rule  of  all  the  sea-girt  isles, 
That,  like  to  rich  and  various  gems,  inlay 
The  unadorn'd  bosom  of  the  deep : 
Which  he,  to  grace  his  tributary  gods, 
By  'course  commits  to  several  government, 
And  gives  them   leave   to  wear  their  sapphire 

crowns, 

And  wield  their  little  tridents:  but  this  Isle, 
The  greatest  and  the  best  of  all  the  main, 
He  quarters  to  his  blue-hair'd  deities ; 
And  all  this  tract  that  fronts  the  falling  sun 
A  noble  Peer  of  mickle  trust  and  power 
Has  in  his  charge,  with  temper'd  awe  to  guide 
An  old  and  haughty  nation,  proud  in  arms: 
Where  his  fair  offspring,  nursed  in  princely  lore, 
Are  coming  to  attend  their  father's  state, 
And  new-entrusted  sceptre:  but  their  way 
Lies  through  the  perplex'd  paths  of  this  drear 

wood, 

The  nodding  horror  of  whose  shady  brows 
Threats  the  forlorn  and  wandering  passenger; 
And  here  their  tender  age  might  suffer  peril, 
But  that  by  quick  command  from  sovereign  Jove 
I  was  despatch'd  for  their  defence  and  guard : 
And  listen  why;  for  I  will  tell  you  now 
What  never  yet  was  heard  in  tale  or  song, 
From  old  or  modern  bard,  in  hall  or  bower. 

Bacchus,  that  first  from  out  the  purple  grape 
Crush VI  the  sweet  poison  of  misused  wine, 
After  the  Tuscan  mariner?  transform'd, 


COMUS. 


135 


Coasting  the  Tyrrhene  shore,  as  the  winds  listed. 
On  Circe's  island  fell :  (who  knows  not  Circe, 
The  daughter  of  the  Sun,  whose  charmed  cup 
Whoever  tasted,  lost  his  upright  shape, 
And  downward  fell  into  a  groveling  swine?) 
This  nymph,  that  gazwl  U\MI  his  clustering  locks 
With  ivy  berries  wreath'd,  and  his  blithe  youth, 
Had  by  him,  ere  he  parted  thence,  a  son 
Much  like  his  father,  but  his  mother  more, 
Whom  therefore  she   brought   up,  and  Comus 

nam'd : 

Who,  ripe  and  frolic  of  his  full  grown  age, 
Roving  the  Celtic  and  Iberian  fields, 
At  last  betakes  him  to  this  ominous  wood ; 
And,  in  thick  shelter  of  black  shades  imbower'd, 
Excels  his  mother  at  her  mighty  art, 
Offering  to  every  weary  traveller 
His  orient  liquor  in  a  crystal  glass, 
To  quench  the  drouth  of  Phoebus;  which  as  they 

taste, 

(For  most  do  taste  through  fond  intemperate  thirst) 
Soon  as  the  potion  works,  their  human  counte- 
nance, 

The  express  resemblance  of  the  gods,-  is  chang'd 
Into  some  brutish  form  of  wolf,  or  bear, 
Or  ounce,  or  tiger,  hog,  or  bearded  goat, 
All  other  parts  remaining  as  they  were ; 
And  they,  so  perfect  is  their  misery, 
Not  once  perceive  their  foul  disfigurement, 
But  boast  themselves  more  comely  than  before; 
And  all  their  friends  and  native  home  forget, 
To  roll  with  pleasure  in  a  sensual  sty. 
Therefore  when  any,  favour'd  of  high  Jove, 
Chances  to  pass  through  this  adventurous  glader 
Swift  as  the  sparkle  of  a  glancing  star 
I  shoot  from  heaven,  to  give  him  safe  convoy, 
As  now  I  do:  but  first  I  must  put  off 
These  my  sky  robes  spun  out  of  Iris'  woof, 
And  take  the  weeds  and  likeness  of  a  swain 
That  to  the  service  of  this  house  belongs, 
Who  with  his  soft  pipe,  and  smooth-dittied  song, 
Well  knows  to  still  the  wild  winds  when  they  roar, 
And  hush  the  waving  woods ;  nor  of  less  faith, 
And  in  this  office  of  his  mountain  watch 
Likeliest,  and  nearest  to  the  present  aid 
Of  this  occasion.     But  I  hear  the  tread 
Of  hateful  steps ;  I  must  be  viewless  now. 

Comus  enters  with  a  charming-rod  in  one  hand,  his  glass  in 
the  other;  with  him  a  rout  of  monsters,  headed  like  sundry 
sorts  of  wild  beasts,  but  otherwise  like  men  and  women, 
their  apparel  glistering;  they  come  in  making  a  riotous 
and  unruly  noise,  with  torches  irr  their  hands. 

COM 

r  that  bids  the  shepherd  fold, 
Now  the  top  of  heaven  doth  hold ; 
And  the  folded  car  of  day 
His  glowing  axle  doth  allay 


In  the  steep  Atlantic  stream; 

And  the  slope  sun  his  upward  beam 

Shoots  against  his  dusky  pole, 

Pacing  toward  the  other  goal 

Of  his  chamber  in  the  East. 

Meanwhile  welcome  Joy,  and  Feast, 

Midnight  Shout  and  Revelry, 

Tipsy  Dance,  and  Jollity. 

Braid  your  locks  with  rosy  twine, 

Dropping  odours,  dropping  wine. 

Rigour  now  is  gone  to  bed, 

And  Advice  with  scrupulous  head. 

Strict  Age  and  sour  Severity, 

With  their  grave  saws,  in  slumber  lie. 

We,  that  are  of  purer  fire, 

Imitate  the  starry  quire, 

Who,  in  their  nightly  watchful  spheres, 

Lead  in  swift  round  the  months  and  years. 

The.  sounds  and  seas,  with  all  their  finny  drove. 

Now  to  the  moon  in  wavering  morrice  move: 

And,  on  the  tawny  sands  and  shelves, 

Trip  the  pert  faeries  and  the  dapper  elves. 

By  dimpled  brook  and  fountain  brim, 

The  wood  nymphs,  deck'd  with  daisies  trim, 

Their  merry  wakes  and  pastimes  keep. 

What  hath  night  to  do  with  sleep  7 

Night  hath  better  sweets  to  prove ; 

Venus  now  wakes,  and  wakens  Love. 
Ipome,  let  us  our  rite% begin; 
rTis  only  daylight  that  makes  sin, 
pWhich  these  dun  shades  will  ne'er  report.  I 
I  Hail,  goddess  of  noctural  sport, 

Dark-veil'd  Cotytto !  to  whom  the  secret  flame 

Of  midnight  torches  burns;  mysterious  dame, 

That  ne'er  art  call'd,  but  when  the  dragon  womt 

Of  Stygian  darkness  spits  her  thickest  gloom, 

And  makes  one  blot  of  all  the  air ; 

Stay  thy  cloudy  ebon  chair, 

Wherein  thou  rid'st  with  Hecat',  and  befriend 

Us  thy  vowed  priests,  till  utmost  end 

Of  all  thy  dues  be  done,  and  none  left  out ; 

Ere  the  babbling  eastern  scout, 

The  nice  morn,  on  the  Indian  steep 

From  her  cabined  loop-hole  peep, 

And  to  the  tell-tale  sun  descry 

Our  concealed  solemnity. — 

Come,  knit  hands,  and  beat  the  ground, 

In  a  light  fantastic  round. 

THK   MEASURE 

Break  off,  break  off:  I  feel  the  different  pace 
Of  some  chaste  footing  near  about  this  ground. 
Run  to  your  shrouds,  within  these  brakes  and  trees; 
Our  number  may  affright:  some  virgin,  sure, 
(For  so  I  can  distinguish  by  my  art) 
Benighted  in  these  woods.     Now  to  my  charms, 
And  to  my  wily  trains ;  I  shall,  ere  long 
Be  well  stock'd  with  as  fair  a  herd  as  graz'd 


136 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


About  my  mother  Circe.     Thus  I  hurl 

My  dazzling  spells  into  the  spongy  air, 

Of  power  to  cheat  the  eye  with  blear  illusion, 

And  give  it  false  presentments,  lest  the  place 

And  my  quaint  habits  breed  astonishment, 

And  put  the  damsel  to  suspicious  flight; 

Which  must  not  be,  for  that's  against  my  course : 

I,  under  fair  pretence  of  friendly  ends, 

And  well  placed  words  of  glozing  courtesy, 

Baited  with  reasons  not  unplausible, 

Wind  me  into  the  easy-hearted  man, 

And  hug  him  into  snares.   When  once  her  eye 

Hath  met  the  virtue  of  this  magic  dust, 

I  shall  appear  some  harmless  villager, 

Whom  tnrift  keeps  up  about  his  country  gear. 

But  here  she  comes.     I  fairly  step  aside, 

And  hearken,  if  I  may,  her  business  here. 

The  LADY  enters. 
Lady.  This  way  the  noise  was,  if  mine  ear  be 

true, 

My  best  guide  now.  Methought  it  was  the  sound 
Of  riot  and  ill  managed  merriment, 
Such  was  the  jocund  flute,  or  gamesome  pipe, 
Stirs  up  among  the  loose,  unlettered  hinds ; 
When  from  their  teeming  flocks,  and  granges  full, 
In  wanton  dance  they  praise  the  bounteous  Pan, 
And  thank  the  gods  amiss.     I  should  be  loth 
To  meet  the  rudeness  and  swilled  insolence 
Of  such  late  wassailers ;  yet  O !  where  else, 
Shall  I  inform  my  unacquainted  feet, 
In  the  blind  mazes  of  this  tangled  wood  1 
My  brothers,  when  they  saw  me  wearied  out 
With  this  long  way,  resolving  here  to  lodge, 
Under  the  spreading  favour  of  these  pines, 
Stept,  as  they  said,  to  the  next  thicket  side, 
To  bring  me  berries,  or  such  cooling  fruit 
As  the  kind  hospitable  woods  provide. 
They  left  me  then,  when  the  gray-hooded  Even, 
Like  a  sad  votarist  in  palmer's  weed, 
Rose  from  the  hindmost  wheels  of  Phoebus'  wain: 
But  where  they  are,  and  why  they  came  not  back, 
Is  now  the  labour  of  my  thoughts;  'tis  likeliest 
They  had  engaged  their  wandering  steps  too  far; 
And  envious  Darkness,  ere  they  could  return, 
Had  stole  them  from  me:  else,  O  thievish  Night, 
Why  should 'st  thou,  but  for  some  felonious  end, 
In  thy  dark  lantern  thus  close  up  the  stars, 
That  Nature  hung  in  heaven,  and.filled  their  lamps 
With  everlasting  oil,  to  give  due  light 
To  the  misled  and  lonely  traveller'? 
This  is  the  place,  as  well  as  I  may  guess, 
Whence  even  now  the  tumult  of  loud  mirth 
Was  rife,  and  perfect  in  my  listening  ear; 
Yet  nought  but  single  darkness  do  I  find. 
What  might  this  be'.'  A  thousand  fantasies 
Begin  to  throng  into  rny  memory, 
Of  calling  shapes,  and  beckoning  shadows  dire, 
And  airy  tongues,  that  syllable  men's  names 


On  sands,  and  shores,  and  desert  wildernesses. 
These  thoughts  may  startle  well,  but  not  astound, 
The  virtuous  mind,  that  ever  walks  attended 
By  a  strong  siding  champion,  Conscience. 

0  welcome,  pure  ey'd  Faith,  white  handed  Hope, 
Thou  hovering  angel,  girt  with  golden  wings 
And  thou,  unblemish'd  form  of  Chastity ! 

1  see  ye  visibly,  and  now  believe 

That  He,  the  Supreme  Good,  to  whom  all  things 

ill 

Are  but  as  slavish  officers  of  vengeance, 
Would  send  a  glistening  guardian,  if  need  were, 
To  keep  my  life  and  honour  unassail'd. 
Was  I  deceiv'd,  or  did  a  sable  cloud 
Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night? 
I  did  not  err:  there  does  a  sable  cloud 
Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night, 
And  casts  a  gleam  over  this  tufted  grove. 
I  can  not  halloo  to  my  brothers,  but 
Such  noise  as  I  can  make,  to  be  heard  farthest, 
I'll  venture;  for  my  new-enlivened  spirits 
Prompt  me ;  and  they,  perhaps,  are  not  far  off. 


Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that  liv'st,  unseen, 

Within  thy  airy  shell, 
By  slow  Meander's  margent  green, 
And  in  the  violet-embroider'd  vale, 

Where  the  love-lorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourneth  well ; 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair, 
That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are"? 
O,  if  thou  have 
Hid  them  in  some  flowery  cave, 

Tell  me  but  where, 

Sweet  queen  of  parley,  daughter  of  the  sphere ! 
So  may'st  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies, 
And  give  resounding  grace  to  all  Heaven's  har- 
monies. 

Enter  COMUS. 

Comus.    Can  any  mortal  mixture  of  earth's 

mould 

Breathe  such  divine,  enchanting  ravishment  1 
Sure  something  holy  lodges  in  that  breast, 
And  with  these  raptures  moves  the  vocal  air 
To  testify  his  hidden  residence. 
How  sweetly  did  they  float  upon  the  wings 
Of  silence,  through  the  empty-vaulted  night, 
At  every  fall  smoothing  the  raven  down 
Of  darkness,  till  it  smiled !  I  have  oft  heard 
My  mother  Circe,  with  the  Syrens  three, 
Amidst  the  flowery-kirtled  Naiades, 
Culling  their  potent  herbs  and  baleful  drugs ; 
Who,  as  they  sung,  would  take  the  prisoned  soul, 
And  lap  it  in  Elysium :  Scylla  wept, 
And  chid  her  barking  waves  into  attention, 
And  fell  Charybdis  murmured  soft  applause: 
Yet  they  in  pleasing  slumber  lull'd  the  sense, 


COMUS. 


137 


And  in  sweet  madness  robliod  it  of  itself: 

Hut  such  a  snrn-d  and  home-fell  delight, 

Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss, 

I  never  heard  till  now.     Ill  speak  to  her, 

And  she  shall  IK?  my  queen.  Hail,  foreign  wonder! 

Whom  certain  these  rough  shades  did  never  breed, 

Unless  the  goddess  that,  in  rural  shrine, 

Dwell'st  here  with  Pan,  or  Sylvan,  by  bless'd  song 

Forbidding  every  bleak,  unkindly  fog 

To  touch  the  prosperous  growth  of  this  tall  wood. 

Lad.  Nay,  gentle  shepherd,  ill  is  lost  that  praise, 
That  is  addressed  to  unattending  ears: 
Not  any  boast  of  skill,  but  extreme  shift 
How  to  regain  my  sever'd  company, 
Compelled  me  to  awake  the  courteous  Echo, 
To  give  me  answer  from  her  mossy  couch. 

Com.  What  chance,  good  lady,  hath  bereft  you 
thus? 

Lad.  Dim  darkness  and  this  leafy  labyrinth. 

Com.  Could  that  divide  you  from  near  ushering 
guides  1 

Lad.  They  left  me  weary  on  a  grassy  turf. 

Com.  By  falsehood,  or  discourtesy,  or  why! 

Lad.  To  seek  i'  the  valley  some  cool  friendly 
spring. 

Com.  And  left  your  fair  side  all  unguarded, 
Lady? 

Lad.  They  were  but  twain,  and  purpos'd  quick 
return. 

Com.  Perhaps  forestalling  night  prevented  them. 

Lad.  How  easy  my  misfortune  is  to  hit ! 

Com.  Imports  their  loss,  beside  the  present  need? 

Lad.  No  less  than  if  I  should  my  brothers  lose. 

Com.  Were  they  of  manly  prime,  or  youthful 
bloom? 

Lad.  As  smooth  as  Hebe's  their  unrazor'd  lips. 

Com.  Two  such  I  saw,  what  time  the  labour'd  ox 
In  his  loose  traces  from  the  furrow  came, 
And  the  swinked  hedger  at  his  supper  sat. 
I  saw  them  under  a  green  mantling  vine, 
That  crawls  along  the  side  of  yon  small  hill, 
Plucking  ripe  clusters  from  the  tender  shoots. 
Their  port  was  more  than  human,  as  they  stood: 
I  took  it  for  a  fairy  vision 
Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element, 
That  in  the  colours  of  the  rainbow  live, 
And  play  i'  the  plighted  clouds.  I  was  awe-struck, 
And,  as  I  pass'd,  I  worshiped:  if  those  you  seek, 
It  were  a  journey  like  the  path  to  Heaven, 
To  help  you  find  them. 

Lad.  Gentle  villager, 
What  readiest  way  would  brin?  me  to  that  place? 

Com.  Due  west  it  rises  from  this  shrubby  point. 

Lad.  To  find  out  that,  good  shepherd,  I  suppose, 
In  such  a  scant  i>:  -tar-liirht, 

Would  overtii.sk  tin:  k-st  land-pilot's  art, 
Without  the  sure  guess  of  well-practised  feet. 

Com.  I  know  each  lane,  and  every  alley  green, 
Dingle,  or  bushy  dell  of  this  wild  wood, 


And  every  bosky  bourn  from  side  to  side, 
My  daily  walks  and  ancient  neighbourhood ; 
And  if  your  stray  attendance  be  yet  lodged, 
Or  shroud  within  these  limits,  I  shall  know 
Ere  morrow  wake,  or  the  low-roosted  lark 
From  her  thatched  pallet  rouse;  if  otherwise, 
I  can  conduct  you,  Lady,  to  a  low 
But  loyal  cottage,  where  you  may  be  safe 
Till  further  quest. 

Lad.  Shepherd  I  take  thy  word, 
And  trust  thy  honest  offered  courtesy, 
Which  oft  is  sooner  found  in  lowly  sheds 
With  smoky  rafters,  than  in  tapestry  haUs 
In  courts  of  princes,  where  it  first  was  named) 
And  yet  is  most  pretended :  in  a  place 
Less  warranted  than  this,  or  less  secure, 
I  can  not  be,  that  I  should  fear  to  change  it, — 
Eye  me,  blessed  Providence,  and  square  my  trial 
To  my  proportioned  strength. — Shepherd,  lead  on. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  the  Two  BROTHERS. 

El.  Br.  Unmuffle,  ye  faint  stars;  and  thou,  fair 

moon, 

That  wont'st  to  love  the  traveller's  benison, 
Stoop  thy  pale  visage  through  an  amber  cloud, 
And  disinherit  Chaos,  that  reigns  here 
In  double  night  of  darkness  and  of  shades ; 
Or,  if  your  influence  be  quite  dammed  up 
With  black  usurping  mists,  some  gentler  taper, 
Through  a  rush-candle  from  the  wicker  hole 
Of  some  clay  habitation,  visit  us 
With  thy  long-levelled  rule  of  streaming  light, 
And  thou  shall  be  our  star  of  Arcady, 
Or  Tynan  Cynosure. 

Sec.  Br.  Or,  if  our  eyes 
Be  barred  that  happiness,  might  we  but  hear 
The  folded  flocks  penned  in  their  wattled  cotes, 
Or  sound  of  pastoral  reed  with  oaten  stops, 
Or  whistle  from  the  lodge,  or  village  cock 
Count  the  night  watches  to  his  feathery  dames, 
'Twould  be  some  solace  yet,  some  little  cheering, 
In  this  close  dungeon  of  innumerous  boughs. 
But,  O  that  hapless  virgin,  or  lost  Sister ! 
Where  may  she  wander  now,  whither  betake  her 
From  the  chill  dew,  among  rude  burs  and  thistles? 
Perhaps  some  cold  bank  is  her  bolster  now, 
Or  'gainst  the  rugged  bark  of  some  broad  erai 
Leans  her  unpillow'd  head,  fraught  with  sad  fears. 
What,  if  in  wild  amazement  and  affright  ? 
Or,  while  we  speak,  within  the  direful  grasp 
Of  savage  hunger,  or  of  savage  heat  ? 

El.  Br.  Peace,  Brother;  be  not  over  exquisite 
To  cast  the  fashion  of  uncertain  evils: 
For  grant  they  be  so,  while  they  rest  unknown, 
What  need  a  man  forestall  his  date  of  grief, 
And  run  to  meet  what  he  would  most  avoid? 
Or  if  they  be  but  false  alarms  of  fear, 
How  bitter  is  such  self-delusion ! 


138 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


I  do  not  think  my  Sister  so  to  seek, 
Or  so  unprincipled  in  Virtue's  book, 
And  the  sweet  peace  that  goodness  bosoms  ever, 
As  that  the  single  want  of  light  and  noise 
(Not  being  in  danger,  as  I  trust  she-is  not) 
Could  stir  the  constant  mood  of  her  calm  thoughts, 
And  put  them  into  misbecoming  plight. 
Virtue  could  see  to  do  what  Virtue  would 
By  her  own  radiant  light,  though  sun  and  moon 
Were  in  the  flat  sea  sunk.     And  Wisdom's  self 
Oft  seeks  to  sweet  retired  solitude ; 
Where,  with  her  best  nurse  Contemplation, 
She  plumes  her  feathers,  and  lets  grow  her  wings, 
That  in  the  various  bustle  of  resort 
Were  all  too  ruffled,  and  sometimes  impaired. 
He,  that  has  light  within  his  own  clear  breast, 
May  sit  i'  the  centre,  and  enjoy  bright  day : 
But  he,  that  hides  a  dark  soul  and  foul  thoughts, 
Benighted  walks  under  the  mid-day  sun ; 
Himself  is  his  own  dungeon. 

Sec.  Br.  'Tis  most  true, 
That  musing  Meditation  most  affects 
The  pensive  secrecy  of  desert  cell, 
Far  from  the  cheerful  haunt  of  men  and  herds, 
And  sits  as  safe  as  in  the  senate-Jiouse ; 
For  who  would  rob  a  hermit  of  his  weeds, 
His  few  books,  or  his  beads,  or  maple  dish, 
Or  do  his  gray  hairs  any  violence  7 
But  Beauty,  like  the  fair  Hesperian  tree 
Laden  with  blooming  gold,  had  need  the  guard 
Of  dragon-watch  with  unenchanted  eye, 
To  save  her  blossoms,  and  defend  her  fruit, 
From  the  rash  hand  of  bold  Incontinence. 
You  may  as  well  spread  out  the  unsunn'd  heaps 
Of  misers'  treasure  by  an  outlaw's  den, 
And  tell  me  it  is  safe,  as  bid  me  hope 
Danger  will  wink  on  Opportunity, 
And  let  a  single  helpless  maiden  pass 
Uninjured  in  this  wild  surrounding  waste. 
Of  night,  or  loneliness,  it  recks  me  not ; 
I  fear  the  dread  events  that  dog  them  both, 
Lest  some  ill-greeting  touch  attempt  the  person 
Of  our  unowned  Sister. 

El.  Br.  I  do  not,  Brother, 
Infer,  as  if  I  thought  my  Sister's  state 
Secure,  without  all  doubt  or  controversy ; 
Yet,  where  an  equal  poise  of  hope  and  fear 
Does  arbitrate  th'  event,  my  nature  is 
That  I  incline  to  hope,  rather  than  fear, 
And  gladly  banish  squint  suspicion. 
My  sister  is  not  so  defenceless  left 
As  you  imagine ;  she  has  a  hidden  strength 
Which  you  remember  not. 

Sec.  Br.  What  hidden  strength, 
Unless  the  strength  of  HBaven,  if  you  mean  that  1 

El.  Br.    I  mean  that  too,  but  yet   a  hidden 

strength, 

Which,  if  Heaven  gave  it,  may  be  termed  her  own : 
Tis  Chastity,  my  Brother,  Chastity ; 


She,  that  has  that,  is  clad  in  complete  steel ; 
And,  like  a  quivered  Nymph  with  arrows  keen, 
May  trace  huge  forests,  and  unharboured  heaths, 
Infamous  hills,  and  sandy  perilous  wilds ; 
Where,  through  the  sacred  rays  of  Chastity, 
No  savage  fierce,  bandit,  or  mountaineer, 
Will  dare  to  soil  her  virgin  purity; 
Yea  there,  where  very  Desolation  dwells, 
By  grots,  and  caverns  shagged  with  horrid  shades, 
She  may  pass  on  with  unblenched  majesty ; 
Be  it  not  done  in  pride,  or  in  presumption. 
Some  say,  no  evil  thing  that  walks  by  night 
In  fog  or  fire,  by  lake  or  moorish  fen, 
Blue  meagre  hag,  or  stubborn  unlaid  ghost 
That  breaks  his  magic  chains  at  curfew  time, 
No  goblin,  or  swart  fairy  of  the  mine, 
Hath  hurtful  power  o'er  true  virginity. 
Do  ye  believe  me  yet,  or  shall  I  call 
Antiquity  from  the  old  schools  of  Greece 
To  testify  the  arms  of  Chastity  1 
Hence  had  the  huntress  Dian  her  dread  bow, 
Fair  silver-shafted  queen,  for  ever  chaste, 
Wherewith  she  tam'd  the  brinded  lioness 
And  spotted  mountain-pard,  but  set  at  nought 
The  frivolous  bolt  of  Cupid:  gods  and  men 
Fear'd  her  stern  frown,  and  she  was  queen  o'  the 

woods. 

What  was  that  snaky-headed  Gorgon  shield, 
That  wise  Minerva  wore,  unconquered  virgin, 
Wherewith  she  freezed  her  foes  to  congealed  stone, 
But  rigid  looks  of  chaste  austerity, 
And  noble  grace,  that  dashed  brute  violence 
With  sudden  adoration  and  blank  awe  1 
So  dear  to  Heaven  is  saintly  Chastity, 
That,  when  a  soul  is  found  sincerely  so, 
A  thousand  liveried  Angels  lackey  her, 
Driving  far  off  each  thing  of  sin  and  guilt ; 
And,  in  clear  dream  and  solemn  vision, 
Tell  her  of  things  that  no  gross  ear  can  hear; 
Till  oft  converse  with  heavenly  habitants 
Begin  to  cast  a  beam  on  the  outward  shape, 
The  unpolluted  temple  of  the  mind, 
And  turns  it  by  degrees  to  the  soul's  essence, 
Till  all  be  made  immortal :  but  when  Lust, 
By  unchaste  looks,  loose  gestures,  and  foul  talk, 
But  most  by  lewd  and  lavish  act  of  sin, 
Lets  in  defilement  to  the  inward  parts, 
The  soul  grows  clotted  by  contagion, 
Imbodies,  and  imbrutes,  till  she  quite  lose 
The  divine  property  of  her  first  being. 
Such  are  those  thick  and  gloomy  shadows  damp, 
Oft  seen  in  charnel  vaults  and  sepulchres 
Lingering,  and  sitting  by  a  new-made  grave, 
As  loath  to  leave  the  body  that  it  lov'd, 
And  link'd  itself  by  carnal  sensuality 
To  a  degenerate  and  degraded  state. 

Sec.  Br.  How  charming  is  'divine  Philosophy ! 
Not  harsh,  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools  suppose, 
But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute; 


COMUS. 


139 


And  a  perpetual  feast  of  nectared  sweets, 
Where  no  crude  surfeit  reigns. 

El.  Br.  List,  list ;  I  hear 
Some  far-off  halloo  break  the  silent  air. 

Sec,  B.  Methought  so  too;  what  should  it  be? 

EL  B.  For  certain 

Either  some  one  like  us  night-founder'd  here, 
Or  else  some  neighbour  woodman,  of,  at  worst, 
Some  roving  robber  calling  to  his  fellows. 

Sec.  B.  Heaven  keep  my  Sister !  Again,  again, 

and  near! 
Best  draw,  and  stand  upon  our  guard. 

El.B.  I'll  halloo: 

If  he  be  friendly,  he  comes  well ;  if  not, 
Defence  is  a  good  cause,  and  Heaven  be  for  us! 

Enter  the  ATTENDANT   SPIRIT,  habited  like  a 
shepherd. 

That  halloo  I  should  know;  what  are  you"?  speak; 
Come  not  too  near,  you  fall  on  iron  stakes  else. 

Spir.    What  voice  is  that]  my  young  Lord; 
speak  again. 

Sec.  B.  O  Brother,  'tis  .my  father's  shepherd, 
sure. 

El.  B.  Thyrsis?  Whose  artful  strains  have  oft 

delay'd 

The  huddling  brook  to  hear  his  madrigal, 
And  sweeten 'd  every  muskrose  of  the  dale! 
How  cam'st  thou  here,  good  swain?  hath  any  ram 
Slipt  from  the  fold,  or  young  kid  lost  his  dam, 
Or  straggling  wether  the  pent  flock  forsook? 
How  could'st  thou  find  this  dark  sequester'd  nook? 

Spir.  O  my  lov'd  master's  heir,  and  his  next  joy, 
I  came  not  here  on  such  a  trivial  toy 
As  a  strayed  ewe,  or  to  pursue  the  stealth 
Of  pilfering  wolf;  not  all  the  fleecy  wealth, 
That  doth  enrich  these  downs,  is  worth  a  thought 
To  this  my  errand,  and  the  care  it  brought. 
But,  O  my  virgin  Lady,  where  is  she? 
How  chance  she  is  not  in  your  company  ? 

El.  B.  To  tell  thee  sadly,  Shepherd,  without 

blame, 
Or  our  neglect,  we  lost  her  as  we  came. 

Spir.  Ay  me  unhappy !  then  my  fears  are  true. 

El.  B.    What  fears,  good  Thyrsis?   Pr'ythee 
briefly  shew. 

Spir.  I'll  tell  ye;  'tis  not  vain  or  fabulous, 
(Though  so  esteem'd  by  shallow  ignorance) 
What  the  sage  poets,  taught  th'  heavenly  Muse, 
Storied  of  old  in  hi^h  immortal  verse, 
Of  dire  chimeras,  and  enchanted  isles, 
And  ril'ted  rocks  whoso  entrance  leads  to  Hell; 
i-h  there  lie.  but  unUTtef  is  blind. 

Within  the  tmvrl  of  this  hideous  wood, 
Immur'd  in  cyj»r«  -<  r  dwells, 

Of  Marchus  and  of  Circe  born,  great  Comus, 
Deep  skill'd  in  all  his  mother's  witcheries; 
And  here  t.>  every  thirsty  wanderer 

enticement  gives  his  baneful  cup, 


With  many  murmurs  mix'd,  whose  pleasing  poison 
The  visage  quite  transforms  of  him  that  drinks, 
And  the  inglorious  likeness  of  a  beast 
Fixes  instead,  unmoulding  reason's  mintage 
Character'd  in  the  face :  this  have  I  learnt 
Tending  my  flocks  hard  by  i'  the  hilly  crofte. 
That  brow  this  bottom-glade;  whence  night  by 

night 

He  and  his  monstrous  rout  are  heard  to  howl, 
Like  stabled  wolves,  or.  tigers  at  their  prey, 
Doing  abhorred  rites  to  Hecate 
In  their  obscured  haunts  of  inmost  bowers. 
Yet  have  they  many  baits,  and  guileful  spells, 
To  inveigle  and  invite  the  unwary  sense 
Of  them  that  pass  unweeting  by  the  way. 
This  evening  late,  by  them  the  chewing  flocks 
Had  ta'en  their  supper  on  the  savoury  herb 
Of  knot-grass  dew-besprent,  and  were  in  fold. 
I  sat  me  down  to  watch  upon  a  bank 
With  ivy  canopied,  and  interwove 
With  flaunting  honeysuckle,  and  began, 
Wrapt  in  a  pleasing  fit  of  melancholy, 
To  meditate  my  rural  minstrelsy 
Till  Fancy  had  her  fill ;  but,  ere  a  close, 
The  wonted  roar  was  up  amidst  the  woods, 
And  filled  the  air  with  barbarous  dissonance; 
At  which  I  ceased,  and  listened  them  a  while, 
Till  an  unusual  stop  of  sudden  silence 
Gave  respite  to  the  drowsy  frighted. steeds, 
That  draw  the  litter  of  close-curtain'd  Sleep: 
At  last  a  soft  and  solemn-breathing  sound 
Rose  like  a  steam  of  rich  distill'd  perfumes, 
And  stole  upon  the  air,  that  even  Silence 
Was  took  ere  she  was  ware,  and  wished  she  might 
Deny  her  nature,  and  be  never  more, 
Still  to  be  so  displaced.     I  was  all  ear, 
And  took  in  strains  that  might  create  a  soul 
Under  the  ribs  of  Death  !  but  O !  ere  long, 
Too  well  I  did  perceive  it  was  the  voice 
Of  my  most  honoured  Lady,  your  dear  Sister. 
Amazed  I  stood,  harrowed  with  grief  and  fear, 
And,  O  poor  hapless  nightingale,  thought  I, 
How  sweet  thou  sing'st,  how  near  the  deadly 

snare ! 

Then  down  the  lawns  I  ran  with  headlong  haste, 
Through  paths  and  turnings  often  trod  by  day, 
Till,  guided  by  mine  ear,  I  found  the  place, 
Where  that  damned  wizard,  liid  in  sly  disguise, 
(For  so  by  certain  signs  I  knew)  had  met 
Already,  ere  my  best  speed  could  prevent, 
The  aidless  innocent  Lady,  his  wished  prey ; 
Who  gently  asked  if  he  had  seen  such  two, 
Supposing  him  some  neighbour  villager. 
Longer  I  durst  not  stay,  but  soon  I  guessed 
Ye  were  the  two  she  meant ;  with  that  I  sprung 
Into  swift  flight,  till  I  had  found  you  here; 
But  further  know  I  not. 

Sec.  Br.  O  night,  and  shades! 
How  are  ye  joined  with  Hell  in  triple  knot 


140 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


Against  the  unarmed  weakness  of  one  virgin, 
Alone,  and  hapless !  Is  this  the  confidence 
You  gave  me,  Brother'? 

El.Br.  Yes,  and  keep  it  still; 
Lean  on  it  safely;  not  a  period 
Shall  be  unsaid  for  me :  against  the  threats 
Of  malice,  or  of  sorcery,  or  that  power 
Which  erring  men  call  Chance,  this  I  hold  firm, — 
Virtue  may  be  assailed,  but  never  hurt, 
Surprised  by  unjust  force,  but  not  enthralled; 
Yea,  even  that,  which  mischief  meant  most  harm, 
Shall  in  the  happy  trial  prove  most  glory: 
But  evil  on  itself  shall  back  recoil, 
And  mix  no  more  with  goodness ;  what  at  last 
Gathered  like  scum,  and  settled  to  itself, 
It  shall  be  in  eternal  restless  change 
Self-fed,  and  self-consumed:  if  this  fail, 
The  pillared  firmament  is  rottenness, 
And  earth's  base  built  on  stubble. — But  come,  let's 

on. 

Against  the  opposing  will  and  arm  of  Heaven 
May  never  this  just  sword  be  lifted  up ; 
But  for  that  damned  magician,  let  him  be  girt 
With  all  the  grisly  legions  that  troop 
Under  the  sooty  flag  of  Acheron, 
Harpies  and  Hydras,  or  all  the  monstrous  forms 
'Twixt  Africa  and  Ind,  I'll  find  him  out, 
And  force  him  to  return  his  purchase  back, 
Or  drag  him  by  the  curls  to  a  foul  death, 
Curs'd  as  his  life. 

Spir.  Alas!  good  venturous  Youth, 
I  love  thy  courage  yet,  and  bold  emprise; 
But  here  thy  sword  can  do  thee  little  stead; 
Far  other  arms  and  other  weapons  must 
Be  those,  that  quell  the  might  of  hellish  charms : 
He,  with  his  bare  wand,  can  unthread  thy  joints, 
And  crumble  all  thy  sinews. 

El.  Br.  Why  pr'ythee,  Shepherd, 
How  durst  thou  then  thyself  approach  so  near, 
As  to  make  this  relation  1 

Spir.  Care,  and  utmost  shifts, 
How  to  secure  the  lady  from  surprisal, 
Brought  to  my  mind  a  certain  shepherd  lad, 
Of  small  regard  to  see  to,  yet  well  skill'd 
In  every  virtuous  plant,  and  healing  herb, 
That  spreads  her  verdant  leaf  to  the  morning  ray: 
He  loved  me  well,  and  oft  would  beg  me  sing; 
Which  when  I  did,  he  on  the  tender  grass 
Would  sit,  and  hearken  even  to  ecstacy, 
And  in  requital  ope  his  leathern  scrip, 
And  show  me  simples  of  a  thousand  names, 
Telling  their  strange  and  vigorous  faculties: 
Amongst  the  rest  a  small  unsightly  root, 
But  of  divine  effect,  he  culled  me  out; 
The  leaf  was  darkish,  and  had  prickles  on  it, 
But  in  another  country,  as  he  said, 
Bore  a  bright  golden  flower,  but  not  in  this  soil : 
Unknown,  and  like  esteemed,  and  the  dull  swain 
Treads  on  it  daily  with  his  clouted  shoon  : 


And  yet  more  medicinal  is  it  than  that  Moly, 

That  Hermes  once  to  wise  Ulysses  gave ; 

He  called  it  Haemony,  and  gave  it  me, 

And  bade  me  keep  it  as  of  sovereign  use 

'Gainst  all  enchantments,  mildew  blast,  or  damp, 

Or  ghastly  furies'  apparition. 

I  pursed  it  up,  but  little  reckoning  made, 

Till  now  that  this  extremity  compelled : 

But  now  I  find  it  true ;  for  by  this  means 

I  knew  the  foul  enchanter  though  disguised, 

Entered  the  very  lime-twigs  of  his  spells, 

And  yet  came  off:  if  you  have  this  about  you, 

(As  I  will  give  you  when  we  go)  you  may 

Boldly  assault  the  necromancer's  hall ; 

Where  if  he  be,  with  dauntless  hardihood 

And  brandished  blade  rush  on   him;   break  his 


And  shed  the  luscious  liquor  on  the  ground, 
But  seize  his  wand ;  though  he  and  his  cursed  crew 
Fierce  sign  of  battle  make,  and  menace  high, 
Or  like  the  sons  of  Vulcan  vomit  smoke, 
Yet  will  they  soon  retire,  if  he  but  shrink. 

El.  Br.  Thyrsis,  lead  on  apace,  I'll  follow  thee; 
And  some  good  Angel  bear  a  shield  before  us. 

The  Scene  changes  to  a  stately  palace,  set  out  with  all  manner 
of  deliciousness:  soft  music,  tables  spread  with  all  dainties. 
Comus  appears  with  his  rabble,  and  the  Lady  set  in  an  en- 
chanted chair,  to  whom  he  offers  his  glass,  which  she  puts 
by,  and  goes  about  to  rise. 


Nay,  Lady,  sit ;  if  I  but  wave  this  wand, 
Your  nerves  are  all  chained  up  in  alabaster, 
And  you  a  statue,  or  as  Daphne  was, 
Root-bound,  that  fled  Apollo. 

Lady.  Fool,  do  not  boast; 
Thou  canst  not  touch  the  freedom  of  my  mind 
With  all  thy  charms,  although  this  corporal  rind 
Thou  hast  immanacled,  while  Heaven  sees  good. 

Com.  Why  are  you  vexed,  Lady  1  Why  do  you 

frown  •? 

Here  dwell  no  frowns,  nor  anger;  from  these  gates 
Sorrow  flies  far :  see,  here  be  all  the  pleasures, 
That  fancy  can  beget  on  youthful  thoughts 
When  the  fresh  blood  grows  lively,  and  returns 
Brisk  as  the  April  buds  in  primrose-season, 
And  first,  behold  this  cordial  julep  here, 
That  flames  and  dances  in  his  crystal  bounds, 
With  spirits  of  balm  and  fragrant  sirops  mix'd: 
Not  that  Nepenthes,  which  the  wife  of  Thone 
In  Egypt  gave  to  Jove-born  Helena, 
Is  of  such  power  to  stir  up  joy  as  this, 
To  life  so  friendly,  or  so  cool  to  thirst. 
Why  should  you  be  so  cruel  to  yourself, 
And  to  those  dainty  limbs,  which  Nature  lent 
For  gentle  usage  and  soft  delicacy'? 
But  you  invert  the  covenants  of  her  trust, 
And  harshly  deal,  like  an  ill  borrower, 
With  that  which  you  received  on  other  terms: 


COMUS. 


141 


Scorning  the  unexempt  condition, 
By  which  all  mortal  frailty  must  subsist, 
Refreshment  after  toil,  case  after  pain, 
That  have  been  tired  all  day  without  repast, 
And.  timely  rest  have  wanted ;  but,  fair  Virgin, 
This  will  restore  all  soon. 

Lady.  'Twill  not,  false  traitor! 
'Twill  not  restore  the  truth  and  honesty, 
That  thou  hast  banished  from  thy  tongue  with  lies. 
Was  this  the  cottage,  and  the  safe  abode, 
Thou  told'st  me  of  1  What  grim  aspects  are  these, 
These  ugly-headed  monsters  1    Mercy  guard  me ! 
Hence  with  thy  brewed  enchantments,  foul  de- 
ceiver! 

Hast  thou  betrayed  my  credulous  innocence 
With  visored  falsehood  and  base  forgery  1 
And  would'st  thou  seek  again  to  trap  me  here 
With  lickerish  baits,  fit  to  ensnare  a  brute  1 
Were  it  a  draught  for  Juno  when  she  banquets, 
I  would  not  taste  thy  treasonous  offer;  none 
But  such  as  are  good  men  can  give  good  things; 
And  that,  which  is  not  good,  is  not  delicious 
To  a  well-governed  and  wise  appetite. 

Com.  O  foolishness  of  men !  that  lend  their  ears 
To  those  budge  doctors  of  the  Stoic  fur, 
And  fetch  their  precepts  from  the  Cynic  tub, 
Praising  the  lean  and  sallow  abstinence. 
Wherefore  did  Nature  pour  her  bounties  forth 
With  such  a  full  and  unwithdrawing  hand. 
Covering  the  earth  with  odours,  fruits,  and  flocks, 
Thronging  the  seas  with  spawn  innumerable, 
But  all  to  please  and  sate  the  curious  taste  1 
And  set  to  work  millions  of  spinning  worms, 
That  in  their  green  shops  weave  the  smooth-haired 

silk, 

To  deck  her  sons;  an<J,  that  no  comer  might 
Be  vacant  of  her  plenty,  in  her  own  loins 
She  hutch'd  the  all-worshipped  ore,  and  precious 

gems, 

To  store  her  children  with :  if  all  the  world 
Should  in  a  pet  of  temperance  feed  on  pulse, 
Drink  the  clear  stream,  and  nothing  wear  but 

frieze, 
The  All-giver  would  be  unthanked,  would  be  un- 

praised, 

Not  half  his  wishes  known,  and  yet  despised; 
And  we  should  serve  him  as  a  grudging  master, 
As  a  penurious  niggard  of  his  wealth; 
And  live  like  Nature's  bastards,  not  her  sons, 
Who  would  be  quite  surcharged  with  her  own 

weight, 

And  strangled  with  her  waste  fertility; 
The  earth  cumbered,  and  the  winged  air  darked 

with  plumes, 

The  herds  would  over-multitude  their  lords, 
The  sea  o'erfraught  would  swell,  and  the  un- 
sought diamonds 

Would  so  imblaze  the  forehead  of  the  deep, 
And  so  bestud  with  stars,  that  they  below 


Would  grow  inured  to  light,  and  come  at  last 
To  gaze  upon  the  sun  with  shameless  brows. 
List,  Lady ;  be  not  coy,  and  be  not  cozened 
With  that  same  vaunted  name,  virginity. 
Beauty  is  Nature's  coin,  must  not  be  hoarded, 
But  must  be  current;  and  the  good  thereof 
Consists  in  mutual  and  partaken  bliss, 
Unsavoury  in  the  enjoyment  of  itself: 
If  you  let  slip  time,  like  a  neglected  rose 
It  withers  on  the  stalk  with  languished  head. 
Beauty  is  Nature's  brag,  and  must  be  shown 
In  courts,  at  feasts,  and  high  solemnities, 
Where  most  may  wonder  at  the  workmanship; 
It  is  for  homely  features  to  keep  home, 
They  had  their  name  thence;  coarse  complexions, 
And  cheeks  of  sorry  grain,  will  serve  to  ply 
The  sampler  and  to  tease  the  housewife's  wool. 
What  need  a  vermeil-tinctured  lip  for  that, 
Love-darting  eyes,  or  tresses  like  the  morn  1 
There  was  another  meaning  in  these  gifts; 
Think  what,  and  be  advised;  you  are  but  young 

yet. 
Lady.  I  had  not  thought  to  have  unlocked  my 

lips 

In  this  unhallowed  air,  but  that  this  juggler 
Would  think  to  charm  my  judgment,  as  my  eyes, 
Obtruding  false  rules  pranked  in  reason's  garb. 
I  hate  when  Vice  can  bolt  her  arguments, 
And  Virtue  has  no  tongue  to  check  her  pride. — 
Impostor !  do  not  charge  most  innocent  Nature, 
As  if  she  would  her  children  should  be  riotous 
With  her  abundance;  she,  good cateress, 
Means  her  provision  only  to  the  good, 
That  live  according  to  her  sober  laws, 
And  holy  dictate  of  spare  Temperance: 
If  every  just  man,  that  now  pines  with  want, 
Had  but  a  moderate  and  beseeming  share 
Of  that  which  lewdly-pampered  Luxury 
Now  heaps  upon  some  few  with  vast  excess, 
Nature's  full  blessings  would  be  well  dispensed 
In  unsuperfluous  even  proportion, 
And  she  no  whit  encumbered  with  her  store 
And  then  the  giver  would  be  better  thanked, 
His  praise  due  paid ;  for  swinish  Gluttony 
Ne'er  looks  to  Heaven  amidst  his  gorgeous  feast, 
But  with  besotted  base  ingratitude 
Crams,  and  blasphemes  his  Feeder.   Shall  I  go  on? 
Or  have  I  said  enough?  To  him  that  dares 
Arm  his  profane  tongue  with  contemptuous  words 
Against  the  sun-clad  power  of  Chastity, 
Fain  would  I  something  say,  yebto  what  end? 
Thou  hast  nor  ear,  nor  soul,  to  apprehend 
The  sublime  notion  and  high  mystery, 
That  must  be  uttered  to  unfold  the  sage, 
And  serious  doctrine  of  virginity ; 
And  thou  art  worthy  that  thou  should'st  not  know, 
More  happiness  than  this  thy  present  lot. 
Enjoy  your  dear  wit  and  gay  rhetoric, 
That  hath  so  well  been  taught  her  dazzling  fence; 


142 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


Thou  art  not  fit  to  hear  thyself  convinced ; ' 

Yet,  should  I  try,  the  uncontrolled  worth 

Of  this  pure  cause,  would  kindle  my  rapt  spirits 

To  such  a  flame  of  sacred  vehemence, 

That  dumb  things  would  be  moved  to  sympathize, 

And  the  brute  Earth  would  lend  her  nerves  and 

shake, 

Till  all  thy  magic  structures,  reared  so  high, 
Were  shattered  into  heaps  o'er  thy  false  head. 

Com.  She  fables  not:  I  feel  that  I  do  fear 
Her  words  set  off  by  some  superior  power; 
And  though  not  mortal,  yet  a  cold  shuddering  dew 
Dips  me  all  o'er,  as  when  the  wrath  of  Jove 
Speaks  thunder,  and  the  chains  of  Erebus, 
To  some  of  Saturn's  crew.     I  must  dissemble, 
And  try  her  yet  more  strongly. — Come,  no  more ; 
This  is  mere  moral  babble,  and  direct 
Against  the  canon  laws  of  our  foundation ; 
I  must  not  suffer  this;  yet  'tis  but  the  lees 
And  settlings  of  a  melancholy  blood : 
But  this  will  cure  all  straight:  one  sip  of  this 
Will  bathe  the  drooping  spirits  in  delight, 
Beyond  the  bliss  of  dreams.    Be  wise,  and  taste. — 

The  Brothers  rush  in  with  swords  drawn,  wrest  his  glass  out 
of  his  hand,  and  break  it  against  the  ground ;  his  rout  make 
sign  of  resistance,  but  are  all  driven  in.  The  Attendant 
Spirit  comes  in. 

SPIRIT. 

What,  have  you  let  the  false  enchanter  'scape  7 
O  ye  mistook,  ye  should  have  snatched  his  wand, 
And  bound  him  fast ;  without  his  rod  reversed, 
And  backward  mutters  of  dissevering  power, 
We  can  riot  free  the  Lady  that  sits  here 
In  stony  fetters  fixed  and  motionless : 
Yet  stay,  be  not  disturbed:  now  I  bethink  me, 
Some  other  means  I  have  which  may  be  used, 
Which  once  of  Meliboeus  old  I  learnt, 
The  soothest  shepherd  that  e'er  piped  on  plains. 
There  is  a  gentle  nymph  not  far  from  hence, 
That  with  moist  curb  sways  the  smooth  Severn 

stream, 

Sabrina  is  her  name,  a  virgin  pure; 
Whilom  she  was  the  daughter  of  Locrine, 
That  had  the  sceptre  from  his  father  Brute. 
She,  guiltless  damsel,  flying  the  mad  pursuit 
Of  her  enraged  stepdame  Guendolen, 
Commended  her  fair  innocence  to  the  flood, 
That  staid  her  flight  with  his  cross-flowing  course. 
The  water-nymphs,  that  in  the  bottom  played, 
Held  up  their  pearled^wrists  and  took  her  in, 
Bearing  her  straight  to  aged  Nereus'  hall ; 
Who,  piteous  of  her  woes,  reared  her  lank  head, 
And  gave  her  to  his  daughters  to  imbathe 
In  nectared  lavers,  strewed  with  asphodel ; 
And  through  the  porch  and  inlet  of  each  sense 
Dropped  in  ambrosial  oils,  till  she  revived, 
And  underwent  a  quick  immortal  change, 
Made  goddess  of  the  river :  still  she  retains 
Her  maiden  gentleness,  arid  oft  at  eve 


Visits  the  herds  along  the  twilight  meadows, 
Helping  all  urchin  blasts,  and  ill-luck  signs 
That  the  shrewd  meddling  elf  delights  to  make, 
Which  she  with  precious  vialed  liquors  heals ; 
For  which  the  shepherds  at  their  festivals 
Carol  her  goodness  loud  in  rustic  lays, 
And  throw  sweet  garland  wreaths  into  her  stream 
Of  pansies,  pinks,  and  gaudy  daffodils. 
And,  as  the  old  swain  said,  she  can  unlock 
The  clasping  charm,  and  thaw  the  numbing  spell, 
If  she  be  right  invoked  in  warbled  song; 
For  maidenhood  she  loves,  and  will  be  swift 
To  aid  a  virgin,  such  as  was  herself, 
I/i  hard-besetting  need;  this  will  I  try, 
And  add  the  power  of  some  adjuring  verse. 

SONG. 

Sabrina  fair, 

Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  'glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave, 

In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair; 

Listen  for  dear  honour's  sake, 

Goddess  of  the  silver  lake, 
Listen,  and  save. 
Listen,  and  appear  to  us, 
In  name  of  great  Oceanus; 
By  the  earth-shaking  Neptune's  mace, 
And  Tethys'  grave  majectic  pace, 
By  hoary  Nereus'  wrinkled  look, 
And  the  Carpathian  wizard's  hook, 
By  scaly  Triton's  winding  shell, 
And  old  sooth-saying  Glaucus'  spell, 
By  Leucothea's  lovely  hands, 
And  her  son  that  rules  the  strands, 
By  Thetis'  tinsel-slippered  feet, 
And  the  songs  of  Siren's  svfeet, 
By  dead  Parthenope's  dear  tomb, 
And  fair  Ligea's  golden  comb, 
Wherewith  she  sits  on  diamond  rocks, 
Sleeking  her  soft  alluring  locks ; 
By  all  the  Nymphs  that  nightly  dance 
Upon  thy  streams  with  wily  glance, 
Rise,  rise,  and  heave  thy  rosy  head, 
From  thy  coral-paven  bed, 
And  bridle  in  thy  headlong  wave, 
Till  thou  our  summons  answered  have. 

Listen,  and  save. 

Sabrina  rises,  attended  by  Water-Nymplis,  and  sings. 

By  the  rushy-fringed  bank, 

Where  grows  the  willow  and  the  osier  dank, 

My  sliding  chariot  stays, 
Thick  set  with  agate,  and  the  azure  sheen 
Of  turkis  blue,  and  emerald  green, 

That  in  the  channel  strays; 
Whilst  from  off  the  waters  fleet 
Thus  I  set  my  printless  feet 
O'er  the  cowslip's  velvet  head, 

That  bends  not  as  I  tread; 


COMUS. 


143 


Gentle  Swain,  at  thy  request, 

I  am  here. 

Sp.  Goddess  dear, 
We  implore  thy  powerful  hand 
To  undo  the  charmed  band 
Of  true  virgin  here  distressed, 
Through  the  force  and  through  the  wile, 
Of  unblessed  enchanter  vile. 

Sabr.  Shepherd,  'tis  my  office  best 
To  help  ensnared  chastity: 
Brightest  Lady,  look  on  me ; 
Thus  I  sprinkle  on  thy  breast 
Drops,  that  from  my  fountain  pure 
I  have  kept,  of  precious  cure ; 
Thrice  upon  thy  finger's  tip, 
Thrice  upon  thy  rubied  lip: 
Next  this  marble  venomed  seat, 
Smeared  with  gums  of  glutinous  heat, 
I  touch  with  chaste  palms  moist  and  cold : — 
Now  the  sj>ell  hath  lost  his  hold, 
And  I  must  haste,  ere  morning  hour, 
To  wait  in  Amphitrite's  bower. 

Sabrina  descends,  and  the  Lady  rises  out  of  her  aeat. 

Sp.  Virgin,  daughter  of  Locrine 
Sprung  of  old  Anchises'  line, 
May  thy  brimmed  waves  for  this 
Their  full  tribute  never  miss 
From  a  thousand  petty  rills, 
That  tumble  down  the  snowy  hills : 
Summer  drouth,  or  singed  air, 
Never  scorch  thy  tresses  fair, 
Nor  wet  October's  torrent  flood 
Thy  molten  crystal  fill  with  mud  j 
May  thy  billows  roll  ashore 
The  beryl  and  the  golden  ore; 
May  thy  lofty  head  be  crowned 
With  many  a  tower  and  terrace  round, 
And  here  and  there  thy  banks  upon 
With  groves  of  myrrh  and  cinnamon. 

Come,  Lady,  while  Heaven  lends  us  grace, 
Let  us  fly  this  cursed  place, 
Lest  the  sorcerer  us  entice 
With  some  other  new  device. 
Not  a  waste  or  needless  sound, 
Till  we  come  to  holier  ground ; 
I  shall  be  your  faithful  guide 
Through  this  gloomy  covert  wide, 
And  not  many  furlongs  thence 
Is  your  Father's  residence, 
Where  this  night  are  met  in  state 
Many  a  friend  to  gratulate 
His  wished  presence;  and  beside 
All  the  swains,  that  there  abide, 
With  jigs  and  rural  dance  resort; 
We  shall  catch  them  at  their  sport, 
And  our  sudden  coming  there 
Will  double  all  their  mirth  and  cheer : 


Come,  let  us  haste,  the  stars  grow  high, 
But  night  sits  monarch  yet  in  the  mid  sky. 

The  acene  changes,  presenting  Ludlow  town  and  the  Presi- 
dent's castle ;  then  come  in  Country  Dancers,  after  them 
the  Attendant  Spirit,  with  the  two  Brothers,  and  the  Lady. 

SONG. 

Sp.  Back,  Shepherds,  back ;  enough  you  play, 
Till  next  sun-shine  holiday; 
Here  be,  without  duck  or  nod, 
Other  trippings  to  be  trod 
Of  lighter  toes,  and  such  court  guise 
As  Mercury  did  first  devise, 
With  the  mincing  dryades, 
On  the  lawns,  and  on  the  leas. 

This  second  Song  presents  them  to  their  Father  and  Mother. 

Noble  Lord,  and  Lady  bright, 

I  have  brought  ye  new  delight ; 

Here  behold  so  goodly  grown 

Three  fair  branches  of  your  own ; 

Heaven  hath  timely  tried  their  youth, 

Their  faith,  their  patience,  and  their  truth, 

And  sent  them  here  through  hard  assays 

With  a  crown  of  deathless  praise. 

To  triumph  in  victorious  dance 

O'er  sensual  Folly  arid  Intemperance. 

The  Dances  ended,  the  Spirit  epiloguises. 
Sp.  To  the  ocean  now  I  fly, 
And  those  happy  climes  that  lie 
Where  day  never  shuts  his  eye, 
Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky : 
There  I  suck  the  liquid  air 
All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 
Of  Hesperus,  and  his  daughters  three 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree  : 
Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowers 
Revels  the  spruce  and  jocund  Spring; 
The  Graces,  and  the  rosy-bosom'd  Hours, 
Thither  all  their  bounties  bring ; 
There  eternal  Summer  dwells, 
And  West- Winds,  with  musky  wing, 
About  the  cedared  alleys  fling 
Nard  and  Cassia's  balmy  smells. 
Iris  there  with  humid  bow 
Waters  the  odorous  banks,  that  blow 
Flowers  of  more  mingled  hue 
Than  the  purfled  scarf  can  shew; 
And  drenches  with  Elysian  dew 
[List,  mortals,  if  your  ears  be  true) 
Beds  of  hyacinth  and  roses, 
Where  young  Adonis  oft  reposes, 
Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound 
[n  slumber  soft,  and  on  the  ground 
Sadly  sits  th'  Assyrian  queen : 
But  far  above  in  spangled  sheen 

elostial  Cupid,  her  famed  son,  advanced, 
Holds  his  dear  Psyche  sweet  entranced, 


144 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


After  her  wandering  labours  long, 
Till  free  consent  the  gods  among 
Make  her  his  eternal  bride, 
And  from  her  fair  unspotted  side 
Two  blissful  twins  are  to  be  born, 
Youth  and  Joy ;  so  Jove  hath  sworn. 
But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done, 
I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run, 
duickly  to  the  green  earth's  end, 


Where  the  bow'd  welkin  slow  doth  bend ; 
And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 
To  the  corners  of  the  moon. 

Mortals,  that  would  follow  me, 
Love  Virtue ;  she  alone  is  free : 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime ; 
Or  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her. 


ow  Several 


COMPOSED  AT  SEVERAL  TIMES. 


Baccare  frontem 

Gingite,  ne  vati  noceat  mala  lingua  future.- 


•  Virgil,  Eclog.  7. 


ANNO  jETATIS  17. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FAIR  INFANT 

DYING  OF  A  COUGH. 
O  FAIREST  flower,  no  sooner  blown  but  blasted, 
Soft  silken  primrose  fading  timelessly, 
Summer's  chief  honour,  if  thou  had'st  outlasted 
Bleak  Winter's  force  that  made  thy  blossom  dry ; 
For  he,  being  amorous  on  that  lovely  dye 

That  did  thy  cheek  envermeil,  thought  to  kiss, 
But  killed,  alas !  and  then  bewailed  his  fatal  bliss. 

For  since  grim  Aquilo,  his  charioteer, 
By  boisterous  rape  the  Athenian  damsel  got, 
He  thought  it  touched  his  deity  full  near, 
If  likewise  he  some  fair  one  wedded  not, 
Thereby  to  wipe  away  the  infamous  blot 

Of  long  uncoupled  bed,  and  childless  eld, 
Which  'mongst  the  wanton  gods,  a  foul  reproach 
was  held. 

So,  mounting  up  in  icy-pearled  car, 
Through  middle  empire  of  the  freezing  air 
He  wandered  long,  till  thee  he  spied  from  far  j 
There  ended  was  his  quest,  there  ceased  his  care : 
Down  he  descended  from  his  snow-soft  chair, 

But,  all  unwares,  with  his  cold  kind  embrace, 
Unhoused  thy  virgin  soul  from  her  fair  biding  place. 

Yet  art  thou  not  inglorious  in  thy  fate ; 
For  so  Apollo,  with  unweeting  hand, 
Whilom  did  slay  his  dearly  loved  jraate, 
Young  Hyacinth,  born  on  Eurotas'  strand : 
Young  Hyacinth,  the  pride  of  Spartan  land ; 

But  then  transformed  him  to  a  purple  flower : 
Alack,  that  so  to  change  thee  Winter  had  no  power ! 

Yet  can  I  not  persuade  me  thou  art  dead, 
Or  that  thy  corse  corrupts  in  earth's  dark  womb, 
Or  that  thy  beauties  lie  in  wormy  bed, 
Hid  from  the  world  in  a  low  delved  tomb ; 


Could  Heaven  for  pity  thee  so  strictly  doom  1 
Oh  no !  for  something  in  thy  face  did  shine 
Above  mortality,  that  showed  thou  wast  divine. 

Resolve  me  then,  O  soul  'most  surely  blest, 
(If  so  it  be  that  thou  these  plaints  dost  hear ;) 
Tell  me,  bright  Spirit,  where'er  thou  hoverest, 
Whether  above  that  high  first-moving  sphere, 
Or  in  the  Elysian  fields,  (if  such  there  were ;) 

O  say  me  true;  if  thou  wert  mortal  wight, 
And  why  from  us  so  quickly  thou  did'st  take  thy 
flight  ? 

Wert  thou  some  star  which  from  the  ruined  roof 
Of  shaked  Olympus  by  mischance  did'st  fall ; 
Which  careful  Jove  in  nature's  true  behoof 
Took  up,  and  in  fit  place  did  reinstall  1 
Or  did  of  late  earth's  sons  besiege  the  wall 

Of  sheeny  Heaven,  and  thou  some  goddess  fled 
Amongst  us  here  below  to  hide  thy  nectared  head  7 

Or  wert  thou  that  just  Maid,  who  once  before 

Forsook  the  hated  earth,  O  tell  me  sooth, 

And  earnest  again  to  visit  us  once  more  ? 

Or  wert  thou  that  sweet  smiling  youth  1 

Or  that  crowned  matron  sage,  white-robed  Truth  1 

Or  any  other  of  that  heavenly  brood 
Let  down  in  cloudy  throne  to  do  the  world  some 

good  7 

Or  wert  thou  of  the  golden-winged  host, 
Who,  having  clad  thyself  in  human  weed, 
To  earth  from  thy  prefixed  seat  did'st  post, 
And  after  short  abode  fly  back  with  speed, 
As  if  to  show  what  creatures  Heaven  doth  breed ;, 

Thereby  to  set  the  hearts  of  men  on  fire, 
To  scorn  the  sordid  world,  and  unto  Heaven  aspire  1 

But  oh !  why  did'st  thou  not  stay  here  below 
To  bless  us  with  thy  heavenly-loved  innocence, 
To  slake  his  wrath,  whom  sin  hath  made  our  foe, 
To  turn  swift-rushing  black  perdition  hence, 
Or  drive  away  the  slaughtering  pestilence, 


POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS. 


145 


To  stand  'twlxj  us  and  our  deserved  smart  1 
But  thou  can'st  best  perform  that  office  where  thou 
art. 

Then  thou,  the  mother  of  so  sweet  a  child, 
Her  false-imagined  loss  cease  to  lament, 
And  wisely  learn  to  curb  thy  sorrows  wild ; 
Think  what  a  present  thou  to  God  hast  sent, 
And  render  him  with  patience  what  he  lent ; 
This  if  thou  do,  he  will  an  offspring  give, 
That,  till  the  world's  last  end,  shall  make  thy  name 
to  live. 


ANNO  .ETATIS  19. 

At  a  Vacation  Exercise  in  the  dollege,  part  Latin,  part  Eng- 
lish.   The  Latin  speeches  ended,  the  English  thus  began. 

HAIL,  native  Language,  that  by  sinews  weak 

Did'st  move  my  first  endeavouring  tongue  to  speak, 

And  madest  imperfect  words  with  childish  trips 

Half  uripronounced,  slide  through  my  infant  lips, 

Driving  dumb  Silence  from  the  portal  door, 

Where  he  had  mutely  sat  two  years  before ! 

Here  I  salute  thee,  and  thy  pardon  ask, 

That  now  I  use  thee  in  my  latter  task  : 

Small  loss  it  is  that  thence  can  come  unto  thee, 

I  know  my  tongue  but  little  grace  can  do  thee : 

Thou  needest  not  be  ambitious  to  be  first, 

Believe  me  I  have  thither  packed  the  worst : 

And,  if  it  happens  as  I  did  forecast, 

The  daintiest  dishes  shall  be  served  up  last, 

1  pray  thee  then  deny  me  not  thy  aid, 

For  this  same  small  neglect  that  I  have  made: 

But  haste  thee  straight  to  do  me  once  a  pleasure, 

And  from  thy  wardrobe  bring  the  chiefest  treasure. 

Not  those  new  fangled  toys,  and  trimming  slight 

Which  takes  our  late  fantastics  with'  delight ; 

But  cull  those  richest  robes,  and  gayest  attire, 

Which  deepest  spirits,  and  choicest  wits  desire. 

I  have  some  naked  thoughts  that  rove  about, 

And  loudly  knock  to  have  their  passage  out ; 

And,  weary  of  their  place  do  only  stay 

Till  thou  hast  decked  them  in  thy  best  array; 

That  so  they  may,  without  suspect  or  fears, 

Fly  swiftly  to  this 'fair  assembly's  ears; 

Yet  I  had  rather,  if  I  were  to  choose, 

Thy  service  in  some  graver  subject  use, 

Such  as  may  make  thee  search  thy  coffers  round, 

Before  thou  clothe  my  fancy  in  fit  sound : 

Such  where  the  deep  transported  mind  may  soar 

Above  the  wheeling  poles,  and  at  Heaven's  door 

Look  in,  and  see  each  blissful  deity 

How  he  before  the  thunderous  throne  doth  lie, 

Listening  to  what  unshorn  Apollo  sings 

To  the  touch  of  golden  wires,  while  Hebe  brings 

Immortal  nectar  to  her  kingly  sire: 

Then  passing  through  the  spheres  of  watchful  fire 

And  misty  regions  of  wide  air  next  under, 

And  hills  of  snow,  and  lofts  of  piled  thunder, 


May  tell  at  length  how  green  eyed  Neptune  raves, 
In  Heaven's  defiance  mustering  all  his  waVes; 
Then  sing  of  secret  things  that  came  to  pass 
When  beldam  Nature  in  her  cradle  was; 
And  last  of  kings,  and  queens,  and  heroes  old, 
Such  as  the  wise  Demodocus  once  told 
In  solemn  songs  at  king  Alcinous'  feast, 
While  sad  Ulysses'  soul,  and  all  the  rest, 
Are  held  with  his  melodious  harmony 
In  willing  chains  and  sweet  captivity. 
But  fie,  my  wandering  muse,  how  thou  dost  stray! 
Expectance  calls  thee  now  another  way; 
Thou  knowest  it  must  be  now  thy  only  bent 
To  keep  in  compas%  of  thy  predicament : 
Then  quick  about  thy  proposed  business  come, 
That  to  the  next  I  may  resign  my  room. 

Then  Ens  is  represented  as  father  of  the  predicaments  his  two 
sons,  whereof  the  eldest  stood  for  substance  with  his  canons, 
which  Ens,  thus  speaking,  explains. 

Good  luck  befriend  thee,  son;  for  at  thy  birth, 
The  fairy  ladies  danced  upon  the  hearth ; 
Thy  drowsy  nurse  hath  sworn  she  did  them  spy 
Come  tripping  to  the  room  where  thou  didst  lie, 
And  sweetly  singing  round  about  thy  bed, 
Strew  all  their  blessings  on  thy  sleeping  head. 
She  heard  them  give  thee  this,  that  thou  shouldst 

still 

From  eyes  of  mortals  walk  invisible : 
Yet  there  is  something  that  doth  force  my  fear; 
For  once  it  was  ^y  dismal  hap  to  hear 
A  sybil  old,  bov^ent  with  crooked  age, 
That  far  events  full  wisely  could  presage, 
And  in  time's  long  and  dark  prospective  glass 
Foresaw  what  future  days  should  bring  to  pass; 
"  Your  son,"  said  she,  ("  nor  can  you  it  prevent,) 
Shall  subject  be  to  many  an  accident. 
O'er  all  his.  brethren  he  shall  reign  as  king, 
Yet  every  one  shall  make  him  underling; 
And  those  that  can  not  live  from  him  asunder, 
Ungratefully  shall  strive  to  keep  him  under; 
In  worth  and  excellence  he  shall  outgo  them, 
Yet,  being  above  them,  he  shall  be  below  them; 
From  others  he  shall  stand  in  need  of  nothing, 
Yet  on  his  brother  shall  depend  for  clothing. 
To  find  a  foe  it  shall  not  be  his  hap; 
And  peace  shall  lull  him  in  her  flowery  lap; 
Yet  shall  he  live  in  strife,  and  at  his  door 
Devouring  war  shall  never  cease  to  roar; 
Yea,  it  shall  be  his  natural  property 
To  harbour  those  that  are  at  enmity. 
What  power,  what  force,  what  mighty  spell,  if  not 
Your  learned  hands,  can  loose  this  Gordian  knot!" 

The  next  Quantity  and  Quality  spake  in  prose,  then  Rela- 
tion was  called  by  his  name. 

Rivers,  arise;  whether  thou  be  the  son 
Of  utmost  Tweed,  or  Oose,  or  gulfy  Dun, 
Or  Trent,  who,  like  some  earthbom  giant  spreads 
His  thirty  arms  along  the  indented  meads ; 


146 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


Or  sullen  Mole,  that  runneth  underneath; 
Or  Severn  swift,  guilty  of  maiden's  death ; 
Or  rocky  Avon,  or  of  sedgy  Lee, 
Or  coaly  Time,  or  ancient  hallowed  Dee; 
Or  Humber  loud,  that  keeps  the  Scythian's  name; 
Or  Medway  smooth,  or  royal  towered  Thame. 
[The  rest  was  prose.] 


ON  THE  MORNING  OF  CHRIST'S 
NATIVITY. 

COMPOSED    1629. 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn, 
Wherein  the  Son  of  Heaven's  eternal  King, 
Of  wedded  maid  and  virgin  mother  born, 
Our  great  redemption  from  above  did  bring;    . 
For  so  the  holy  sages  once  did  sing, 

That  he  our  deadly  forfeit  should  release, 
And  with  his  Father  work  us  a  perpetual  peace. 

That  glorious  form,  that  light  unsufferable, 
And  that  far-beaming  blaze  of  majesty, 
Wherewith  he  wont  at  heaven's  high  council- 
table 

To  sit  the  midst  of  Trinal  Unity, 
He  laid  aside;  and,  here  with  us  to  be, 

Forsook  the  courts  of  everlasting  day, 
And  chose  with  us  a  darksome  house  of  mortal 
clay.  ^ 

Say,  heavenly  Muse,  shall  not  thy  sacred  vein 

Afford  a  present  to  the  Infant  God1? 

Hast  thou  no  verse,  no  hymn,  or  solemn  strain, 

To  welcome  him  to  this  his  new  abode, 

Now  while  the  Heaven,  by  the  sun's  team  untrod, 

Hath  took  no  print  of  the  approaching  light, 
And  all  the  spangled  host  keep  watch  in  squadrons 
bright1? 

See,  how  from  far,  upon  the  eastern  road 
The  star-led  wizards,  haste  with  odours  sweet; 
O  run,  prevent  them  with  thy  humble  ode, 
And  lay  it  lowly  at  his  blessed  feet: 
Have  thou  the  honour  first  thy  Lord  to  greet, 

And  join  thy  voice  unto  the  angel  choir 
From  out  his  secret  altar,  touched  with  hallowed 
fire. 

THE  HYMN.      . 

It  was  the  winter  wild, 
WTiile  the  Heaven-born  child, 

All  meanly  wrapt,  in  the  rude  manger  lies; 
Nature,  in  awe  to  him, 
Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim, 

With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize : 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  paramour. 


Only  with  speeches  fair  , 

She  woos  the  gentle  air 

To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent  snow ; 
And  on  her  naked  shame. 
Pollute  with  sinful  blame, 

The  saintly  veit  of  maiden  white  to  throw; 
Confounded,  that  her  Maker's  eyes 
Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deformities. 

But  he,  her  fears  to  cease, 

Sent  down  the  meek  eyed  Peace ; 

She,   crowned  with  olive  green,  came  softly 

sliding 

Down  through  the  turning  sphere, 
His  ready  harbinger, 

With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds  dividing; 
And,  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand, 
She  strikes  an  universal  peace  through  sea  and 
land. 

Nor  war,  or  battle's  sound 
Was  heard  the  world  around  : 

The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  up  hung ; 
The  hooked  chariot  stood, 
Unstained  with  hostile  blood ; 

The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng; 
And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye, 
As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovereign  Lord  was 

by- 

But  peaceful  was  the  night, 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  light 

His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began : 
The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 
Smoothly  the  waters'kist, 

Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean, 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 
While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed 
wave. 

The  stars,  with  deep  amaze, 
Stand  fixed  in  steadfast  gaze 

Bending  one  way  their  precious  influence; 
And  will  not  take  their  flight, 
For  all  the  morning  light, 

Or  Lucifer  that  often  warned  them  thence; 
But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow, 
Until  their  Lord  himself  bespake,  and  bid  them  go. 

And,  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room, 

The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed, 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 
As  his  inferior  flame 

The  new  enlightened  world  no  more  should 

need  *, 

He  saw  a  greater  sun  appear 
Than  his  bright  throne,  or  burning  axletree,  could 
bear. 


POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS. 


147 


The  shepherds  on  the  lawn, 
Or  e'er  the  point  of  dawn, 

Sat  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row; 
Full  little  thought  they  then, 
That  the  mighty  Pan 

Was  kindly  t?omc  to  live  with  them  below; 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep,   • 
Was  all  that  did   their  silly  thoughts  so  busy 
keep. 

When  such  music  sweet     . 
Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet, 

As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  strook ; 
Divinely  warbled  voice    . 
Answering  the  stringed  noise, 

As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took; 
The  air,  such  pleasures  loath  to  lose, 
With  Thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each  heaven- 
ly close. 

Nature  that  heard  such  sound, 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 

Of  Cynthia's  seat,  the  airy  region  thrilling, 
Now  was  almost  won 
To  think  her  part  was  done, 

And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last  fulfilling ; 
She  knew  such  harmony  alone 
Could  hold  all  Heaven  and  earth  in  happier  union 

At  last  surrourids  their  sight 

A  globe  of  circular  light. 

That  with  long  beams  the  shamefaced  night  ar- 
rayed; 

The  helmed  cherubim, 

And  sworded  seraphim, 

Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings  dis- 
'  played ; 

Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  choir, 

With  unexpressive  notes  to  Heaven's  new-born 
Hen-. 

Such  music  (as  'tis  said) 
Before  was  never  made, 

But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning  sung, 
While  the  Creator  great 
His  constellation  set,  ^ 

And  the  well  balanced  world  on  hinges  hung; 
And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 
And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy  channel 
keep. 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres, 
Once  bless  our  human  ears, 

(If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so;) 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time, 

And  let  the  base  of  Heaven's  deep  organ  blow; 
And,  with  your  ninefold  harmony, 
Make  up  full  concert  to  the  angelic  symphony. 


For  if  such  holy  song 
Inwrap  our  fancy  long, 

Time  will  run  back,  and  fetch  the  age  of  gold ; 
And  speckled  vanity 
Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 

And  leprous  Sin  will  melt  from  earthly  mould ; 
And  hell  itself  will  pass  away, 
'And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering 
day. 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men, 

Orbed  in  a  rainbow ;  and,  like  glories  wearing, 
Mercy  will  sit  between, 
Throned  in  celestial  sheen; 

With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down  steer- 
ing; 

And  Heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 
Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  palace  hall. 

But  wisest  Fate  says  no, 
This  must  not  yet  be  so, 

The  babe  yet  lies  in  smiling  infancy, 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  redeem  our  loss: 

So  both  himself  and  us  to  glorify: 
Yet  first  to  those  ychained  in  sleep, 
The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder  through 
the  deep ! 

With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang, 

While  the  red  fire  and  smouldering  clouds  out- 
brake: 
The  aged  earth  aghast, 
With  terror  of  that  blast, 

Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  centre  shake; 
When,  at  the  world's  last  session, 
The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall  spread  his 
throne 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss 
Full  and  perfect  is, 

But  now  begins ;  for  from  this  happy  day, 
The  old  Dragon,  under  ground 
[n  straiter  limits  bound, 

Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway; 
And,  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail, 
Swindges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

The  oracles  are  dumb, 
So  voice  or  hideous  hum 
Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiv- 
ing. 

Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine, 

With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving. 
So  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell, 
nspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 


148 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


The  lonely  mountains  o'er, 
And  the  resounding  shore, 

A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament: 
From  haunted  spring  and  dale, 
Edged  with  poplar  pale, 

The  parting  Genius  is  with  sighing  sent: 
With  flower  inwoven  tresses  torn 
The  nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled  thickets 
mourn. 

In  consecrated  earth, 
And  on  the  holy  hearth, 

The  Lares,  and  Lemures,  mourn  with  midnight 

plaint; 

In  urns,  and  altars  round, 
A  drear  and  dying  sound 

Affrights  the  Flamens  at  their  service  quaint; 
And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 
While  each  peculiar  Power  foregoes  his  wonted 
seat. 

Peor  and  Baalim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim, 

With  that  twice  battered  God  of  Palestine  ;* 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both, 

Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  shine ; 
The  Libyc  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn, 
In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded  Thum- 
muz  mourn. 

And  sullen  Moloch,  fled, 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 

His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue; 
In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 
They  call  the  grisly  king, 

In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue : 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
Isis,  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis  haste. 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 

In  Memphian  grove  or  green, 

Trampling  the  unshowered  grass  with  lowings 

loud: 

Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 
Within  his  sacred  chest; 

Naught  but  profoundest  hell  can  be  his  shroud 
In  vain  with  timbrelled  anthems  dark 
The  sable-stoled  sorcerers  bear  his  worshipped  ark 

He  feels  from  Judah's.land 
The  dreaded  Infant's  hand, 

The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyn ; 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside 
Longer  dare  abide, 

Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine: 
Our  babe,  to  show  his  Godhead  true, 
Can  in  his  swaddling  bands  control  the  damned  crew 


So  when  the  sun  in  bed, 

urtained  with  cloudy  red, 

Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave, 
The  flocking  shadows  pale 
Troop  to  the  infernal  jail, 

Each  fettered  ghost  slips  to  his  several  grave ; 
And  the  .yellow  skirted  fayes, 
Fly  after  the  night-steeds,  leaving  their  moon-love 


But  see,  the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  Babe  to,  rest ; 

Time  is  our  tedious  song  should  here  have  ending ; 
Heaven's  youngest  teemed  star 
rJath  fixed  her  polished  car, 

Her  sleeping  Lord  with  handmaid  lamp  attend- 
ing; 

And  all  about  the  courtjy  stable 
Bright  harnessed  angels  sit  in  order  serviceable. 


THE  PASSION. 
REWHILE  of  music,  and  ethereal  mirth, 
Wherewith  the  stage  of  air  and  earth  did  ring, 
And  joyous  news  of  heavenly  Infant's  birth, 
My  muse  with  angels  did  divide  to  sing ; 
But  headlong  joy  is  ever  on  the  wing ; 

In  wintry  solstice  like  the  shortened  light, 
Soon  swallowed  up  in  dark  and  long  outliving  night. 

For  now  to  sorrow  must  I  tune  my  song, 
And  set  my  harp  to  notes  of  saddest  wo, 
Which  on  our  dearest  Lord  did  seize  ere  long, 
Dangers,  and  snares,  and  wrongs,  and  worse  than 

so, 
Which  he  for  us  did  freely,  undergo : 

Most  perfect  Hero,  tried  in  heaviest  plight 
Of  labours  huge  and  hard,  too  hard  for  human  wight! 

He,  sovereign  Priest,  stooping  his  regal  head, 
That  dropt  with  odorous  oil  down  his  fair  eyes, 
Poor  fleshy  tabernacle  entered, 
His  starry  front  low  rooft  beneath  the  skies : 
O  what  a  mask  was  there,  what  a  disguise  :      . 
Yet  more ;  the  stroke  of  death  h6  must  abide, 
Then  lies  him  meekly  down  fast  by  his  brethren's 
side. 

These  latest  scenes  confine  my  roving  verse ; 
To  this  horizon  is  my  Phoebus  bound : 
His  godlike  acts,  and  his  temptations  fierce, 
And  former  sufferings  other  where  are  found ; 
Loud  o'er  the  rest  Cremona's  trump  doth  sound  ;* 

Me  softer  airs  befit,  and  softer  strings 
Of  lute,  or  viol  still,  more  apt  for  mournful  things. 

Befriend  me,  Night,  best  patroness  of  grief; 
Over  the  pole  thy  thickest  mantle  throw, 


'  "  Thai  twice-battered  God  of  Palestine ;" — Dagon,  first       '"Cremona's  trump  doth  sound;" — alluding   to   the 
battered  by  Samson,  then  by  the  ark  of  God.  Christiad  of  Vida,  a  native  of  Cremona. 


POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS. 


149 


And  work  my  flattered  fancy  to  belief, 

That  Heaven  and  Earth  are  coloured  with  my  wo: 

My  sorrows  are  too  dark  for  day  to  know : 

The  leaves  should  all  be  black  whereon  I  write, 
And  U-tters,  where  my  tears  have  washed,  a  wan- 
nish  white.  • 

See,  see  the  chariot,  and  those  rushing  wheels, 
That  whirled  the  prophet  up  at  Chebar  flood ; 
My  spirit  some  transporting  cherub  feels, 
To  bear  me  where  the  towers  of  Salem  stood, 
Once  glorious  towers,  now  sunk  in  guiltless  blood ; 

There  doth  my  soul  in  holy  vision  sit, 
In  pensive  trance,  and  anguish,  and  ecstatic  fit. 

Mine  eye  hath  found  that  sad  sepulchral  rock 
That  was  the  casket  of  Heaven's  richest  store, 
And  here  through  grief  my  feeble  hands  up  lock, 
Yet  on  the  softened  quarry  would  I  score 
My  plaining  verse  as  lively  as  before ; 

For  sure  so  well  instructed  are  my  tears, 
That  they  would  fitly  fall  in  ordered  characters. 

Or  should  I  thence,  hurried  on  viewless  wing, 
Take  up  a  weeping  on  the  mountains  wild, 
The  gentle  neighbourhood  of  grove  and  spring 
Would  soon  unbosom  all  their  echoes  mild, 
And  I  (for  grief  is  easily  teguiled) 

Might  think  the  infection  of  my  sorrows  loud 
Had  got  a  race  of  mourners  on  some  pregnant  cloud. 

Thi3  subject  the  Author  finding  to  be  above  the  years  he 
h|d,  when  he  wrdte  it,  and  nothing  satisfied  with  what  was 
begun,  left  it  unfinished 


ON  TIME.* 

FLY,  envious*Time,  till  thou  run  out  thy  race; 

Call  on  the  lazy  leaden-stepping  hours, 

Whose  speed  is  but  the  heavy  plummet's  pace ; 

And  glut  thyself  with  what  thy  womb  devours, 

Which  is  no  more  than  what  is  false  and  vain, 

And  merely. mortal  dross ; 

So  little  is  our  loss, 

So  little  is  thy  gain ! 

For  when  as  each  thing  bad  thou  hast  entombed,- 

And  last  of  all  thy  greedy  self  consumed, 

Then  long  Eternity  shall  greet  our  bliss 

With  an  individual  kiss; 

And  joy  shall  overtake  us  as  a  flood, 

When  every  thing  that  is  sincerely  good 

And  perfectly  divine, 

With  truth,  and  peace,  and  love,  shall  ever  shine 

About  the  supreme  throne 

Of  him,  to  whose  happy  making  sight  alone 


*  In  these  poems  where  no  date  is  prefixed,  and  no  circura- 
Btances  direct  us  to  ascertain  the  time  when  they  were  com- 
posed, we  follow  the  order  of  Milton's  own  editions.  And 
before  this  copy  of  verses,  it  appears  from  the  manuscript, 
thai  the  poet  had  written,  To  be  set  on  a  clock-case. 


When  once  our'heavenly  guided  souls  shall  climb; 
Then,  all  this  earthly  grossness  quit, 
Attired  with  stars,  we  shall  for  ever  sit, 
Triumphing  over  Death,  and  Chance,  and  thee, 
O  Time. 


UPON  THE  CIRCUMCISION. 

YE  flaming  powers,  and  winged  warriors  bright, 
That  erst  with  music,,  and  triumphant  song, 
First  heard  by  happy  watchful  shepherds'  ear, 
So  swejetly  sung  your  joy  the  clouds  along 
Through  the  soft  silence  of  the  listening  night; 
Now  mourn ;  and,  if  sad  share  with  us  to  bear 
Your  fiery  essence  can  distil  no  tear, 
Burn  in  your  sighs,  and  borrow 
Seas  wept  from  our  deep  sorrow: 
He,  who  with  all  Heaven's  heraldry  whilere 
Entered  the  world,  now  bleeds  to  give  us  ease 
Alas,  how  soon  our  sin 

Sore  doth  begin 

His  infancy  to  seize ! 
O  more  exceeding  love,  or  law  more  just! 
Just  law  indeed,  but  more  exceeding  love ! 
For  we,  by  rightful  doom  remediless, 
Were  lost  in  death,  till  he  that  dwelt  above 
High  throned  in  secret  bliss;  for  us  frail  dust 
Emptied  his  glory,  even  to  nakedness, 
And  that  great  covenant  which  we  still  transgress 
Entirely  satisfied; 
And  the  full  wrath  beside 
Of  vengeful  justice  bore  for  our  excess ; 
And  seals  obedience  first,  with  wounding  smart, 
This  day;  but  O,  ere  long, 
Huge  pangs  and  strong 

Will  pierce  more  near  his  heart. 


AT  A  SOLEMN  MUSIC. 

BLEST  pair  of  Syrens,  pledges  of  heavenly  joy, 

Sphere-born  harmonious  sisters,  Voice  and  Verse, 

Wed  your  divine  sounds,  and  mixed  power  employ 

Dead  things  with  inbreathed  sense  able  to  pierce ; 

And  to  our  high-raised  fantasy  present 

That  undisturbed  song  of  pure  consent, 

Aye  sung  before  the  sapphire  coloured  throne 

To  him  that  sits  thereon, 

With  saintly  shout,  and  solemn  jubilee; 

Where  the  bright  seraphim,  in  burning  row, 

Their  loud  uplifted  angel-trumpets  blow; 

And  the  cherubic  host,  in  thousand  choirs 

Touch  their  immortal  harps  of  golden  wires, 

With  those  just  spirits  that  wear  victorious  palms, 

Hymns  devout  and  holy  psalms, 

Singing  everlastingly : 

That  we  on  earth,  with  undiscording  voice, 

May  rightly  answer  that  melodious  noise; 


150 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


As  once  we  did,  till  disproportioned  sin 

Jarred  against  Nature's  chime,  and  with  harsh  din 

Broke  the  fair  music  that  all  creatures  made 

To  their  great  Lord,  whose  love  their  motions 

swayed 

'In  perfect  diapason,  whilst  they  stood 
In  first  obedience,  and  state  of  good. 
O  may  we  soon  again  renew  that  song, 
And  keep  in  tune  with  Heaven,  till  God  ere  long 
To  his  celestial  concert  us  unite, 
To  live  with  him,  and  sing  in  endless  morn  of 
light! 


AN  EPITAPH 

ON  THE  MARCHIONESS  OP  WINCHESTER. 

THIS  rich  marble  doth  inter 

The  honoured  wife  of  Winchester, 

A  viscount's  daughter,  an  earl's  heir, 

Besides  what  her  virtues  fair 

Added  to  her  noble  birth, 

More  than  she  could  own  from  earth. 

Summers  three  times  eight  save  one 

She  had  told;  alas!  too  soon, 

After  so  short  time  of  breath, 

To  house  with  darkness,  and  with  death. 

Yet  had  the  number  of  her  days 

Been  as  complete  as  was  her  praise, 

Nature  and  Fate  had  had  no  strife, 

Ih  giving  limit  to  her  life. 

Her  high  birth,  and  graces  sweet, 
duickly  found  a  lover  meet ; 
The  virgin  choir  for  her  request 
The  God  that  sits  at  marriage  feast ; 
He  at  their  invoking  came, 
But  with  a  scarce  well-lighted  flame : 
And  in  his  garland,  as  he  stood, 
Ye  might  discern  a  cypress  bud. 
Once  had  the  early  matrons  run 
To  greet  her  of  a  lovely  son, 
And  now  with  second  hope  she  goes, 
And  calls  Lucina  to  her  throes; 
But,  whether  by  mischance  or  blame 
Atropos  for  Lucina  came; 
And  with  remorseless  cruelty 
Spoiled  at  once  both  fruit  And  tree: 
The  hapless  babe,  before  his  birth, 
Had  burial,  yet  not  laid  in  earth; 
And  the  languished  mother's  womb 
Was  not  long  a  living  tomb. 

So  have  I  seen  some  tender  slip, 
Saved  with  care  from  winter's  nip, 
The  pride  of  her  carnation  train, 
Plucked  up  by  some  unheedy  swain, 
Who  only  thought  to  crop  the  flower 
New  shot  up  from  vernal  shower; 
But  the  fair  blossom  hangs  the  head 
Sideways  as  on  a  dying  bed, 


And  those  pearls  of  dew  she  wears, 
Prove  to  be  presaging  tears, 
Which  the  sad  morn  had  let  fall 
On  her  hastening  funeral. 

Gentle  lady,  may  thy  grave 
Pe^tce  and  quiet  ever  have; 
After  this  thy  travail  sore 
Sweet  rest  seize  thee  ever  more, 
That,  to  give  the  world  increase, 
Shortened  hast  thy  own  life's  lease. 
Here,  besides  the  sorrowing 
That  thy  noble  house  doth  bring, 
Here  be  tears  of  perfect  moan 
Wept  for  thee  in  Helicon; 
And  some  flowers,  and  some  bays, 
For  thy  hearse,  to  strew  the  ways, 
Sent  thee  from  the  banks  of  Came, 
Devoted  to  thy  virtuous  name ; 
Whilst  thou,  bright  Saint,  high  sit'st  in  glory,  , 
Next  her,  much  like  to  thee  in  story; 
That  fair  Syrian  shepherdess, 
Who,  after  years  7>f  barrenness, 
The  highly  favoured  Joseph  bqre 
To  him  that  served  for  her  before, 
And  at  her  next  birth,  much  like  thee, 
Through  pangs  fled  to  felicity, 
Far  within  the  bosom  bright 
Of  blazing  Majesty  and  Light; 
There  with  thee,  new  welcome  Saint, 
Like  fortunes  may  her  soul  acquaint, 
With  thee  there  clad  in  radiant  sheen; 
No  marchioness,  but  now  a  queen. 


SONG  ON  MAY  MORN.ING. 

Now  the  bright  morning-star,  day's-harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip,  and  the  pale  primrose. 
Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  doth  inspire 
Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire j 
Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing, 
Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 


ON  SHAKSPEARE.    1630. 

WHAT  needs  my  Shakspeare  for  his  honoured 

bones, 

The  labour  of  an  age  in  piled  stones? 
Or  that  his  hallowed  relics  should  be  hid 
Under  a  star-ypointing  pyramid  1 
Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame, 
Whatneed'st  thou  such  weak  witness  of  thy  name1? 
Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 
Hast  built  thyself  a  live-long  monument. 


POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS. 


151 


For  whilst,  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeavouring  art, 
Thy  easy  numbers  flow :  and  that  each  heart 
Hath  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued  book, 
Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  impression  took; 
Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  itself  bereaving, 
Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiving ; 
And  so  sepulchred,  in  such  pomp  dost  lie, 
That  kings,  for  such  a  tomb,  would  wish  to  die. 


ON  THE  UNIVERSITY  CARRIER, 

Who  sickened  In  the  time  of  his  vacancy,  being  forbid  to  go 
to  London,  by  reason  of  the  plague.  ' 

HERE  lies  old  Hobson;  Death  has  broke  his  girt, 
And  here,  alas !  hath  laid  him  in  the  dirt; 
Or  else  the  ways  being  foul,  twenty  to  one, 
He's  here  stuck  in  a  slough,  and  overthrown. 
'Twas  such  a  shifter,  that,  if  truth  were  known, 
Death  was  half  glad  when  he  had  got  him  down; 
For  he  had,  any  time  these  ten  years  full, 
Dodged  with  him,  betwixt  Cambridge  and  The 

Bull. 

And  surely  Death  could  never  have  prevailed, 
Had  not  his  weekly  course  of  carriage  failed ; 
But  lately  finding  him  so  long  at  home, 
And  thinking  now  his  journey's  end  was  come, 
And  that  he  had  ta'en  up  his  latest  inn, 
In  the  kmd  office  of  a  chamberlain 
Showed  him  his  room  where  he  must  lodge  that 

night, 

Pulled  off  his  boots,  and  took  away  the  light : 
If  any  ask  for  him,  it  shall  be  said, 
'  Hobson  has  supped,  and  *s  newly  gone  to  bed.' 


ANOTHER  ON  THE  SAME. 

HERE  lieth  one,  who  did  most  truly  prove 
That  he  could  never  die  while  he  could  move; 
So  hung  his  destiny,  never  to  rot, 
While  he  might  still  jog  on  and  keep  his  trot, 
Made  of  sphere-metal,  never  to  decay 
Until  his  revolution  was  at  stay. 
Time  numbers  motion,  yet  (without  a  crime 
'Gainst  old  truth)  motion  numbered  out  his  time; 
And,  like  an  engine  moved  with  wheel  and  weight, 
His  principles  being  ceased,  he  ended  straight. 
Rest,  that  gives  all  men  life,  gave  him  his  death, 
And  too  much  breathing  put  him  out  of  breath; 
Nor  were  it  contradiction  to  affirm, 
Too  long  vacation  hastened  on  his  term. 
Merely  to  drive  the  time  away  he  sickened, 
Fainted,  and  died,  nor  would  with  ale  be  quick- 
ened; 

1  Nay,'  quoth  he,  on  his  swooning  bed  outstretch'd ; 
'  If  I  may'nt  carry,  sure  I'll  ne'er  be  fetched, 
But  vow,  though  the  cross  doctors  all  stood  hearers, 
For  one  carrier  put  down  to  make  six  bearers.' 


Ease  was  his  chief  disease;  and,  to  judge  right, 
He  died  for  heaviness  that  his  cart  went  light : 
His  leisure  told  him  that  his  time  was  come, 
And  lack  of  load  made  his  life  burdensome, 
That  even  to  his  last  breath,  (there  be  that  say't,) 
As  he  were  pressed  to  death,  he  cried,  more  weight; 
But,  had  his  doings  lasted  as  they  were, 
He  had  been  an  immortal  carrier. 
Obedient  to  the  moon  he  spent  his  date 
In  course  reciprocal,  and  had  his  fate 
Linked  to  the  mutual  flowing  of  the  seas, 
Yet  (strange  to  think)  his  wain  was  his  increase. 
His  letters  are  delivered  all  and  gone, 
Only  remains  this  superscription. 


L'ALLEGRO. 

HENCE,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  born, 

In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and  sights 

unholy ! 
Found  out  some  uncouth  cell, 

Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his  jealous 

wings, 
And  the  night  raven  sings ; 

There,  under  ebon  shades,  and  low-browed 

rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 
But  come,  thou  goddess,  fair  and  free, 
In  Heaven  yclep'd  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  Men,  heart-easing  Mirth ; 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth, 
With  two  sister  Graces  more, 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore  : 
Or  whether  (as  some  sages  sing) 
The  frolic  wind,  that  breathes  the  spring, 
Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing, 
As  he  met  her  once  a  Maying ; 
There  on  beds  of  violets  blue, 
The  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew, 
Filled  her  with  thee  a  daughter  fair, 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity, 
duips,  and  Cranks,  and  wanton  Wiles, 
Nods,  and  Becks,  and  wreathed  Smiles 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek ; 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides  : 
Come,  and  trip  it,  as  you  go, 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe ; 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee, 
The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty ; 
And,  if  I  give  thee  honour  due, 
Mirth  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 


152 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free ; 
To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 
And  singing  startle  the  dull  night 
From  his  watchtower  in  the  skies 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise  ; 
Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good  morrow, 
Through  the  sweet  brier,  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine : 
While  the  cock,  with  lively  din, 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin ; 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn  door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before : 
Oft  list'ning  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill : 
Sometime  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate, 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 
Robed  in  flames,  and  amber  light, 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight  ^ 
While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand, 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land, 
And  the  milk  maid  singeth  blithe,  . 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 
Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures, 
Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures, 
Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray, 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast  . 
The  lab'ring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 
Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 
Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide : 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees, 
jWhere  perhaps  some  beauty  lies,       y 
/The  cynosure*  of  neighbouring  eyes.  f 
Hard  by  a  cottage  chimney  smokes, 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met, 
Are  at  their  savoury  dinner  set 
Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes, 
Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses ; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves : 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 
To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead. 
Sometimes  with  secure  delight 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 
When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 
And  the  jocund  rebecs  sound 


•  "  Cynosure  of  -neighbouring  eyes." — The  pole  star,  in 
the  lesser  bear 


To  many  a  youth,  and  many  a  maid, 

Dancing  in  the  chequered  shade  • 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

On  a  sunshine  holy-day, 

Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail : 

Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale, 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 

How  fairy  Mab  the  junkets  eat ; 

She  was  pinched,  and  pulled,  she  said : 

And  he,  by  friar's  lantern  led, 

Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat, 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 

His  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  corn, 

That  ten  day-labourers  could  not  end ; 

Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend, 

And,  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 

Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength ; 

And  cropful  out  of  doors  he  flings, 

Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 

By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 

Towered  cities  please  us  then, 

And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 

Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold, 

[n-  weeds  of  peace,  high  triumphs  hold, 

With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 

R,ain  influence,  and  judge. the  prize 

3f  wit,  or  arms,  while  both  contend 

To  win  her  grace,  whom  all  commend, 

There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 

[n  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 

And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 

With  mask,  and  antique  pageantry ; 

Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream, 

On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream, 

Then  to  the  well  trod  stage  anon, 

If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on, 

Or  sweetest  Shakspeare,  Fancy's  .child, 

Warble  his  native  woodnotes  wild. 

And  ever,  against  eating  cares, 
L,ap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 
Married  to  immortal  "verse ; 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce, 
n  notes,  with  many  a  winding  bout, 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 
With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning,  • 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 
Jntwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony ; 
That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 
?rom  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 
Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 
3is  half-regained  Eurydice. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live : 


POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS. 


153 


IL  PENSEROSO. 

HENCE,  vain  deluding  j 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred  ! 
How  little  you  bested, 

Or  fill  the  fixi-d  niind  with  all  your  toys ! 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sunbeams; 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 
But  hail,  thou  goddess,  sage  and  holy, 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy ! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 
And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue ; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem, 
Or  that  starred  Ethiop  queen*  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 
The  sea-nymphs,  and  their  power?  offended : 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended: 
The  bright-haired  Vesta,  .long  of  yore, 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore ; 
His  daughter  she ;  (in  Saturn's  reign, 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain ;) 
Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 
Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 
Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 
Flowing,  with  majestic  train, 
And  sable  stole  of  Cyprus  lawn, 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 
Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 
With  even  step  and  musing  gait, 
And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 
Thy  wrapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes; 
There,  held  in  holy  passion  still, 
Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  ear^h  as  fast : 
And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and  duiet, 
Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with-  gods  doth  diet', 
And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 
Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing : 
And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 
That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure : 
But  first,  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring, 
Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 
Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 
The  cherub  Contemplation : 


That  starred  Ethiop  queen"— Cassiope,   wife  of 


\.nd  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 
Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song, 
n  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 
moothing  the  rugged  brow  of  night, 
While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke, 
Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak, 
>weet  bird,  that  shunnest  the  noise  of  folly, 
vlost;  musical,  most  melancholy! 
Thee,  chantress,  oft,  the  woods  among, 

woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song ; 
And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wandering  moon, 
liding  near  her  highest  noon, 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  Heaven's  wide  pathless  way; 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 
Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 
I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound, 
Over  some  wide- watered  shore, 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar : 
Of,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 
Some  still  removed  place  will  fit,  • 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom ; 
Par  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 
Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 
Or  the  belman's  drowsy  charm, 
To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 
Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour, 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 
Where  I  might  oft  outwatch  the  Bear, 
With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 
The  immortal  mind,  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshy  nook : 
And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground, 
Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 
With  planet,  or  with  element. 
Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptered  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine ; 
Or  what  (though  rare)  of  latter  age 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskined. stage. 

But,  O  sad  Virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  MUSSEUS  from  his  bower ! 
Or  bid  the  souls  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes,  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek, 
And  made  hell  grant  what  love  did  seek ! 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half-told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 
Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife, 


154 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass: 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 
On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride : 
And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung, 
Of  turneys,  and  of  trophies  hung, 
Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear, 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 

Thus,  night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career, 
Till  civil-suited  morn  appear, 
Not  tricked  and  frounced  as  she  was  wont 
With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt, 
But  kercheft  in  a  comely  cloud. 
While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 
Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still, 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 
Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves, 
With  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves. 
And,  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me,  Goddess,  bring, 
To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 
And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves, 
Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak, 
Where  the  rude  .axe,  with  heaved  stroke, 
Was  never  heard  the  Nymphs  to  daunt, 
Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 
There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook, 
Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 
Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye ; 
While  the  bee  with  honied  thigh, 
That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 
And  the  waters  murmuring, 
With  such  consort  as  they  keep, 
Entice  the  dewy-feathered  sleep ; 
And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 
Wave  at  his  wings  in  airy  stream 
Of  lively  portraiture  displayed, 
Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid. 
And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 
About,  above,  or  underneath, 
Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good, 
Or  the  unseen  genius  of  the  wood.  - 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloisters  pale, 
And  love  the  high  embowed  roof, 
With  antic  pillars  massy  proof, 
And  storied  windows  richly  dight, 
Casting  a  dim  religious  light  : 
There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow,    . 
To  the  full-voiced  choir  below, 
In  service  high,  and  anthems  clear, 
As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 
Dissolve  me  into  ecstacies, 
And  bring  all  Heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 


Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  show, 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew: 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give, 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 


ARCADES. 

Part  of  an  entertainment  presented  to  the  Countess  Dowager 
of  Derby  at  Harefield,  by  some  noble  persons  of  her  fami- 
ly ;  who  appear  on  the  scene  in  pastoral  habit,  moving  to- 
ward the  seat  of  state,  with  this  song. 


LOOK,  nymphs  and  shepherds,  look, 
What  sudden  blaze  of  majesty 
Is  that  which  we  from  hence  descry, 
Too  divine  to  be  mistook : 

This,  this  is  she 

To  whom  our  vows  and  wishes  bend ; 
Here  our  solemn  search  hath  end. 
Fame,  that,  her  high  worth  to  raise, 
Seemed  erst  so  lavish  and  profuse, 
We  may  just  now  accuse 
Of  detraction  from  her  praise; 

Less  than  half  we  find  exprest, 

Envy  bid  conceal  the  rest. 
Mark,  what  radiant  state  she  spreads, 
In  circle  round  her  shining  throne, 
Shooting  her  beams  like  silver  threads  ; 
This,  this  is  she  alone, 

Silting  like  a  goddess  bright, 

In  the  centre  of  her  light. 
Might  she  the  wise  Latona  be, 
Or  the  towered  Cybele, 
Mother  of  a  hundred  gods'? 
Juno  dares  not  give,  her  odds ; 

Who  had  thought  this  clime  had  held 

A  deity  so  unparalleled  1 

As  they  come  forward,  the  Genius  of  the  wood  appears,  and 
turning  towards  them,  speaks. 

Genius. 

Stay,  gentle  swains,  for,  though  in  this  disguise, 
[  see  bright  honour  sparkle  through  your  eyes ; 
Of  famous  Arcady  ye  are,  and  sprung 
Of  that  renowned  flood,  so  often  sung, 
Divine  Alpheus,  who  by  secret  sluice 
Stole  under  seas  to  meet  his  Arethuse , 
And  ye,  the  breathing  roses  of  the  wood, 
Pair  silver  buskined  nymphs,  as  great  and  good, 
[  know  this  quest  of  yours,  and  free  intent, 
Was  all  in  honour  and  devotion  meant 
To  the  great  mistress  of  yon  princely  shrine, 
Whom  with  low  reverence  I  adore  as  mine; 
And,  with  all  helpful  service  will  comply 
To  further  this  night's  glad  solemnity; 


POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS. 


155 


And  lead  ye  where  ye  may  more  near  behold 
What  shallow  searching  fame  hath  left  untold; 
Which  I  full  oft,  amidst  these  shades  alone, 
Have  sat  to  wonder  at,  and  gaze  upon: 
For  know,  by  lot  from  Jove,  I  am  the  power 
Of  this  fair  wood,  and  live-in  oaken  bower, 
To  nurse  the  saplings  tall,  and  curl  the  grove 
With  ringlets  quaint,  and  wanton  windings  wove, 
And  all  my  plants  I  save  from  nightly  ill 
Of  noisome  winds,  and  blasting  vapours  chill: 
And  from  the  boughs  brush  off  the  evil  dew, 
And  heal  the  harms  of  thwarting  thunder  blue, 
Or  what  the  cross  dire  looking  planet  smites, 
Or  hurtful  worm  with  cankered  venom  bites. 
When  evening  gray  .doth  rise,  I  fetch  my  round 
Over  the  mount,  and  all  this  hallowed  ground; 
And  early,  ere  the  odorous  breath  of  morn 
Awakes  the  slumbering  leaves,  or  tasseled  horn 
Shakes  the  high  thicket,  haste  I  all  about, 
Number  my  ranks,  and  visit  every  sprout 
With  puissant  words,  and  murmurs  made  to  bless. 
But  else  in  deep  of  night,  when  drowsiness 
Hath  locked  up  mortal  sense,  then  listen  I 
To  the  celestial  Syren's  harmony, 
That  sit  upon  the  nine  infolded  spheres, 
And  sing  to  those  that  hold  the  vital  shears. 
And  turn  the  adamantine  spindle  round, 
On  which  the  fate  of  gods  and  men  is  wound. 
Such  sweet  compulsion  doth  in  music  lie, 
To  lull  the  daughters  of  Necessity, 
And  keep  unsteady  Nature  to  her  law, 
And  the  low  world  in  measured  motion  draw 
After  the  heavenly  tune,  which  none  can  hear 
Of  human  mould,  with  gross  unpurged  ear: 
And  yet  such  music  worthiest  were  to  blaze 
The  peerless  height  of  her  immortal  praise, 
Whose  lustre  leads  us,  and  for  her  most  fit, 
If  my  inferior  hand  or  voice  could  hit 
Inimitable  sounds :  yet,  as  we  go, 
Whate'er  the  skill  of  lesser  gods  can  show, 
I  will  assay,  her  worth  to  celebrate, 
And  so  attend  ye  toward  her  glittering  state; 
Where  ye  may  all,  that  are  of  noble  stem, 
Approach,  and  kiss  her  sacred  vesture's  hem. 

II.  SONG. 

O'er  the  smooth  enameled  green, 
Where  no  print  of  step  hath  been 

Follow  me,  as  I  sing 

And  touch  the  warbled  string, 
Under  the  shady  roof 
Of  branching  elm  star-proof. 

Follow  me: 

I  will  bring'  you  where  she  sits, 
Clad  in  splendour  as  befits, 

Her  deity. 
Such  a  rural  queen 
All  Arcadia  hath  not  seen. 


III.    SONG. 

Nymphs  and  Shepherds,  dance  no  more 

By  sandy  Ladon's  lilied  banks: 
On  old  Lycaeus,  or  Cyllene  hoar, 

Trip  no  more  in  twilight  ranks; 
Though  Erymanth  your  loss  deplore, 

A  better  soil  shall  give  ye  thanks. 
From  the  stony  Maenalus 
Bring  your  flocks,  arid  live  with  us ; 
Here  ye  shall  have  greater  grace, 
To  serve  the  lady  of  this  place. 
Though  Syrinx  your  Parr's  mistress  were, 
Yet  Syrinx  well  might  wait  on  her. 

Such  a  rural  queen    • 

All  Areadia  hath  not  seen. 


LYCIDAS. 

In  this  monody  the  author  bewails  a  learned  Friend,  unfortu- 
nately drowned  in  his  passage  from  Chester  on  the  Irish 
seas,  1637,  and  by  occasion  foretells  the  ruin  of  our  cor- 
rupted clergy,  then  in  their  height. 

YET  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 
[  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude, 
And,  with  forced  fingers  rude, 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year: 
Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear, 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due: 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  has  not  left  his  peer: 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  1  he  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
[Jnwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin  then,  sisters  of  the  sacred  well, 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  jove  doth  spring; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  excuse 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse* 
With  lucky  words  favour  my  destined  urn; 
And,  as  he  passes,  turn, 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill, 
?ed  the  same  flock  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill. 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
Jnder  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn, 
We  drove  afield,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray-fly  winds  her  sultry  horri, 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night, 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright, 
Toward  Heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  wester- 
ing wheel. 


*  "  So  may  some  gentle  Muse11— Muse  in  the  masculine 
ender  here  means  Poet. 


156 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 
Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute; 
Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long ; 
And  old  Damo3tas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But,  O  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return ! 
Thee,  shepherd,  thee  the  woods,  and  desert  caves 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown, 
And  all  their  echoes  mourn : 
The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green. 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays, 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 
Or  taint- worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze, 
Or  frost  to  flowers  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear, 
When  first  the  whitethorn  blows ; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 

Where  were  ye,  nymphs,  when  the  remorseless 

deep 

Closed  over  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas  1 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep, 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids  lie, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream: 
Ah  me !  I  fondly  dream ! 

Had  ye  been  there — for  what  could  that  have  done? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore, 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son, 
W'hom  universal  nature  did  lament, 
When,  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar, 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to,  the  Lesbian  shore  7 

Alas !  what  boots  it  with  incessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely  slighted  shepherd's  trade, 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse  7 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair  1 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 
(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 
To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days : 
But  the  fair  guerdon,  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears, 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.  "But  not  the  praise," 
Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling  ears: 
"  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 
Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies: 
But'  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes, 
And  perfect  witness  of  all  judging  Jove; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 
Of  so  much  fame  in  Heaven  expect  thy  meed." 

O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honoured  flood, 
Smooth-sliding   Mincius,  crowned  with  vocal 

reeds ! 

That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood: 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds, 


And  listens  to  the -herald  of  the  sea* 

That  came  in  Neptune's  plea: 

He  asked  the  waves,  arid  asked  the  felon  winds, 

What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle  swain: 

And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  wings, 

That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory: 

They  know  not  of  his  story; 

And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings, 

That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  strayed: 

The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 

Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  played. 

It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark, 

Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark, 

That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next,  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow, 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge, 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and. on  the  edge 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  wo. 
( Ah !  who  hath  reft  (quoth  he)  my  dearest  pledge? 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 
The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake; 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain,' 
(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain,) 
He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake : 
"  How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young 

swain, 

Enow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 
Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold! 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make, 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearer's  feast, 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest: 
Blind  mouths!  that  scarce  themselves  know  how 

to  hold 

A  sheephook,  or  have  learned  aught  else  the  .least 
That  to  the  faithful  herdsman's  art  belongs! 
What  recks  it  them  1  What  need  they  7  They  are 

sped; 

And,  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 
Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw; 
The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed, 
But,  swollen  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they 

draw, 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread: 
Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said : 
But  that  two-handed  engine  t  at  the  door, 
Stands  ready  to  smite  once-,  and  smite  no  more." 

Return,  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice  is  past, 
That  shrunk  thy  streams ;  return,  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells,  and  flow'rets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks, 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star  sparely  looks; 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enameled  eyes, 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honied  shower, 


*  "The  herald  of  the  sea." — Triton. 

1  "Two-handed  engine."— toe  axe  of  reformation. 


POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS. 


157 


And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 
The  tufted  crowtoe,  and  pale  jessamine, 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet, 
The  glowing  violet, 

The  muskrose,  and  the  well  attired  woodbine, 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears: 
Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 
And  daffodillies  lill  their  cups  with  tears, 
To  strew  the  laureat  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 
For,  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 
Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise. 
Ah  me  1  Whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 
Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurled, 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
Where  thou  perhaps,  under  the  whelming  tide, 
Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world ; 
Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied 
Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Belleru&old,* 
Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  mount 
Looks  towards  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold; 
Look  homeward,  angel,  now,  and  melt  with  ruth : 
And,  O  ye  Dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  woful  shepherds,  weep  no  more, 
For  Lycidas  your  sorrow  is  not  dead* 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor ; 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed, 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new  spangled  ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky : 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high, 
Through  the  dear  might  of  him  that  walk'd  the 

waves ; 

Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves, 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song, 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love, 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above, 


"  The  fable  of  Bellerus  old,"  &c.  The  BeUerian  pro- 
montory or  Land's  end  in  Cornwall,  near  which  ia  Mount  St. 
Michael,  a  fortress  on,  a  rock,  named  from  a  supposed  vision 
or  apparition  of  St.  Michael 


In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  societies, 
That  sing,  and,  singing,  in  their  glory  move, 
And  wipe  the  tears  forever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more ; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  genius  of  the  shore, 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shall  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 
Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and 

rills, 

While  the  still  mom  went  out  with  sandals  gray; 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay: 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills, 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay: 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue ; 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new. 


ON  THE  NEW  FORCERS  OF  CON- 
SCIENCE UNDER  THE  LONG  PAR- 
LIAMENT. 

BECAUSE  you  have  thrown  off  your  prelate  lord, 
And  with  stiff  vows  renounced  his  liturgy, 
To  seize  the  widowed  whore  Plurality 
From  them  whose  sin  ye  envied,  not  abhorred; 

Dare  ye  for  this  abjure  the  civil  sword 

To  force  our  consciences  that  Christ  set  free, 
And  ride  us  with  a  classic  hierarchy 
Taught  ye  by  mere  A.  S.  and  Rotherfordl 

Men,  whose  life,  learning,  faith,  and  pure  intent 
Would  have  been  held  in  high  esteem  with  Paul, 
Must  now  be  named  and  printed  heretics 

By  shallow  Edwards  and  Scotch  what  d'ye  call : 
But  we  do  hope  to  find  out  all  your  tricks, 
Your  plots  and  packing  worse  than  those  of 
Trent. 

That  so  the  parliament 

May  with  their  wholesome  and  preventive  shears. 

Clip  your  phylacteries,  though  bauk  your  ears, 

And  succour  our  just  fears, 

When  they  shall  read  this  clearly  in  your  charge, 

New  Presbyter  is  but  old  Priest  writ  large. 


158 


SONNETS. 


Sonnets. 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

O  NIGHTINGALE,  that  on  yon  bloomy  spray    * 
Warblest  at  eve,  when  all  the  woods  are  still ; 
Thou  with  fresh  hope  the  lover's  heart  dost  fill 
While  the  jolly  hours  lead  on  propitious  May, 

Thy  liquid  notes  that  close  the  eye  of  day, 
First  heard  before  the  shallow  cuckoo's  bill, 
Portend  success  in  love;  O  if  Jove's  will 
Have  linked  that  amorous  power  to  thy  soft  lay 

Now  timely  sing,  ere  the  rude  bird  of  hate 

Foretell  my  hopeless  doom  in  some  grove  nigh 
As  thou  from  year  to  year  hast  sung  too  late  . 

For  my  relief,  yethad'st  no  reason  why: 
Whether  the  Muse,  or  Love  call  thee  his  mate 
Both  them  I  serve,  and  of  their  train  am  I. 

ON    HIS    BEING    ARRIVED    TO   THE 
AGE  OF  TWENTY-THREE. 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth, 
Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three-and-twentieth  year! 
My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career, 
But  my  late  spring  no  bud  nor  blossom  showeth. 

Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive  the  truth, 
That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near; 
And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less  appear, 
That  some  more  timely  happy  spirits  indueth. 

Fet  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow, 

,    It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  even 
To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high, 

Toward  which  time  leads  me,  and  the  will  of 

Heaven; 

All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so, 
As  ever  in  my  great  Taskmaker's  eye. 


WHEN  THE  ASSAULT  WAS  INTEND- 
ED TO  THE  CITY. 
CAPTAIN,  or  colonel,  or  knight  in  arms, 

Whose  chance  on  these  defenceless  doors  may 

seize, 

If  deed  of  honour  did  thee  ever  please, 
Guard    them,    and  him  within  protect  from 

harms. 

He  can  requite  thee;  for  he  knows  the  charms 
That  call  fame  on  such  gentle  acts  as  these, 
And  he  can  spread  thy  name  o'er  lands  and 

seas, 

Whatever  clime  the  sun's  bright  circle  warms. 
Lift  not  thy  spear  against  the  Muses'  bower: 
The  great  Emathian  conqueror  bid  spare 
The  house  of  Pindarus,  when  temple  and  tower 
Went  to  the  ground :  and  the  repeated  air 
Of  sad  Electra's  poet  had  the  power 
To  save  the  Athenian  walls  from  ruin  bare. 


TO  A  VIRTUOUS  YOUNG  LADY. 
LADY,  that  in  the  prime  of  earliest  youth 

Wisely  hast  shunned  the  broadway  and  the 

green, 

And  with  those  few  art  eminently  seen, 
That  labour  up  the  hill  of  heavenly  truth, 
The  better  part  with  Mary  and  with  Ruth 
Chosen  thou  hast ;  and  they  that  overween, 
And  at  thy  growing  virtues  fret  their  spleen, 
No  anger  find  in  thee,  but  piety  and  ruth. 
Thy  care  is  fixed,  and  zealously  attends 
To  fill  thy  odorous  lamp  with  deeds  of  light, 
And  hope  that  reaps  not  shame.    Therefore  be 

sure 
Thou,  when  the  bridegroom  with  his  feastful 

friends 

Passes  to  bliss  at  the  mid  hour  of  night, 
Hast  gained  thy  entrance,  virgin  wise  and  pure. 


TO  THE  LADY  MARGARET  LEY. 

DAUGHTER  to  that  good  earl,  once  president 
Of  England's  council  and  her  treasury, 
Who  lived  in  both,  unstained  with  gold  or  fee, 
And  left  them  both,  more  in  himself  content, 

Till  sad  the  breaking  of  that  Parliament 
Broke  him,  as  that  dishonest  victory 
At  Chaeronea,  fatal  to  liberty, 
Killed  with  report  that  old  man  eloquent. 

Though  later  born  than  to  have  known  the  days 
Wherein  your  father  flouished,  yet  by  you, 
Madam,  methinks  I  see  him  living  yet; 

So  well  your  words  his  noble  virtues  praise, 
That  all  both  judge  you  to  relate  them  true, 
And  to  possess  them,  honoured  Margaret. 


ON  THE  DETRACTION  WHICH  FOL- 
LOWED UPON  MY  WRITING  CER- 
TAIN TREATISES. 

BOOK  was  writ  of  late  called  Tetrachordon, 
And  woven  close,  both  matter,  form,  and  style: 
The  subject  new:  it  walked  the  town  a  while, 
Numbering  good  intellects;  now  seldom  pored 

on. 

Cries  the  stall-reader,  Bless  us !  what  a  word  on 
A  title  page  is  this !  and  some  in  file 
Stand  spelling  false,  while  one  might  walk  to 

Mile- 
End  Green.    Why  is  it  harder,  Sirs,  than  Gor- 
don, 

olkitto,  or  Macdonnel,or  Galasp? 
Those  rugged  names  to  our  like  mouths  grow 
sleek, 


SONNETS. 


159 


That  would  have  made  duintilian  stare  am 

gasp. 

Thy  age,  like  oars,  O  soul  of  Sir  John  Cheek, 
Hated  not  learning  worse  than  toad  or  asp, 
When  thou  taught'st  Cambridge,  and  King 

Edward  Greek. 


ON  THE  SAME. 

I  DID  but  prompt  the  age  to  quit  their  clogs 
By  the  known  rules  of  ancient  liberty, 
When  straight  a  barbarous  noise  environs  me 
Of  owls  and  cuckoos,  asse"s,  apes,  and  dogs : 

As  when  those  hinds  that  were  transformed  to  frogs 
Railed  at  Latona's  twin-born  progeny, 
Which  after  held  the  sun  and  moon  in  fee. 
But  this  is  got  by  casting  pearl  to  hogs; 

That  bawl  for  freedom  in  their  senseless  mood, 
And  still  revolt  when  truth  would  set  them  free 
License  they  mean  when  they  cry  liberty; 

For  who  loves  that,  must  first  be  wise  and  good ; 
But  from  that  mark  how  far  they  rove  we  see, 
For  all  this  waste  of  wealth,  and  loss  of  blood. 


TO  MR.  H.  LAWES, 

ON  THE  PUBLISHING  HIS  AIRS. 

HARRY,  whose  tuneful  and  well  measured  song 
First  taught  our  English  music  how  to  span 
Words  with  just  note  and  accent  not  to  scan 
With  Midas'  ears,  committing  short  and  long ; 

Thy  worth  and  skill  exempts  thee  from  the  throng, 

With  praise  enough  for  envy  to  look  wan; 

To  after  age  thou  sh.alt  be  writ  the  man, 

That  with  smooth  air  could'st  humour  best  our 

tongue. 

Thou  honour'st  verse,  and  verse  must  lend  her 

wing 

To  honour  thee  the  priest  of  Phoebus'  choir, 
That  tun'st  their  happiest  lines  in  hymn,  or 
story. 

Dante  shall  give  Fame  leave  to  set  thee  higher 
Than  his  Casella,  whom  he  wooed  to  sing 
Met  in  the  milder  shades  of  purgatory. 


ON  THE  RELIGIOUS  MEMORY 

OP     MRS.    CATHARINE     THOMSON,    MY    CHRISTIAN 
FRIEND,  DECEASED  16th  DECEMBER,  1646. 

WHEN  faith  and  love,  which  parted  from  thee 

never, 

Had  ripened  thy  just  soul  to  dwell  with  God, 
Meekly  thou  did'st  resign  the  earthy  load 
Of  death,  called  life;  which  us  from  life  doth 

sever. 

Thy  works,  and  alms,  and  all  thy  good  endeavour 
Stayed  not  behind,  nor  in  the  grave  were  trod  j 


But,  as  Faith  pointed  with  her  golden  rod, 
Followed  thee  up  to  joy  and  bliss  for  ever. 

Love  led  them  on,  and  Faith,  who  knew  them  best. 
Thy  handmaids,  clad  them  o'er  with  purple 

beam 
And  azure  wings,  that  up  they  flew  so  drest, 

And  spake  the  truth  of  thee  on  glorious  themes 
Before  the  Judge ;  who  thenceforth  bid  thee  rest, 
And  drink  thy  fill  of  pure  immortal  streams. 


TO  THE  LORD  GENERAL  FAIRFAX. 

FAIRFAX,  whose  name  in  arms  through  Europe 

rings, 

Filling  each  mouth  with  envy  or  with  praise, 
And  all  her  jealous  rnonarchs  with  amaze 
And  rumours  loud,  that  daunt  remotest  kings; 

Thy  firm  unshaken  virtue  ever  brings 
Victory  home,  though  new  rebellions  raise 
Their  "hydra  heads,  and  the  false  north  displays 
Her  broken  league  to  imp  their  serpent  wings. 

O  yet  a  nobler  task  awaits  thy  hand, 
(For  what  can  war,  but  endless  war  still  breed'?) 
Till  truth  and  right  from  violence  be  freed, 

And  public  faith  cleared  from  the  shameful  brand 
Of  public  fraud.    In  vain  doth  valour  bleed, 
While  avarice  and  rapine  share  the  land. 


TO  THE  LORD  GENERAL  CROM- 
WELL. 

CROMWELL,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a  cloud, 
Not  of  war  only,  but  detractions  rude, 
Guided  by  faith  and  matchless  fortitude, 
To  peace   and  truth  thy  glorious  way  hast 

plonghed, 

And  on  the  neck  of  crowned  Fortune  proud 
Hast  reared  God's  trophies,  and  his  work  pur- 
sued, 

While  Darwen  stream,  with  blood  of  Scots  im- 
brued, 

And  Dunbar  field,  resounds  thy  praises  loud, 
And  Worcester's  laurcat  wreath.    Yet  much  re- 
mains 

To  conquer  still ;  peace  hath  her  victories 
No  less  renowned  than  war :  new  fqj^  arise 
Threatening  to  bind  our  souls  with  secular  chains: 
Help  us  to  save  free  conscience  from  the  paw 
Of  hireling  wolves,  whose  Gospel  is  their  maw. 


TO  SIR  HENRY  VANE, 

THE  YOUNGER. 

VANE,  young  in  years,  but  in  sage  counsel  old, 
Than  whom  a  better  senator  ne'er  held 


160 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


The  helm  of  Rome,  when  gowns,  not  arms  re- 
pelled 
The  fierce  Epirot  and  the  African  bold; 

Whether  to  settle  peace  or  to  unfold    . 

The  drift  of  hollow  states  hard  to  be  spelled ; 
Then  to  advise  how  war  may,  best  upheld, 
Move  by  her  two  main  nerves,  iron  and  gold, 

In  all  her  equipage :  besides  to  know 

Both  spiritual  power  and  civil,  what  each  means 

What  severs  each,  thou  hast  learned,  which  few 

have  done ; 

The  bounds  of  either  sword  to  thee  we  owe : 
Therefore  on  thy  firm  hand  Religion  leans 
In  peace,  and  reckons  thee  her  eldest  son. 


ON  THE   LATE    MASSACRE   IN  PIE- 
MONT. 

AVENGE,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose 

bones 

Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold ; 
Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipped  stocks  and 
stones, 

Forget  not :  in  thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piemontese  that  rolled '  ' 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     Their 


The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 
To  Heaven.    Their  martyred  blood  and 


O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 
The  triple  tyrant ;  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundred  fold,  who,  having  learned  thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  wo. 


ON  HIS  BLINDNESS. 

WHEN  I  consider  how  my  life  is  spent 
Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide, 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more 
bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  he  returning,  chide ; 
Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied  ? 
I  fondly  ask :  But  patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies,  God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work,  or  his  own  gifts ;  who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best;  his 


Is  kingly ;  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait. 


TO  MR.  LAWRENCE. 

LAWRENCE,  of  virtuous  father,  virtuous  son, 
Now  that  the  fields  are  dank,  and  ways  are  mire, 
Where  shall  we  sometimes  meet,  and  by  the  fire 
Help  waste  a  sullen  day,  what  may  be  won 

From  the  hard  season  gaining  1    Time  will  run 
On  smoother,  till  Favonius  reinspire 
The  frozen  earth,  and  clothe  in  fresh  attire 
The  lily  and  rose,  that  neither  sowed  nor  spun. 

What  neat  repast  shall  feast  us;  light  and  choice, 
Of  Attic  taste,  with  wine,  whence  we  may  rise 
To  hear  the  lute  well  touched  or  artful  voice 

Warble  immortal  notes  and  Tuscan  air  1 
He  who  of  those  delights  can  judge,  and  spare 
To  interpose  them  oft,  is  not  unwise. 


1*0  CYRIAC  SKINNER. 

CYRIAC,  whose  grandsire,  on  the  royal  bench 
Of  British  Themis,  with  no  mean  applause 
Pronounced,  and  in  his  volumes  taught,  our  laws, 
Which  others  at  their  bar  so  often  wrench ; 

To-day  deep  thoughts  resolve  with  me  to  drench 
In  mirth,  that,  after,  no  repenting  draws ; 
Let  Euclid  rest,  and  Archimedes  pause, 
And  what  the  Swede  intends,  and  what  the 
French 

To  measure  life  learn  thou  betimes,  and  know 
Toward  solid  good  what  leads  the  nearest  way; 
For  other  things  mild  Heaven  a  time  ordains, 

And  disapproves  that  care,  though  wise  in  show, 
That  with  superfluous  burden  loads  the  day 
And,  when  God  sends  a  cheerful  hour,  refrains. 


ON  HIS  DECEASED  WIFE.* 

METHOUGHT  I  saw  my  late  espoused  saint 
Brought  to  me,  like  Alcestis,  from  the  grave, 
Whom  Jove's  great  son  to  her  glad  husband  gave, 
Rescued  from  death  by  force,  tho'  pale  and  faint. 

Mine,  as  whom  wash'd  from  spot  of  child -bed  taint 
Purification  in  the'  old  Law  did  save, 
And  such,  as  yet  once  more  I  trust  to  have 
Full  sight  of  her  in  Heaven  without  restraint, 

Came  vested  all  in  white,  pure  as  her  mind : 
Her  face  was  veil'd ;  yet  to  my  fancied  sight 
Love,  sweetness,  goodness,  in  her  person  shin'd 

So  clear,  as  in  no  face  with  more  delight : 
But  O !  as  to  embrace  me  she  inclin'd, 
I  wak'd ;  she  fled ;  and  day  brought  back  my  night. 


*  This  sonnet  was  written  about  the  year  1656,  on  the  death 
of  his  second  wife,  Catharine,  the  daughter  of  Captain  Wood- 
cock, of  Hackney,  a  rigid  sectarist.  She  died  in  child-bed  of 
a  daughter,  within  a  year  after  their  marriage.  Milton  had 
now  been  long  totally  blind. 


SONNETS. 


161 


TO  CYRIAC  SKINNER. 

CYRIAC,  these  three  years' day  these  eyes,  tho' clear, 
To  outward  view,  of  blemish  or  of  spot, 
r.t'rell  of  light  their  seeing  have  forgot ; 
Nor  to  their  idle  orbs  doth  sight  appear 

Of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star,  throughout  the  year, 
Or  man,  or  woman.     Yet  I  argue  not 
Against  iku\tn's  hand  or  will,  nor  bate  a  jot 


Of  heart  or  hope ;  but  still  bear  up  and  steer 
Right  onward.  What  supports  me,  dost  thou  ask  1 
The  conscience,  friend,  to  have  lost  them  over- 
plied 

In  liberty's  defence,  my  noble  task, 
Of  which  all  Europe  rings  from  side  to  side. 
This  thought  might  lead  me  through  the  world's 

vain  mask 
Content  though  blind,  had  I  no  better  guide. 


THE  FIFTH  ODE  OF  HORACE,  LIB.  I. 

WHAT  slender  youth,  bcdew'd  with  liquid  odours, 
Courts  thee  on  rosrsin  some  pleasant  cave, 

Pyrrha  1  For  whom  bind'st  thou 

In  wreaths  thy  golden  hair, 
Plain  in  thy  neatness  7  O,  how  oil  shall  he 
(.  >n  faith  and  changed  gods  complain,  and  seas 

Rough  with  black  winds  and  storms 

Unwonted  shrill  admire ! 
Who  now  enjoys  thce  credulous,  all  gold, 
Who  always  vacant  always  amiable 

Hopes  thee,  of  flattering  gales 

Unmindful.     Hapless  they 
To  whom  thou  untried  seem'st  fair !  Me,  in  my  vow'd 
Picture,  the  sacred  wall  declares  to  have  hung 

My  dank  and  dropping  weeds 

To  the  stern  god  of  sea. 

PROM  GEOFFREY  OF  MONMOUTH.* 

BRUTUS  thus  addresses  DIANA  in  the  country  of 
LEOGECIA. 

GODDESS  of  shades,  and  huntress,  who  at  will 
Walk' st  on  the  rolling spheres.and  through  thedeep; 
On  thy  third  reign,  the  earth,  look  now,  and  tell 
What  land,  what  seat  of  rest,  thou  bid'st  me  seek ; 
What  certain  seat,  where  I  may  worship  thee 
For  aye,  with  temples  vow'd  and  virgin  quires. 

To  whom,  sleeping  before  the  altar,  DIANA  an- 
swers in  a  rision,  the  same  night. 

.  far  to  the  west,  in  the  ocean  wide, 
Beyond  the  realm  of  Gaul,  a  land  there  lies, 
Sea-girt  it  lie  ,,ts  dwelt  of  old ; 

Now  void,  it  fits  thy  people  :  thither  bend 
Thy  course;  there  slialt  thou  find  a  lasting  scat; 
There  to  thy  sons  another  Troy  shall  rise, 
And  kings  be  born  of  thee,  whose  dreadful  might 
Shall  awe  tin-  world,  and  conquer  nations  |>,,ld. 


FROM  DANTE. 


"Hist.  Biit.  i.  xi.  "Diva  potcna  nein^runi-/'  Ax 
13 


AH,  Constantino,  of  how  much  ill  was  cause, 
Not  thy  conversion,  but  those  rich  domains 
That  the  first  wealthy  pope  receiv'd  of  thee. 


FROM  DANTE. 


FOUNDED  in  chaste  and  humble  poverty, 
'Gainst  them  that  rais'd  thee  dost  thou  lift  thy  horn, 
Impudent  whore,  where  hast  thou  plac'd  thy  hope  7 
In  thy  adulterers,  or  thy  ill-got  wealth  1 
Another  Constantino  comes  not  in  haste. 


FROM  ARIOSTO. 

THEN  pass'd  he  to  a  flowery  mountain  green, 
Which  once  smelt  sweet,  now  stinks  as  odiously  : 
This  was  the  gift,  if  you  the  truth  will  have, 
That  Constantino  to  good  Sylvester  gave. 

FROM  HORACE. 

WHOM  do  we  count  a  good  man  1  Whom  but  he 
Who  keeps  the  laws  and  statutes  of  the  senate, 
Who  judges  in  great  suits  and  controversies, 
Whose  witness  and  opinion  wins  the  cause  1 
But  his  own  house,  and  the  whole  neighbourhood, 
Sees  his  foul  inside  through  his  whited  skin. 

FROM  EURIPIDES. 

THIS  is  true  liberty,  when  freeborn  men, 
Having  to'  advise  the  public,  may  speak  free ; 
Which  he  who  can,  and  will,  deserves  high  praise : 
Who  neither  can,  nor  will,  may  hold  his  peace ; 
What  can  be  juster  in  a  state  than  this  ? 

FROM  HORACE. 

Laughing  to  teach  the  truth, 

What  hinders  1    As  some  teachers  give  to  boys 
Junkets  and  knacks,  that  they  may  learn  apace. 

FROM  HORACE. 

Joking  decides  great  things, 

Stroii'icr  and  better  oil  than  earnest  can. 


162 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


FROM  SOPHOCLES. 


3Tis  you  that  say  it,  not  I.    You  do  the  deeds, 
And  your  ungodly  deeds  find  me  the  words. 

FROM  SENECA. 

There  can  be  slain 

No  sacrifice  to  God  more  acceptable, 
Than  an  unjust  and  wicked  king. 

PSALM  I. 
Done  into  verse,  1653 

BLESSED  is  the  man  who  hath  not  walked  astray 
In  counsel  of  the  wicked,  and  i'  the  way 
Of  sinners  hath  not  stood,  and  in  the  seat 
Of  scorners  hath  not  sat :  but  in  the  great 
Jehovah's  law  is  ever  his  delight, 
And  in  his  law  he  studies  day  and  night. 
He  shall  be  as  a  tree  which  planted  grows 
By  watery  streams,  and  in  his  season  knows 
To  yield  his  fruit,  and  his  leaf  shall  not  fall, 
And  what  he  takes  in  hand  shall  prosper  all, 
Not  so  the  wicked,  but  as  chaff  which  fann'd 
The  wind  drives,  so  the  wicked  shall  not  stand 
In  judgment,  or  abide  their  trial  then, 
Nor  sinners  in  the  assembly  of  just  men. 
For  the  Lord  knows  the  upright  way  of  the  just, 
And  the  way  of  bad  men  to  ruin  must. 

PSALM  II. 
Done  Aug.  8,  1653.     Terzetti. 

WHY  do  the  Gentiles  tumult,  and  the  Nations 
Muse  a  vain  thing,  the  kings  of  the  earth  upstand 
With  power,  and  princes  in  their  congregations 

Lay  deep  their  plots  together  through  each  land 
Against  the  Lord  and  his  Messiah  dear  1 
Let  us  break  off,  say  they,  by  strength  of  hand 

Their  bonds,  and  cast  from  us,  no  more  to  wear, 
Their  twisted  cords :  He,  who  in  heaven  doth 

dwell, 

Shall  laugh;  the  Lord  shall  scoff  them;  then, 
severe, 

Speak  to  them  in  his  wrath,  and  in  his  fell 
And  fierce  ire  trouble  them ;  but  I,  saith  he, 
Anointed  have  my  King  (though  ye  rebel) 

On  Sion  my  holy  hill.     A  firm  decree 
I  will  declare:  The  Lord  to  me  hath  said, 
Thou  art  my  Son,  I  have  begotten  thee 

This  day;  ask  of  me,  and  the  grant  is  made; 
As  thy  possession  I  on  thee  bestow 
The  heathen;  and,  as  thy  conquest  to  be  sway'd, 

Earth's  utmost  bounds:  them  shalt  thou  bring  full 

low 

With  iron  sceptre  bruised,  and  them  disperse 
Like  to  a  potter's  vessel  shivered  so. 

And  now  be  wise  at  length,  ye  kings  averse, 


Be  taught,  ye  judges  of  the  earth;  with  fear 
Jehovah  serve,  and  let  your  joy  converse 

With  trembling ;  kiss  the  Son,  lest  he  appear 
In  anger  and  ye  perish  in  the  way, 
If  once  his  wrath  take  fire,  like  fuel  sere, 

Happy  all  those  who  have  in  him  their  stay. 

PSALM  III.    Aug.  9,  1653. 
When  hejleolfrom  Absalom. 

LORD,  how  many  are  my  foes  J 

How  many  those, 
That  in  arms  against  me  rise. 

Many  are  they, 

That  of  my  life  distrustfully  thus  say ; 
No  help  for  him  in  God  there  lies. 

But  thou,  Lord,  art  my  shield,  my  glory 

Thee,  through  my  story, 
The  exalter  of  my  head  I  count 

Aloud  I  cried 

Unto  Jehovah,  he  full  soon  replied, 
And  heard  me  from  his  holy  mount. 

I  lay  and  slept;  I  waked  again; 

For  my  sustain 
Was  the  Lord.     Of  many  millions 

The  populous  rout 

I  fear  not,  though,  encamping  round  about, 
They  pitch  against  me  their  pavilions. 

Rise,  Lord ;  save  me,  my  God ;  for  thou 

Hast  smote,  ere  now 
On  the  cheek-bone  all  my  foes, 

Of  men  abhorred 
Hast  broke  the  teeth.     This  help  was  from  the 

Lord; 
Thy  blessing  on  thy  people  flows. 

PSALM  IV.    Aug.  10,  1653. 

ANSWER  me  when  I  call, 
God  of  my  righteousness; 
In  straits  and  in  distress, 
Thou  didst  me  disenthrall 
And  set  at  large ;  now  spare, 

Now  pity  me,  and  hear  my  earnest  prayer. 
Great  ones,  how  long  will  ye 
My  glory  have  in  scorn  1 
How  long  be  thus  forborne 
Still  to  love  vanity  1 
To  love,  to  seek,  to  prize, 

Things  false  and  vain,  and  nothing  else  but  lies  ? 
Yet  know  the  Lord  hath  chose, 
Chose  to  himself  apart, 
The  good  and  meek  of  heart ; 
For  whom  to  choose  he  knows) 
Jehovah  from  on  high 
Will  hear  my  voice,  what  time  to  him  I  cry. 
Be  awed,  and  do  not  sin; 


TRANSLATIONS. 


163 


Speak  to  your  hearts  alone, 
Upon  your  beds,  each  one, 
And  be  at  peace  within: 
Offer  the  offerings  just 

Of  righteousness,  and  in  Jehovah  trust. 
Many  there  be  that  say, 
Who  yet  will  show  us  good! 
Talking  like  this  world's  brood; 
But,  Lord,  thus  let  me  pray, 
On  us  lift  up  the  light, 

Lift  up  the  favour  of  thy  countenance  bright. 
Into  my  heart  more  joy 
And  gladness  thou  hast  put, 
Than  when  a  year  of  glut 
Their  stores  doth  over-cloy, 
And  from  their  plenteous  grounds 

With  vast  increase  their  corn  and  wine  abounds. 
In  peace  at  once  will  I 
Roth  lay  me  down  and  sleep; 
For  thou  alone  dost  keep 
Me  safe  where'er  I  lie ; 
As  in  a  rocky  cell 
Thou,  Lord !  alone,  in  safety  makest  me  dwell. 

PSALM  V.    Aug.  12,  1653. 

JEHOVAH!  to  my  words  give  ear, 

My  meditation  weigh; 
The  voice  of  my  complaining  hear, 
My  King  and  God ;  for  unto  thee  I  pray. 
Jehovah  !  thou  my  early  voice 
Shalt  in  the  morning  hear; 
I'  the  morning  I  to  thee  with  choice 
Will  rank  my  prayers,  and  watch  till  thou  appear. 
For  thou  art  not  a  God  that  takes 

In  wickedness  delight; 
Evil  with  thee  no  biding  makes ; 
Fools  or  madmen  stand  not  within  thy  sight. 
All  workers  of  iniquity 

Thou  hat'st;  and  them  unblessed 
Thou  wilt  destroy  that  speak  a  lie; 
The  bloody  and  guileful  man  God  doth  detest. 
But  I  will,  in  thy  mercies  dear, 
Thy  numerous  mercies,  go 
Into  thy  house;  I,  in  thy  fear, 
Will  toward  thy  holy  temple  worship  low. 
Lord!  lead  me  in  thy  righteousness, 

Lead  me,  because  of  those 
That  do  observe  if  I  transgress; 
Set  thy  ways  right  before,  where  my  step  goes. 
For  in  his  faltering  mouth  unstable, 

No  word  is  firm  or  sooth, 
Their  inside,  troubles  miserable; 
An  open  grave   their  throat,  their  tongue  they 

smooth. 
Got] !  find  them  guilty,  let  them  fall 

their  own  counsels  quelled  ; 
Push  them  in  their  rebellions  all 
Still  on ;  for  against  thee  they  have  rebelled. 


Then  all,  who  trust  in  thee,  shall  bring 

Their  joy ;  while  fhou  from  blame 
Defend'st  them,  they  shall  ever  sing 
And  shall  triumph  in  thee,  who  love  thy  name: 
For  thou,  Jehovah !  wilt  be  found 

To  bless  the  just  man  still ; 
As  with  a  shield,  thou  wilt  surround 
Him  with  thy  lasting  favour  and  good  will. 

PSALM  VI.    Aug.  13, 1653. 

LORD,  in  thine  anger  do  not  reprehend  me, 

Nor  in  thy  hot  displeasure  me  correct; 

Pity  me,  Lord,  for  I  am  much  deject, 

And  very  weak  and  faint;  heal  and  amend  me: 

For  all  my  bones,  that  ev'n  with  anguish  ake, 

Are  troubled,  yea  my  soul  is  troubled  sore, 

And  thou,  O  Lord!  how  long!   Turn,  Lord 

restore 

My  soul ;  O  save  me  for  thy  goodness'  sake ! 
For  in  death  no  remembrance  is  of  thee; 

Who  in  the  grave  can  celebrate  thy  praise'? 

Wearied  I  am  with  sighing  out  my  days ; 
Nightly  my  couch  I  make  a  kind  of  sea ; 
My  bed  I  water  with  my  tears ;  mine  eye 

Through  grief  consumes,  is  waxen  old  and  dark 

I'  the  midst  of  all  mine  enemies  that  mark. 
Depart,  all  ye  that  work  iniquity, 
Depart  from  me ;  for  the  voice  of  my  weeping 

The  Lord  hath  heard ;  the  Lord  hath  heard  my 
prayer; 

My  supplication  with  acceptance  fair 
The  Lord  will  own,  and  have  me  in  his  keeping. 
Mine  enemies  shall  all  be  blank,  and  dashed 

With  much  confusion;  then^  grown  red  with 
shame, 

They  shall  return  in  haste  the  way  they  came, 
And  in  a  moment  shall  be  quite  abash'd. 

PSALM  VII.    Aug.  14,  1653. 

Upon  the  words  of  Oush,  the  Benjamite^  against 
him. 

LORD,  my  God,  to  thee  I  fly; 
Save  me  and  secure  me  under 
Thy  protection,  while  I  cry; 
Lest,  as  the  lion,  (and  no  wonder,) 
He  haste  to  tear  my  soul  asunder, 
Tearing,  and  no  rescue  nigh. 

Lord,  my  God,  if  I  have  thought 
Or  done  this  ;  if  wickedness 
Be  in  my  hands;  if  I  have  wrought 
111  to  him  that  meant  me  peace ; 
Or  to  him  have  rendered  less, 
And  not- freed  my  foe  for  nought; 

Let  the  enemy  pursue  my  soul 
And  overtake  it ;  let  him  tread 
My  life  down  to  the  earth,  and  roll 


164 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


In  the  dust  my  glory  dead, 

In  the  dust ;  and,  there  outspread, 

Lodge  it  with  dishonour  foul. 

Rise,  Jehovah !  in  thine  ire, 
Rouse  thyself  amidst  the  rage 
Of  my  foes,  that  urge  like  fire; 
And  wake  for  me,  their  fury  assuage; 
Judgment  here  thou  didst  engage 
And  command,  which  I  desire. 

So  the  assemblies  of  each  nation 
Will  surround  thee,  seeking  right; 
Thence  to  thy  glorious  habitation 
Return  on  high,  and  in  their  sight. 
Jehovah  judgeth  most  upright 
All  people  from  the  world's  foundation. 

Judge  me,  Lord;  be  judge  in  this 
According  to  my  righteousness, 
And  the  innocence  which  is 
Upon  me :  cause  at  length  to  cease 
Of  evil  men  the  wickedness, 
And  their  power  that  do  amiss. 

But  the  just  establish  fast, 

Since  thou  art  the  just  God  that  tries 

Hearts  and  reins.     On  God  is  cast 

My  defence,  and  in  him  lies. 

In  him  who,  both  just  and  wise, 

Saves  the  upright  of  heart  at  last. 

God  is  a  just  judge  and  severe, 

And  God  is  every  day  offended; 

If  the  unjust  will  not  forbear, 

His  sword  he  whets,  his  bow  hath  bended 

Already,  and  for  him  intended 

The  tools  of  death  that  wait  him  near. 

(His  arrows  purposely  made  he 
For  them  that  persecute:)  Behold 
He  travails  big  with  vanity ; 
Trouble  he  hath  conceived  of  old, 
As  in  a  womb ;  and  from  that  mould 
Hath  at  length  brought  forth  a  lie. 

He  digged  a  pit,  and  delved  it  deep, 

And  fell  into  the  pit  he  made ; 

His  mischief,  that  due  course  doth  keep, 

Turns  on  his  head;  and  his  ill  trade 

Of  violence  will,  undelayed, 

Fall  on  his  crown  with  ruin  steep. 

Then  will  I  Jehovah's  praise 
According  to  his  justice  raise, 
And  sing  the  Name  and  Deity 
Of  Jehovah  the  Most  High ! 

PSALM  VIII.    Aug.  14,  1653. 
O  JEHOVAH,  our  Lord,  how  wondrous  great 
And  glorious  is  thy  Name  through  all  the  earth ! 


So  as  above  the  heavens  thy  praise  to  set 
Out  of  the  tender  mouths  of  latest  birth. 

Out  of  the  mouth  of  babes  and  sucklings  thou 
Hast  founded  strength,  because  of  all  thy  foes, 

To  stint  the  enemy,  and  slack  th'  avenger's  brow, 
That  bends  his  rage  thy  Providence  t'  oppose. 

When  I  behold  thy  heavens,  thy  fingers'  art, 
The  moon,  and  stars,  which  thou  so  bright  hast 
set 

In  the  pure  firmament:  then  saith  my  heart, 
O,  what  is  man  that  thou  rememberest  yet, 

And  think'st  upon  him ;  or  of  man  begot, 
That  him  thou  visit:st,  and  of  him  art  found ! 

Scarce  to  be  less  than  gods,  thou  mad'st  his  lot, 
With  honour  and  with  state  thou  hast  him 
crowned. 

O'er  the  works  of  thy  hand  thou  mad'st  him  Lord, 
Thou  hast  put  all  under  his  lordly  feet ; 

All  flocks,  and  herds,  by  thy  commanding  word, 
All  beasts  that  in  the  field  or  forest  meet; 

Fowl  of  the  heavens,  and  fish  that  through  the  wet 
Sea-paths  in  shoals  do  slide,  and  know  no  dearth : 

O  Jehovah,  our  Lord,  how  wondrous  great 
And  glorious  is  thy  name  through  all  the  earth! 


April,  1648.    J.  M. 

Nine  of  the  Psalms  done  into  metre,  wherein  all,  but  what  is 
in  a  different  character,  are  the  very  words  of  the  text  trans- 
lated from  the  original. 

PSALM  LXXX. 

1  THOU,  Shepherd,  that  dost  Israel  keep, 

Give  ear  in  time  of  need  ; 
Who  leadest  like  a  flock  of  sheep 
Thy  loved  Joseph's  seed ; 

That  sitt'st  between  the  Cherubs  bright, 
Between  their  wings  outspread  ; 

Shine  forth,  and  from  thy  cloud  give  light. 
And  on  our  foes  thy  dread. 

2  In  Ephraim's  view  and  Benjamin's, 

And  in  Manasse's  sight, 
Awake  thy  strength,  come,  and  be  seen 
To  save  us  by  thy  might. 

3  Turn  us  again;  thy  grace  divine 

To  us,  O  God,  vouchsafe  ; 
Cause  thou  thy  face  on  us  to  shine, 
And  then  we  shall  be  safe. 

4  Lord  God  of  Hpsts!  how  long  wilt  thou, 

How  long  wilt  thou  declare 
Thy  smoking  wrath,  and  angry  brow 
Against  thy  people's  prayer ! 


TRANSLATIONS. 


165 


5  Thou  feed'st  them  with  the  bread  of  tears; 

Their  bread  \vith  tears  they  eat; 
And  mak'st  them  largely  drink  the  tears 
Wherewith  their  cheeks  are  wet. 

6  A  strife  thou  mak'st  us  and  a  prey 

To  every  neighbour  foe ; 
Among  themselves  they  laugh,  they  play, 
And  flouts  at  us  they  throw. 

7  Return  us,  and  thy  grace  divine, 

O  God  of  Hosts!  vouchsafe; 
Cause  thou  thy  face  on  us  to  shine, 
And  then  we  shall  be  safe. 

8  A  vine  from  Egypt  thou  hast  brought, 

Thy  free  love  made  it  thine, 
And  drov'st  out  nations,  proud  and  haught, 
To  plant  this  lovely  vine. 

9  Thou  didst  prepare  for  it  a  place, 

And  root  it  deep  and  fast, 

That  it  began  to  grow  apace, 

And  filled  the  land  at  last. 

10  With  her  green  shade  that  covered  all, 

The  hills  were  over-spread; 
Her  boughs  as  high  as  cedars  tall 
Advanced  their  lofty  head. 

11  Her  branches  on  the  western  side 

Down  to  the  sea  she  sent, 

And  upward  to  that  river  wide 

Her  other  branches  went. 

12  Why  hast  thou  laid  her  hedges  low, 

And  broken  down  her  fence, 
That  all  may  pluck  her,  as  they  go, 
With  rudest  violence? 

13  The  tusked  boar  out  of  the  wood 

Up  turns  it  by  the  roots ; 
Wild  beasts  there  browse,  and  make  their  food 
Her  grapes  and  tender  shoots. 

14  Return  now,  God  of  Hosts!  look  down 

From  Heaven,  thy  seat  divine ; 
Behold  us,  but  without  a  frown, 
And  visit  this  thy  vine. 

15  Visit  this  vine,  which  thy  right  hand 

Hath  set,  and  planted  long, 
And  the  young  branch,  that  for  thyself 
Thou  hast  made  firm  and  strong. 

16  But  now  it  is  consumed  with  fire, 

And  cut  with  axes  down; 

They  perish  at  thy  dreadful  ire, 

At  thy  rebuke  and  frown. 

17  Upon  the  man  of  thy  right  hand 

Let  thy  good  hand  be  laid  ; 

Upon  the  son  of  man,  whom  thou 

Strong  for  thyself  hast  made. 


18  So  shall  we  not  go  back  from  thee 

To  ways  of  sin  and  shame; 
Gluicken  us  thou;  then  gladly  we 
Shall  call  upon  thy  Name. 

19  Return  us,  and  thy  grace  divine,     . 

Lord  God  of  Hosts!  vouchsafe; 
Cause  thou  thy  face  on  us  to  shine, 
And  then  we  shall  be  safe. 

PSALM  LXXXI. 

1  To  God  our  strength  sing  loud,  and  clear, 

Sing  loud  to  God  our  King; 
To  Jacob's  God,  that  all  may  hear, 
Loud  acclamations  ring. 

2  Prepare  a  hymn,  prepare  a  song, 

The  timbrel  hither  bring; 
The  cheerful  psaltery  bring  along, 
And  harp  with  pleasant  string. 

3  Blow,  as  is  wont,  in  the  new  moon, 

With  trumpets'  lofty  sound, 
The  appointed  time,  the  day  whereon 
Our  solemn  feast  comes  round. 

4  This  was  a  statute  given  of  old, 

For  Israel  to  observe; 
A  law  of  Jacob's  God,  to  hold, 
From  whence  they  might  not  swerve. 

5  This  is  a  testimony  ordained 

In  Joseph,  not  to  change; 
When  as  he  passed  through  Egypt  land ; 
The  tongue  I  heard  was  strange. 

6  From  burden,  and  from  slavish  toil, 

I  set  his  shoulder  free: 
His  hands  from  pots,  and  miry  soil, 
Delivered  were  by  me. 

7  When  trouble  did  thee  sore  assail, 

On  me  then  didst  thou  call;  » 

And  I  to  free  thee  did  not  fail, 
And  let  thee  out  of  thrall. 

I  answered  thee  in  thunder  deep, 
With  clouds  encompassed  round; 

I  tried  thee  at  the  water  steep, 
Of  Meriba  renown'd. 

8  Hear,  O  my  people,  hearken  well; 

I  testify  to  thee, 
Thou  ancient  stock  of  Israel, 
If  you  wilt  list  to  me: 

9  Throughout  the  land  of  thy  abode 

No  alien  god  shall  be, 
Nor  shall  thou  to  a  foreign  god 
In  honour  bend  thy  knee. 


166 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


10  I  am  the  Lord  thy  God,  which  brought 

Thee  out  of  Egypt  land; 
Ask  large  enough,  and  I,  besought, 
Will  grant  thy  full  demand. 

11  And  yet  my  people  would  not  hear, 

Nor  hearken  to  my  voice; 
And  Israel,  whom  I  loved  so  dear, 
Misliked  me  for  his  choice. 

12  Then  did  I  leave  them  to  their  will, 

And  to  their  wandering  mind ; 
Their  own  conceits  they  followed  still, 
Their  own  devices  blind. 

13  O,  that  my  people  would  be  wise, 

To  serve  me  all  their  days ! 
And  O,  that  Israel  would  advise 
To  walk  my  righteous  ways ! 

14  Then  would  I  soon  bring  down  their  foes, 

Th  at  now  so  proudly  rise  ; 
And  turn  my  hand  against  all  those, 
That  are  their  enemies. 

15  Who  hate  the  Lord  should  then  be  fain 

To  bow  to  him  and  bend; 
But  they,  his  people,  should  remain, 
Their  time  should  have  no  end. 

16  And  he  would  feed  them  from  the  shock 

With  flower  of  finest  wheat, 

And  satisfy  them  from  the  rock 

With  honeys/or  their  meat. 

PSALM  LXXXI1. 

1  GOD  in  great  assembly  stands 

Of  kings  and  lordly  states; 
Among  the  gods,  on  both  his  hands, 
He  judges  and  debates. 

2  How  long  will  ye  pervert  the  right 

With  judgment  false  and  wrong, 
Favouring  the  wicked  by  your  might, 
Who  thence  grow  bold  and  strong? 

3  Regard  the  weak  and  fatherless, 

Despatch  the  poor  man's  cause; 
And  raise  the  man  in  deep  distress 
By  just  and  equal  laws. 

4  Defend  the  poor  and  desolate, 

And  rescue  from  the  hands 
Of  wicked  men  the  low  estate 
Of  him  that  help  demands 

5  They  know  not,  nor  will  understand, 

In  darkness  they  walk  on; 
The  earth's  foundations  all  are  moved, 
And  out  of  order  gone. 


6  I  said  that  ye  were  gods;  yea,  all 

The  sons  of  God  Most  High; 

7  But  ye  shall  die  like  men,  and  fall 

As  other  princes  die. 

8  Rise,  God ;  judge  thou  the  earth  in  might, 

This  wicked  earth  redress; 
For  thou  art  he  who  shall  by  right 
The  nations  all  possess. 

PSALM  LXXXIII. 

1  BE  not  thou  silent  now  at  length, 

O  God!  hold  not  thy  peace; 
Sit  thou  not  still;  O  God  of  strength, 
Why  cry,  and  do  not  cease. 

2  For  lo,  thy  furious  foes  now  swell, 

And  storm  outrageously; 
And  they  that  hate  thee,  proud  and  fell, 
Exalt  their  heads  full  high. 

3  Against  thy  people  they  contrive 

Their  plots  and  counsels  deep; 

Them  to  ensnare  they  chiefly  strive 

Whom  thou  dost  hide  and  keep. 

4  Come,  let  us  cut  them  off,  say  they, 

Till  they  no  nation  be; 
That  Israel's  name  for  ever  may 
Be  lost  in  memory. 

5  For  they  consult  with  all  their  might, 

And  all,  as  one  in  mind, 
Themselves  against  thee  they  unite, 
And  in  firm  union  bind. 

6  The  tents  of  Edom,  and  the  brood 

Of  scornful  Ishmael, 
Moab,  with  them  of  HagaVs  blood, 
That  in  the  desert  dwell; 

7  Gebal  and  Ammon  there  conspire. 

And  hateful  Amalec, 
The  Philistines,  and  they  of  Tyre, 
Whose  bounds  the  sea  doth  check; 

8  With  them  great  Ashur  also  bands, 

And  doth  confirm  the  knot : 
All  these  have  lent  their  armed  hands 
To  aid  the  sons  of  Lot. 

9  Do  to  them  as  to  Midian  bold, 

That  wasted  all  the  coast ; 
To  Sisera;  and,  as  is  told, 
Thou  did'st  to  Jabin's  host, 

10  When,  at  the  brook  of  Kishon  old, 

They  were  repulsed  and  slain, 
At  Endor  quite  cut  off,  and  rolled 
As  dung  upon  the  plain. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


167 


11  As  Zeb  and  Oreb  evil  sped, 

So  let  their  princes  speed ; 

As  Zeba  and  Zalmunna  bled, 

So  let  their  princes  bleed. 

12  For  they  amidst  their  pride  have  said, 

By  right  now  shall  we  seize 
God's  houses,  and  will  now  invade 
Their  stately  palaces. 

13  My  God !  O  make  them  as  a  wheel, 

No  quiet  let  thcmjind; 
Giddy  and  restless  let  them  reel 
Like  stubble  from  the  wind. 

14  As  w  hen  an  aged  wood  takes  fire, 

Which  on  a  sudden  strays, 
The  greedy  flame  runs  higher  and  higher, 
Till  all  the  mountains  blaze ; 

15  So  with  thy  whirlwind  them  pursue, 

And  with  thy  tempest  chase; 
And,  till  they  yield  thee  honour  due, 
Lord !  fill  with  shame  their  face. 

16  Ashamed  and  troubled,  let  them  be, 

Troubled  and  shamed  forever; 
Ever  confounded,  and  so  die 

With  shame,  and  'scape  it  never. 

17  Then  shall  they  know  that  Thou,  whose  name 

Jehovah  is  alone, 

Art  the  Most  High,  and  Thou  the  same 
O'er  all  the  earth  art  One! 


PSALM  LXXXIV. 

1  How  lovely  are  thy  dwellings  fair! 

O  Lord  of  Hosts,  how  dear 
The  pleasant  tabernacles  are, 
Where  thou  dost  dwell  so  near! 

2  My  soul  doth  long,  and  almost  die, 

Thy  courts,  O  Lord,  to  see; 
My  heart  and  flesh  aloud  do  cry, 
O  living  God !  for  thee. 

3  There  ev'n  the  sparrow,  freed  from  wrong, 

Hath  found  a  house  of  rest; 
The  swallow  there,  to  lay  her  young, 
Hath  built  her  brooding  nest ; 

Ev'n  by  thy  altars,  Lord  of  Hosts, 

They  find  their  safe  abode  ; 
And  home  they Jly  from  round  the  coasts, 

Tow'rd  thee,  my  King,  my  God ! 

4  Happy,  who  in  thy  house  reside, 

Where  thee  they  ever  praise! 


5  Happy,  whose  strength  in  thee  doth  'bide, 

And  in  their  hearts  thy  ways ! 

6  They  pass  through  Baca's  thirsty  vale, 

That  dry  and  barren  ground  ; 
As  through  a  fruitful  watery  dale, 
Where  springs  and  showers  abound. 

,x 

7  They  journey  on  from  strength  to  strength 

With  joy  and  gladsome  cheer, 
Till  all  before  our  God  at  length 
In  Sion  do  appear. 

8  Lord  God  of  Hosts !  hear  now  my  prayer, 

O  Jacob's  God !  give  ear  : 

9  Thou  God,  our  shield,  look  on  the  face 

Of  thy  anointed  dear. 

10  For  one  day  in  thy  courts  to  be, 

Is  better,  and  more  blessed, 
Than  in  the  joys  of  vanity 
A  thousand  days  at  best. 

I,  in  the  temple  of  my  God, 

Had  rather  keep  a  door, 
Than  dwell  in  tents,  and  rich  abode, 

With  sin  for  evermore. 

11  For  God  the  Lord,  both  sun  and  shield, 

Gives  grace  and  glory  bright ; 
No  good  from  them  shall  be  withheld, 
Whose  ways  are  just  and  right. 

12  Lord  God  of  Hosts!  that  reigrtst  on  high; 

That  man  is  truly  blessed, 
Who  only  on  thee  doth  rely, 
And  in  thee  only  rest. 

PSALM  LXXXV. 

1  THY  land  to  favour  graciously 

Thou  hast  not,  Lord,  been  slack; 
Thou  hast  from  hard  captivity 
Returned  Jacob  back. 

2  The  iniquity  thou  did'st  forgive 

That  wrought  thy  people  wo; 
And  all  their  sin,  that  did  thee  grieve, 
Hast  hid  where  none  shall  know. 

3  Thine  anger  all  thou  had'st  removed, 

And  calmly  did'st  return 
From  thy  fierce  wrath,  which  we  had  proved 
Far  worse  than  fire  to  burn. 

4  God  of  our  saving  health  and  peace ! 

Turn  us,  and  us  restore ; 
Thine  indignation  cause  to  cease 
Toward  us,  and  chide  no  more. 


168 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


5  Wilt  thou  be  angry  without  end, 

For  ever  angry  thus1? 
Wilt  thou  thy  frowning  ire  extend, 
From  age  to  age  on  us  1 

6  Wilt  thou  not  turn  and  hear  our  voice, 

And  us  again  revive, 
That  so  thy  people  may  rejoice, 
By  thee  preserved  alive  7 

7  Cause  us  to  see  thy  goodness,  Lord, 

To  us  thy  mercy  show; 
Thy  saving  health  to  us  afford, 

And  life  in  us  renew. 

8  And  now,  what  God  the  Lord  will  speak 

I  will  go  straight  and  hear, 
For  to  his  people  he  speaks  peace, 
And  to  his  saints  full  dear. 

To  his  dear  saints  he  will  speak  peace; 

But  let  them  never  more 
Return  to  folly,  but  surcease 

To  trespass  as  before. 

9  Surely,  to  such  as  do  him  fear 

Salvation  is  at  hand; 
And  glory  shall  ere  long  appear 
To  dwell  within  our  land. 

10  Mercy  and  truth,  that  long  were  missed, 

Now  joyfully  are  met; 
Sweet  Peace  and  Righteousness  have  kissed, 
And  hand  in  hand  are  set. 

11  Truth  from  the  earth,  like  to  a  flower, 

Shall  bud  and  blossom  then; 
And  Justice,  from  her  heavenly  bower, 
Look  down  on  mortal  men. 

12  The  Lord  will  also  then  bestow 

Whatever  thing  is  good ; 
Our  land  shall  forth  in  plenty  throw 
Her  fruits  to  be  our  food. 

13  Before  him  Righteousness  shall  go, 

His  royal  harbinger : 
Then  will  he  come,  and  not  be  slow; 
His  footsteps  can  not  err. 

PSALM  LXXXVI. 

1  THY  gracious  ear,  O  Lord !  incline, 

O  hear  me,  /  thee  pray ; 
For  I  am  poor,  and  almost  pine 
With  need,  and  sad  decay. 

2  Preserve  my  soul ;  for  I  have  trod 

Thy  ways,  and  love  the  just; 

Save  thou  thy  servant,  O  my  God ! 

Who  still  in  thee  doth  trust. 


3  Pity  me,  Lord,  for  daily  thee 

4  I  call ;  O  make  rejoice 

Thy  servant's  soul ;  for,  Lord,  to  thee 
I  lift  my  soul  and  voice. 

5  For  thou  art  good,  thou,  Lord!  art  prone 

To  pardon,  thou  to  all 
Art  full  of  mercy,  thou  alone 
To  them  that  on  thee  call. 

6  Unto  my  supplication,  Lord, 

Give  ear,  and  to  the  cry 
Of  my  incessant  prayers  afford 
Thy  hearing  graciously. 

7  I,  in  the  day  of  my  distress, 

Will  call  on  thee  for  aid; 
For  thou  wilt  grant  me  free  access, 
And  answer  what  I  prayed. 

8  Like  thee  among  the  gods  is  none, 

0  Lord ;  nor  any  works 

Of  all  that  other  gods  have  done 
Like  to  thy  glorious  works. 

9  The  nations  all  whom  thou  hast  made 

Shall  come,  and  all  shall  frame 
To  bow  them  low  before  thee,  Lord, 
And  glorify  thy  name. 

10  For  great  thou  art,  and  wonders  great 

By  thy  strong  hand  are  done ; 
Thou,  in  thy  everlasting  seat, 
Remainest  God  alone. 

11  Teach  me,  O  Lord,  thy  way  most  right 

1  in  thy  truth  will  bide ; 

To  fear  thy  name,  my  heart  unite, 
So  shall  it  never  slide. 

12  Thee  will  I  praise,  O  Lord  my  God! 

Thee  honour  and  adore 
With  my  whole  heart,  and  blaze  abroad 
Thy  Name  for  Evermore. 

13  For  great  thy  mercy  is  tow'rd  me, 

And  thou  hast  freed  my  soul, 

Even  from  the  lowest  hell  set  free, 

From  deepest  darkness  foul. 

14  O  God,  the  proud  against  me  rise, 

And  violent  men  are  met 
To  seek  my  life,  and  in  their  eyes 
No  fear  of  thee  have  set. 

15  But  thou,  Lord,  art  the  God  most  mild, 

Readiest  thy  grace  to  show, 

Slow  to  be  angry,  and  art  styl'd 

Most  merciful,  most  true. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


169 


16  O,  turn  to  me  thy  face  at  length, 

And  mo  have  morcy  on; 
Unto  thy  servant  give  thy  strength, 
And  save  thy  handmaid's  son. 

17  Some  sign  of  good  to  me  afford, 
'     And  let  my  foes  then  see, 

And  be  asham'd:  because  thou/Lord, 
Dost  help  and  comfort  me. 

PSALM  LXXXVII. 

1  AMONG  the  holy  mountains  high 

Is  his  foundation  fast; 
There  seated  in  his  sanctuary, 
His  temple  there  is  placed. 

2  Sion's  fair  gates  the  Lord  loves  more 

Than  all  the  dwellings  fair 
Of  Jacob's  land.,  though  there  be  store, 
And  all  within  his  care. 

3  City  of  God,  most  glorious  things 

Of  thee  abroad  are  spoke; 

4  I  mention  Egypt,  where  proud  kings 

Did  our  forefathers  yoke: 

I  mention  Babel  to  my  friends 

Philistia  full  of  scorn  ; 
And  Tyre  with  Ethiops'  utmost  ends, 

Lo  this  man  there  was  born : 

5  But  twice  thai  praise  shall  in  our  ear 

Be  said  of  Sion  last ; 
This  and  this  man  was  born  in  her; 
High  God  shall  fix  her  fast. 

6  The  Lord  shall  write  it  in  a  scroll 

That  ne'er  shall  be  outworn, 
When  he  the  nations  doth  enrol, 
That  this  man  there  was  bom. 

7  Both  they  who  sing,  and  they  who  dance, 

With  sacred  songs  are  there  ; 
In  thee  fresh  brooks,  and  soft  streams  glance, 
And  all  my  fountains  clear. 

PSALM  LXXXVIII. 

1  LORD  God!  that  dost  me  save  and  keep, 

All  day  to  thee  I  cry; 
And  all  niirht  long  before  thee  weep, 
Before  thee  prostrate  lie. 

2  Into  thy  presence  let  my  prayer 

With  sighs  devout  ascend; 
And  to  my  cries,  that  ceaseless  are, 
Thine  ear  with  favour  bend. 

3  For,  cloy'd  with  woes  and  trouble  sore, 

Surcharg'd  my  soul  doth  lie ; 
My  life,  at  Death's  uncheerful  door, 
Unto  the  grave  draws  nigh. 


4  Reckon'd  I  am  with  them  that  pass 

Down  to  the  dismal  pit ; 

I  am  a  man,  but  weak,  alas! 

And  for  that  name  unfit. 

5  From  life  discharg'd  and  parted  quite 

Among  the  dead  to  sleep; 
And  like  the  slain  in  bloody  fight, 
That  in  the  grave  lie  deep. 

Whom  thou  rememberest  no  more, 

Dost  never  more  regard, 
Them,  from  thy  hand  deliver'd  o'er, 

Death's  hideous  house  hath  barr'd. 

6  Thou  in  the  lowest  pit  profound 

Hast  set  me  all  forlorn, 
Where  thickest  darkness  hovers  round, 
In  horrid  deeps  to  mourn. 

7  Thy  wrath,  from  which  no  shelter  saves, 

Full  sore  doth  press  on  me; 
Thou  break'st  upon  me  all  thy  waves, 
And  all  thy  waves  break  me. 

8  Thou  dost  my  friends  from  me  estrange, 

And  mak'st  me  odious, 
Me  to  them  odious,  for  they  change, 
And  I  here  pent  up  thus. 

9  Through  sorrow  and  affliction  great, 

Mine  eye  grows  dun  and  dead; 
Lord  f  all  the  day  I  thee  entreat, 
My  hands  to  thee  I  spread. 

10  Wilt  thou  do  wonders  on  the  deadl 

Shall  the  deceas'd  arise, 
And  praise  thee  from  their  loathsome  bed, 
With  pale  and  hollow  eyes  1 

11  Shall  they  thy  loving  kindness  tell, 

On  whom  the  grave  hath  hold  ? 
Or  they,  who  in  perdition  dwell, 
Thy  faithfulness  unfold? 

12  In  darkness  can  thy  mighty  hand 

Or  wondrous  acts  be  known1? 
Thy  justice  in  the  gloomy  land 
Of  dark  oblivion? 

13  But  I  to  thee,  O  Lord!  do  cry, 

Ere  yet  my  life  be  spent ; 
And  up  to  thee  my  prayer  doth  hie 
Each  morn,  and  thee  prevent. 

14  Why  wilt  thou,  Lord,  my  soul  forsake, 

And  hide  thy  face  from  me, 

15  That  am  already  bruis'd,  and  shake 

With  terror  sent  from  thee  ? 

Bruis'd  and  afflicted,  and  so  low 

As  ready  to  expire; 
While  I  thy  terrors  undergo, 

Astonish 'd  with  thine  ire. 


170 


MILTON'S  WORKS. 


16  Thy  fierce  wrath  over  me  doth  flow; 

Thy  threatenings  cut  me  through: 

17  All  day  they  round  about  me  go, 

Like  waves  they  me  pursue. 

18  Lover  and  friend  thou  hast  remov'd, 

And  sever'd  from  me  far: 
They  Jly  me  now  whom  I  have  lov'd, 
And  as  in  darkness  are. 

A  PARAPHRASE  ON  PSALM  CXIV. 

This  and  the  following  Psalm  were  done  by  the 
Author  at  fifteen  years  old. 

WHEN  the  bless'd  seed  of  Terah's  faithful  son, 
After  long  toil ,  their  liberty  had  won ; 
And  past  from  Pharian  fields  to  Canaan  land, 
Led  by  the  strength  of  the  Almighty's  hand ; 
Jehovah's  wonders  were  in  Israel  shown, 
His  praise  and  glory  was  in  Israel  known : 
That  saw  the  troubled  Sea,  and  shivering  fled, 
And  sought  to  hide  his  froth-becurled  head 
Low  in  the  earth ;  Jordan's  clear  streams  recoil, 
As  a  faint  host  that  hath  receiv'd  the  foil. 
The  high  huge-bellied  mountains  skip,  like  rams 
Amongst  their  ewes ;  the  little  hills,  like  lambs. 
Why  fled  the  ocean  1  and  why  skipt  the  mountains  1 
Why  turned  Jordan  tow'rd  his  crystal  fountains  1 
Shake,  Earth ;  and  at  the  presence  be  aghast 
Of  him  that  ever  was,  and  aye  shall  last; 
That  glassy  floods  from  rugged  rocks  can  crush, 
And  make  soft  rills  from  fiery  flint-stones  gush. 

PSALM  CXXXVI. 

LET  us,  with  a  gladsome  mind, 
Praise  the  Lord,  for  he  is  kind ; 

For  his  mercies  aye  endure, 

Ever  faithful,  ever  sure. 
Let  us  blaze  his  name  abroad, 
For  of  gods  he  is  the  God. 

For  his,  &c. 
O,  let  us  his  praises  tell, 
Who  doth  the  wrathful  tyrants  quell, 

For  his,  &c. 

Who  with  his  miracles,  doth  make 
Amazed  Heaven  and  Earth  to  shake. 

For  his,  &c. 

Who,  by  his  wisdom,  did  create 
The  painted  heavens  so  full  of  state. 

For  his,  &c. 

Who  did  the  solid  earth  ordain 
To  rise  above  the  watery  plain. 

For  his,  &c. 


Who,  by  his  all-commanding  might, 
Did  fill  the  new-made  world  with  light. 

For  his,  &c. 

And  caus'd  the  golden-tressed  sun 
All  the  day  long  his  course  to  run. 

For  his,  &c. 

The  horned  moon  to  shine  by  night, 
Amongst  her  spangled  sisters  bright. 

For  his,  &c. 

He,  with  his  thunder-clasping  hand, 
Smote  the  first-born  of  Egypt  land. 

For  his,  &c. 

And,  in  despite  of  Pharaoh  fell, 
He  brought  from  thence  his  Israel, 

For  his,  &c. 

The  ruddy  waves  he  cleft  in  twain 
Of  the  Erythnean  main. 

For  his,  &c. 

The  floods  stood  still,  like  walls  of  glass, 
While  the  Hebrew  bands  did  pass. 

For  his,  &c. 

But  full  soon  they  did  devour 
The  tawny  king  with  all  his  power. 

For  his,  &c. 

His  chosen  people  he  did  bless 
In  the  wasteful  wilderness.     ' 

For  his,  &c. 

In  bloody  battle  he  brought  down 
Kings  of  prowess  and  renown. 

For  his,  &c. 

He  foil'd  bold  Seon  and  his  host, 
That  rul'd  the  Amorrean  coast. 

For  his,  &c. 

And  large-limb'd  Og  he  did  subdue, 
With  all  his  over-hardy  crew. 

For  his,  &c. 

And,  to  his  servant  Israel, 
He  gave  their  land  therein  to  dwell. 

For  his,  &c. 

He  hath,  with  a  piteous  eye, 
Beheld  us  in  our  misery. 

For  his,  &c. 

And  freed  us  from  the  slavery 
Of  the  invading  enemy. 

For  his,  &c. 

All  living  creatures  he  doth  feed, 
And  with  full  hand  supplies  their  need. 

For  his,  &c. 

Let  us  therefore  warble  forth 
His  mighty  majesty  and  worth. 

For  his,  &c. 

That  his  mansion  hath  on  high 
Above  the  reach  of  mortal  eye. 

For  his  mercies  aye  endure, 

Ever  faithful,  ever  sure. 


THE 


or 


DE.  EDWARD  YOUNG. 


Contents* 


Life  of  the  Author,       ....... 

THE  COMPLAINT;  or,  NIGHT-THOUGHTS. 

Night  I.  On  Life,  Death,  and  Immortality,  - 
Night  n.  On  Time,  Death,  and  Friendship, 

Night  HI.  Narcissa, 

Night  IV.  The  Christian  Triumph,  -       -       • 

Night  V.  The  Relapse, 

Night  VL  The  Infidel  Reclaimed.  Part  I, 
Night  \TL  The  Infidel  Reclaimed.  Ifcrt  II,  - 
Night  Vin.  Virtue's  Apology ;  or,  The  Man  of  the 
World  answered, 

THE  CONSOLATION. 

Night  IX,  and  Last,  containing,  among  other 
things, — 1.  A  Moral  Survey  of  the  Nocturnal 
Heavens.— 2.  A  Night-address  to  the  Deity,  •  - 


THE  LAST  DAY,  A  POEM :  in  three  Books. 

Dedication  to  the  Queen, 90 

Book  I, 91 

BookD, -       .  &4 

Bookm, 97 


THE  FORCE  OF  RELIGION:  in  two  Books. 

Book  I,       -       -  100 

Book  H, 103 

LOVE  OF  FAME :  in  seven  characteristical  Satires. 

Preface, 106 

Satire!.— To  his  grace  the  Duke  of  Dorset,   -       -  107 

Satire  n, 110 

Satire  III.— To  the  Right  Hon.  Mr.  Dodington,     -  112 
Satire  IV.— To  the  Rt.Hon.  Sir  Spencer  Compton,  115 

Satire  V.— On  Women, 117 

Satire  VL — On  Women.   Inscribed  to  the  Right 

Hon.  Lady  Elizabeth  Germain,      -       -       -      123 
Satire  VII.— To  the  Right  Hon.  Sir  Robert  Wai- 
pole,  128 


Page. 
EPISTLES. 

Epistles  to  Mr.  Pope,  concerning  the  Authors  of 

the  Age,  Epistle  I, 130 

Epistle  H,  from  Oxford,  -      133 

An  Epistle  to  the  Right  Hon.  George  Lord  Lans- 

downe, 135 

Letter  to  Mr.  Tickell, 140 


ODES. 


To  the  King, 

Ocean, 

Sea-Piece.    Dedication  to  Mr.  Voltaire, 
Ode  the  first,  - 
Ode  the  second, 

Imperium  Pelagi,  a  Naval  Lyric,      - 
The  Merchant.  Prelude, 

Strain  I,     - 
Strain  II, 
Strain  III,  - 
Strain  IV,      - 
Strain  V,    - 
The  Moral,    - 
The  Close, 

A  Paraphrase  on  part  of  the  Book  of  Job, 
Resignation.    Parti,  -       -       -       -    '  ' 

Part  H, 

Postscript,     .... 


-  142 
144 

-  148 

ib. 

-  149 
150 

-  151 

ib. 

-  153 
155 

-  157 
158 

-  160 
161 

-  162 
167 

-  174 
182 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

On  the  Death  of  Queen  Anne,  and  the  Accession 
of  King  George, 183 

Verses  occasioned  by  that  famous  piece  of  the 
Crucifixion,  done  by  Michael  Angela,  -  -  185 

An  historical  Epilogue  to  the  Brothers,        -       -   ib. 

Epitaph  on  Lord  Aubrey  Beauclerk,       -       -       ib. 

To  Mr.  Addison,  on  the  Tragedy  of  Cato,      -       -186 

Epitaph,  at  Welwyn,  Hertfordshire,         -       -       ib. 

DRAMATIC. 

The  Revenge,  a  Tragedy, 186 


atfe  of 


i?ouufl. 


DR.  YOUNG'S  father,  whose  name  was  also  Ed 
ward,  was  Fellow  of  Winchester  College,  Rectoi 
of  Upham  in  Hampshire,  and  in  the  latter  part  ol 
his  life,  Dean  of  Sarum;  chaplain  to  William  am 
Mary,  and  afterwards  to  queen  Ann.  Jacob  tells 
us  that  the  latter,  when  Princess  Royal,  did  him 
the  honour  to  stand  godmother  to  our  poet ;  ant 
that,  upon  her  ascending  the  throne,  he  was  ap- 
pointed Clerk  of  the  Closet  to  her  Majesty. 

It  does  not  appear  that  this  gentleman  distin- 
guished himself  in  the  Republic  of  Letters,  other 
wise  than  by  a  Latin  Visitation  Sermon,  preachec 
in  1686,  and  by  two  volumes  of  Sermons,  printet 
in  1702,  and  which  he  dedicated  to  Lord  Bradford 
through  whose  interest  he  probably  received  some 
of  his  promotions.  The  Dean  died  at  Sarum  in 
1705,  aged  63;  after  a  very  short  illness,  as  appears 
by  the  exordium  of  Bishop  Bumet's  sermon  at  the 
Cathedral  on  the  following  Sunday.  "  Death  (said 
he)  has  been  of  late  walking  round  us,  and  making 
breach  upon  us,  and  has  now  carried  away  the 
head  of  this  body  with  a  stroke ;  so  that  he,  whom 
you  saw  a  week  ago  distributing  the  holy  myste- 
ries, is  now  laid  in  the  dust.  But  he  still  lives  in 
the  many  excellent  directions  he  has  left  us,  both 
how  to  live  and  how  to  die." 

Our  author,  who  was  an  only  son,  was  born  at 
his  father's  rectory,  in  1681,  and  received  the  first 
part  of  his  education  (as  his  father  had  formerly 
done)  at  Winchester  College;  from  whence,  in  his 
nineteenth  year,  he  was  placed  on  the  foundation 
of  New  College,  Oxford;  whence  again,  on  the 
death  of  the  Warden  in  the  same  year,  he  was 
removed  to  Corpus  Christi.  In  1708,  Archbishop 
Tennison  nominated  him  to  a  law  fellowship  at 
All  Souls,  where,  in  1744,  he  took  the  degree  of 
Bachelor  of  Civil  Law,  and  five  years  afterward 
that  of  Doctor. 

Between  the  acquisition  of  these  academic  hon- 
ours, Young  was  appointed  to  speak  the  Latin 
Oration  on  the  foundation  of  the  Codrington  Li- 
brary; which  he  afterwards  printed,  with  a  dedi- 
cation to  the  ladies  of  that  family,  in  English. 

In  this  part  of  his  life,  our  author  is  said  not 
to  have  been  that  ornament  to  virtue  and  religion 
which  he  afterwards  became.  This  is  easy  to  be 
accounted  for.  He  had  been  released  from  parental 
authority  by  his  father's  death ;  and  his  genius  and  \ 
conversation  had  introduced  him  to  the  notice  of 


the  witty  and  profligate  Duke  of  Wharton,*  and 
his  gay  companions,  by  whom  his  finances  might 
be  improved,  but  not  his  morals.  This  is  the  pe- 
riod at  which  Pope  is  said  to  have  told  Warburton, 
our  young  author  had  "  much  genius  without  com- 
mon sense :"  and  it  should  seem  likewise  that  he 
possessed  a  zeal  for  religion  with  little  of  its  prac- 
tical influence;  for,  with  all  his  gaiety  and  ambi- 
tion, he  was  an  advocate  for  Revelation  and  Chris- 
tianity. Thus  when  Tindel,  the  atheistical  philo- 
sopher, used  to  spend  much  of  his  time  at  All 
Souls,  he  complained:  "  The  other  boys  I  can  al- 
ways answer,  because  I  know  whence  they  have 
their  arguments,  which  I  have  read  an  hundred 
times ;  but  that  fellow  Young  is  continually  pes- 
tering me  with  something  of  his  own." 

This  apparent  inconsistency  is  rendered  the 
more  striking  from  the  different  kinds  of  composi- 
tion in  which,  at  this  period,  he  was  engaged:  viz. 
a  political  panegyric  on  the  new  Lord  Lansdowne, 
and  a  sacred  Poem  on  the  Last  Day,  which  was 
written  in  1710,  but  not  published  till  1713.  It 
was  dedicated  to  the  Glueen,  and  acknowledges  an 
obligation,  which  has  been  diflferently  understood, 
either  as  referring  to  her  having  been  his  godmo- 
ther, or  his  patron ;  for  it  is  inferred  from  a  couplet 
of  Swift's,  that  Young  was  a  pensioned  advocate 
of  government : 

"  Whence  Gay  was  banished  in  disgrace, 
Where  Pope  will  never  show  his  face, 

Where  Y must  torture  his  invention, 

To  flatter  knaves,  or  lose  his  pension." 

This,  however,  might  be  mere  report,  at  this  pe- 
riod, since  Swift  was  not  over-nice  in  his  authori- 
ties, and  nothing  is  more  common  than  to  suppose 

he  advocate,  and  the  flatterer  of  the  great,  an  hire- 
ling. Flattery  seems  indeed  to  have  been  our  po- 
et's besetting  sin  through  life ;  but  if  interest  was 

lis  object,  he  must  have  been  frequently  disappoint- 
ed; and  to  those  disappointments  we  probably  owe 
some  of  his  best  reflections  on  human  life. 

Of  his  Last  Day,  (his  first  considerable  perform- 
ance) Dr.  Johnson  observes,  that  it  "  has  an  equa- 
lity and  propriety  which  he  afterwards  either 


At  the  instigation  of  this  peer  he  was  once  candidate  for 
a  seat  in  Parliament,  but  without  success,  and  the  ezpences 
were  paid  by  Wharton. 


IV 


LIFE  OF  DR.  EDWARD  YOUNG. 


never  endeavoured  for,  or  never  attained.  Many 
paragraphs  are  noble,  and  few  are  mean;  yet  the 
whole  is  languid:  the  plan  is  too  much  extended, 
and  a  succession  of  images  divides  and  weakens 
the  general  conception.  But  the  great  reason  why 
the  reader  is  disappointed  is,  that  the  thought  of 
The  Last  Day  makes  every  man  more  than  poeti- 
cal, by  spreading  over  his  mind  a  general  obscurity 
of  sacred  horror,  that  oppresses  distinction  and 
disdains  expression."  The  subject  is  indeed  truly 
awful,  and  was  peculiarly  affecting  to  this  cele- 
brated critic,  who  never  could,  without  trembling, 
meditate  upon  death,  or  the  eternal  world.  The 
poet's  theological  system,  moreover,  was  not,  at 
least  when  he  wrote  this,  the  most  consistent  and 
evangelical:  I  mean  he  had  not  those  views  of  the 
Christian  atonement,  and  of  pardoning  grace,  which 
give  such  a  glory  to  his  Night  Thoughts,  and 
would  much  more  have  illumined  this  composition. 
All  the  preparation  he  seems  to  have  there  in  view, 
is 

By  tears  and  groans,  and  never-ceasing  care, 

"And  all  the  pious  violence  of  prayer," 
to  fit  himself  for  the  Tribunal.  Moreover,  the 
project  of  future  misery  is  too  awful  for  poetic  en- 
largement, and  makes  the  piece  too  terrible  to  be 
read  with  pleasure ;  while  the  attempt  to  particu- 
larize the  solemnities  of  judgment,  lowers  their 


connexion  with  the  Duke  of  Wharton,  who  went 
thither  in  1717.  But  he  can  not  have  long  re- 
mained there,  as  in  1719,  he  brought  out  his  first 
tragedy  of  Busiris,  at  Drury  Lane,  and  dedicated 
it  to  the  Duke  of  Newcastle.  This  tragedy  had 
been  written  some  years,  though  now  first  perform- 
ed ;  for  it  is  to  our  author's  credit,  that  many  of 
his  works  were  laid  by  him  a  considerable  time  be- 
fore they  were  offered  to  the  public.  Our  great 
dramatic  critic  pronounces  this  piece  "  too  far  re- 
moved from  known  life,"  to  affect  the  passions. 

His  next  performance  was  The  Revenge,  the 
the  dramatic  character  of  which  is  sufficiently  as- 
certained by  its  still  keeping  possession  of  the  stage. 
The  hint  of  this  is  supposed  to  have  been  taken 
from  Othello ;  "  but  the  reflections,  the  incidents, 
and  the  diction,  are  original."  The  success  of  this 
induced  him  to  attempt  another  tragedy,  which 
was  written  in  1721,  but  not  brought  upon  the 
stage  for  thirty  years  afterwards;  and  then  with- 
out success,  as  we  shall  have  farther  occasion  to- 
observe.  It  has  been  remarked,  that  all  his  plays 
conclude  with  suicide,*  and  I  much  fear  the  fre- 
quent introduction  of  this  unnatural  crime  upon 
the  stage,  has  contributed  greatly  to  its  commission. 

We  have  passed  over  our  Author's  Paraphrase 
on  Part  of  the  Book  of  Job,  in  order  to  bring  his 
dramatic  performances  together.  The  Paraphrase 


sublimity,  and  makes  some  parts  of  the  description,  I  has  been  well  received,  and  has  often  been  print- 
as  Dr.  Johnson  has  observed,  appear  mean,  and '  ed  with  his  Night  Thoughts.  This  would  be  ad- 
even  bordering  on  burlesque.  This  poem,  how-  mired,  perhaps,  as  much  as  any  of  his  works,  could 
ever,  was  well  received  upon  the  whole,  and  the :  we  forget  the  original ;  but  there  is  such  a  dignifi- 
better  for  being  written  by  a  layman,  and  it  was.ed  simplicity  even  in  our  prose  translation  of  the 
commended  by  the  ministry  and  their  party,  be- 1  poetic  parts  of  scripture,  that  we  can  seldom  bear 
cause  the  dedication  flattered  their  mistress  and  to  see  them  reduced  to  rhyme,  or  modern  measures. 


her  government — far  too  much,  indeed,  for  the  na- 
ture of  the  subject. 

Dr.  Young's  next  poem  was  entitled,  the  Force 
of  Religion,  and  founded  on  the  deaths  of  Lady 
Jane  Grey  and  her  husband.  "  It  is  written  with 
elegance  enough,"  according  to  Dr.  Johnson ;  but 
was  "never  popular :"  for  "  Jane  is  too  heroic  to  be 
pitied."  The  dedication  of  this  piece  to  the  count- 
ess of  Salisbury  was  also  inexcusably  fulsome, 
and,  I  think,  profane.  Indeed,  the  author  himself 
seems  afterwards  to  have  thought  so ;  for  when  he 
collected  his  smaller  pieces  into  volumes,  he  very 
judiciously  suppressed  this  and  most  of  his  other 
dedications. 

In  some  part  of  his  life,  Young  certainly  went 
to  Ireland,*  and  was  there  acquainted  with  the  ec- 
centrical Dean  Swift ;  and  his  biographers  seem 
agreed,  that  this  was,  most  probably,  during  his 


•'From  his  seventh  Satire  it  appears  also,  that  he  was  once 
abroad,  probably  about  this  time,  and  saw  a  field  of  battle  co- 
vered with  the  slain ;  and  it  is  affirmed  that  once,  with  a  clas- 
eic  in  his  hand,  he  wandered  into  the  enemy's  encampment, 
and  had  some  difficulty  to  convince  them,  that  he  was  only  an 
absent  poet,  and  not  a  spy. 


His  next,  and  one  of  his  best  performances,  is 
entitled  The  Love  of  Fame  the  Universal  Passion, 
in  seven  characteristic  Satires,  originally  publish- 
ed separately,  between  the  years  1725  and  1728. 
This,  according  to  Dr.  Johnson,  is  a  "  very  great 
performance.  It  is  said  to  be  a  series  of  epigrams, 
and  if  it  be,  it  is  what  the  author  intended :  his 
endeavour  was  at  the  production  of  striking  dis- 
tichs,  and  pointed  sentences;  and  his  distichs  have 
the  weight  of  solid  sentiment,  and  his  points  the 
sharpness  of  resistless  truth.  His  characters  are 
often  selected  with  discernment,  and  drawn  with 
nicety ;  his  illustrations  are  often  happy,  and  his 
reflections  often  just.  His  species  of  Satire  is  be- 
tween those  of  Horace  and  Juvenal :  he  has  the 
gaiety  of  Horace  without  his  laxity  of  numbers ; 
and  the  morality  of  Juvenal,  with  greater  variety 
of  images."  Swift,  indeed,  has  pronounced  of 
these  Satires,  that  they  should  have  been  either 
"  more  merry,  or  more  severe :"  in  that  case,  they 


*  Our  author  seems  early  to  have  been  enamoured  with  the 
Tragic  Muse,  and  with  the  charms  of  melancholy.  Dr.  Rid- 
ley relates,  that,  when  at  Oxford,  he  would  sometimes  shut  up 
|  his  room,  and  study  by  a  lamp  at  mid-day 


LIFE  OF  DR.  EDWARD  YOUNG. 


might  probably  have  caught  the  popular  taste  more; 
but  tliis  does  not  prove  that  they  would  have  been 
The  opinion  of  the  Duke  of  Grafton, 
•s  of  more  worth  than  all  the  opinions 
of  the  wits,  if  it  be  true  as  related  by  Mr.  Spence, 
that  his  grace  presented  the  author  with  two  thou- 
sand pounds.     "  Two  thousand  pounds  for  a  po- 
-aid  one  of  the  Duke's  friends :  to  whom  his 
grace  replied,  that  he  had  made  an  excellent  bar- 
gain, for  he  thought  it  worth  four. 

On  the  accession  of  George  I.,  Young  nattered 
him  with  an  Ode,  called  Ocean,  to  which  was  pre- 
fixed an  introductory  Ode  to  the  King,  and  an  es- 
say on  Lyric  Poetry :  of  these  the  most  observa- 
ble thing  is,  that  the  poet  and  the  critic  could  not 
agree :  lor  the  Rules  of  the  Essay  condemned  the 
Poetry,  and  the  Poetry  set  at  defiance  the  maxims 
of  the  Essay.  The  biographer  of  British  Poets 
has  truly  said,  "he  had  least  success  in  his. lyric 
attempts,  in  which  he  seems  to  "have  been  under 
some  malignant  influence :  he  is  always  labouring 
to  be  great,  and  at  last  is  only  turgid." 

We  now  leave  awhile  the  works  of  our  author, 
to  contemplate  the  conduct  of  the  man.  About 
this  time  his  studies  took  a  more  serious  turn ;  and, 
forsaking  the  law,  which  he  had  never  practised, 
when  h°was  almost  fifty,  he  entered  into  orders, 
and  was.  in  IT'JH,  appointed  Chaplain  to  the  King. 
One  of  Pope's  biographers  relates,  that,  on  this 
occasion  Young  applied  to  his  brother  poet  for  di- 
rection in  his  studies,  who  jocosely  recommended 
Thomas  Aquinas,  which  the  former  taking  seri- 
ously, he  retired  to  the  suburbs  with  the  angelic 
doctor,  till  his  friend  discovered  him,  and  brought 
him  back. 

His  Vindication  of  Providence,  and  Estimate 
of  Human  Life,  were  published  in  this  year;  they 
have  gone  through  several  editions,  and  are  gene- 
rally regarded  as  the  best  of  his  prose  compositions : 
but  the  plan  of  the  latter  never  was  completed. 
The  following  year  he  printed  a  very  loyal  sermon 
on  King  Charles'  Martyrdom,  entitled,  An  Apo- 
logy for  Princes.  In  1730,  he  was  presented  by 
his  college  to  the  rectory  of  Welwyn,  in  Hertford- 
shire, worth  about  300/.  a  year,  beside  the  lordship 
of  the  manor  annexed  to  it.  This  year  he  relaps- 
ed again  to  poetry,  and  published  a  loyal  Naval 
Ode,  and  Two  Epistles  to  Pope,  of  which  nothing 
particular  need  be  said. 

He  was  married,  in  1731,  to  Lady  Elizabeth 
Lee,  widow  of  Colonel  Lee,  and  daughter  to  the 
Earl  of  Litchficld ;  and  it  was  not  long  before  she 
brought  him  a  son  and  heir. 

Sometime  before  his  marriage,  the  Doctor  walk- 
ing in  his  garden  at  Welwyn,  with  his  lady  and 
r,  a  servant  .  !  him  a  gentleman 

wished  to  speak  to  him.     "  Tell  him,"  said  the 
Doctor,  "  1  am  too  happily  on^jod  tods.. 
situation..''     The  ladies  insisted  that  he  should  go, 


as  his  visitor  was  a  man  of  rank,  his  patron,  and 
his  friend  ;  and  as  persuasion  had  no  effect  on  him, 
they  took  him,  one  by  the  right  hand,  and  the  other 
by  the  left,  and  led  him  to  the  garden-gate.  He 
then  laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and  in  the  ex- 
pressive manner,  for  which  he  was  so  remarkable, 
uttered  the  following  lines : 

"  Thus  Adam  look'd  when  from  the  garden  driven, 
And  thus  disputed  orders  sent  from  Heav'n; 
Like  him  1  go,  but  yet  to  go  am  loth : 
Like  him  I  go,  for  angels  drove  us  both. 
Hard  was  his  (ate,  but  mine  etill  more  unkind : 
His  Eve  went  with  him,  but  mine  stays  behind." 
Another  striking  instance  of  his  wit  is  related 
in  reference  to  Voltaire  :  who,  while  in  England, 
(probably  at  Mr..Doddington's  seat  in  Dorsetshire,) 
ridiculed,  with  some  severity,  Milton's  allegorical 
personages,  Sin  and  Death ;  on  which  Young, 
who  was  one  of  the  company,  immediately  ad- 
dressed him  in  the  following  extemporaneous  dis- 
tich: 

"  Thou  art  so  witty,  profligate,  and  thin, 
Thou  seem'st  a  Milton,  with  his  Death  and  Sin." 
Soon  after  his  marriage,  our  author  again  in- 
dulged his  poetical  vein  in  two  odes,  called  The 
Sea  Peace,  with  a  poetical  Dedication  to  Voltaire, 
in  which  the  above  incident  seems  alluded  to  in 
these  lines, 

"On  Dorset  downs,  when  Milton's  page 
With  Sin  and  Death  provok'd  thy  rage." 
In  1734  he  printed  an  Argument  for  Peace, 
which  afterward,  with  several  of  his  smaller  pieces, 
and  most  of  his  dedications,  was  consigned  by  his 
own  hand  to  merited  oblivion :  in  which  circum- 
stance he  deserves  both  the  thanks  and  imitation 
of  posterity. 

About  the  year  1741  he  had  the  unhappiness  to 
lose  his  wife ;  her  daughter  by  Colonel  Lee,  and 
this  daughter's  husband,  Mr.  Temple.  What  af- 
fliction he  felt  for  their  loss,  may  be  seen  in  his 
Night  Thoughts,  written  on  this  occasion.  They 
are  addressed  to  Lorenzo,  a  man  of  pleasure,  and 
of  the  world ;  and  who,  it  is  generally  supposed, 
was  his  own  son,  then  labouring  under  his  father's 
displeasure.  His  son-in-law  is  said  to  be  charac- 
terized by  Philander,  and  his  lady's  daughter  was 
certainly  the  person  he  speaks  of  under  the  appel- 
lation of  Narcissa. — (See  Night  III.)  In  her  last 
illness,  which  was  a  consumption,  he  accompani- 
ed her  to  Montpellier,  or,  as  Mr.  Croft  says,  to 
Lyons,  in  the  south  of  France,  at  which  place  she 
died  soon  after  her  arrival. 

Being  regarded  as  an  heretic,  she  was  denied 
Christian  burial,  and  her  afflicted  father  was  obliged 
to  steal  a  grave,  and  inter  her  privately  with  his 
own  hands;*  (See  Night  III.)  In  this  celebrated 
poem  he  thus  addresses  Death: 


*  I  take  the  liberty  of  inserting  here  a  pa^ige  from  a  letter 
written  by  Mr.  W.  Taylor,  from  Montpellier,  to  his  sister, 


VI 


LIFE  OF  DR.  EDWARD  YOUNG 


"  Insatiate  archer !  could  not  one  suffice  ? 

Thy  shaft  flew  thrice,  and  thrice  my  peace  was  slain ; 

And  thric«j  ere  thrice  yon  moon  had  filled  her  horn." 

These  lines  have  been  universally  understood 
of  the  above  deaths ;  but  this  supposition  can  no 
way.be  reconciled  with  Mr.  Croft's  dates,  who 
says,  Mrs.  Temple  died  in  1736,  Mr.  Temple  in 
1740,  and  Lady  Young  in  1741.  Which  quite  in- 
verts the  order  of  the  poet,  who  makes  Narcissa's 
death  follow  Philander's : 

"Narcissa  follows  e'er  his  tomb  is  closed." 

Night  III. 

There  is  no  possible  way  to  reconcile  these  con- 
tradictions: either  we  must  reject  Mr.  Croft's 
dates,  for  which  he  gives  us  no  authority,  or  we 
must  suppose  the  characters  and  incidents,  if  not 
entirely  fictitious,  as  the  author  assures  us  that 
they  are  not,  were  accommodated  by  poetic  licence 
to  his  purpose.  As  to  the  character  of  Lorenzo, 
whether  taken  from  real  life,  or  moulded  purely  in 
the  author's  imagination,  Mr.  Croft  has  sufficiently 
proved  that  it  could  not  intend  his  son,  who  was 
but  eight  years  old  when  the  greater  part  of  the 


Mrs.  Mouncher,  in  the  preceding  year  1789,  which  may  be 
considered  as  curious,  and  will  be  interesting  and  affecting  to 
the  admirers  of  Ur.  Young  and  his  Narcissa : 

"  I  know  you,  as  well  as  myself,  are  not  a  little  partial  to 
Dr.  Young.  Had  you  been  with  me  in  a  solitary  walk  the 
other  day,  you  would  have  shed  a  tear  over  the  remains  of  his 
dear  Narcissa.  I  was  walking  in  a  place  called  the  King's 
Garden;  and  there  I  saw  the  spot  where  she  was  interred. 

Mr.  J ,  Mrs.  H >  and  myself,  had  some  conversation 

with  the  gardener  respecting  it ;  who  told  us,  that  about  45 
years  ago,  Dr.  Young  was  here  with  his  daughter  for  her 
health ;  that  he  used  constantly  to  be  walking  backward  and 
forward  in  this  garden  (no  doubt  as  he  saw  her  gradually  de- 
clining, to  find  the  most  solitary  spot,  where  he  might  show 
his  last  token  of  affection,  by  leaving  her  remains  as  secure 
as  possible  from  those  savages,  who  would  have  denied  her  a 
Christian  burial:  for  at  that  time,  an  Englishman  in  this 
country  was  looked  upon  as  an  heretic,  infidel,  and  devil. 
They  begin  now  to  verge  from  their  bigotry,  and  allow  them 
at  least  to  be  men,  though  not  Christians,  I  believe;)  and  that 
he  bribed  the  under  gardener,  belonging  to  his  lather,  to  let 
him  bury  his  daughter,  which  he  did ;  pointed  out  the  most 
solitary  place,  and  dug  the  grave.  The  man,  through  a  pri- 
vate door,  admitted  the  Doctor  at  midnight,  bringing  his  be- 
loved daughter,  wrapped  up  in  a  sheet,  upon  his  shoulder :  he 
laid  her  in  the  hole,  sat  down,  and  (as  the  man  expressed  it) 
~*  rained  tears ."  '  With  pious  sacrilege  a  grave  I  stole.'  The 
man  who  was  thus  bribed  is  dead,  but  the  master  is  still  living. 
Before  the  man  died,  they  were  one  day  going  to  dig,  and  set 
some  flowers,  &c.  in  this  spot  where  she  was  buried.  The 
man  said  to  his  master,  'Don't  dig  there;  for,  so  many  years 
ago,  f  buried  an  English  lady  there.'  The  master  was  much 
surprised ;  and  as  Doctor  Young's  book  had  made  much  noise 
in  France,  it  led  him  to  inquire  into  the  matter :  and  only  two 
years  ago  it  was  known  for  a  certainty  that  that  was  the  place, 
and  in  this  way :  There  was  an  English  nobleman  here,  who 
was  acquainted  with  the  governor  of  this  place ;  and  wishing 
to  ascertain  the  fact,  he  obtained  permission  to  dig  up  the 
ground,  where  he  found  some  bones,  which  were  examined 
by  a  surgeon,  and  pronounced  to  be  the  remains  of  a  human 
body :  this,  therefore,  puts  the  authenticity  of  it  beyond  a 
doubt."— Sec  Evan.  Mag.  for  1797,  p.  444 


Night  Thoughts  was  written;  for  Night  Seventh 
is  dated,  in  the  original  edition,  July  1744. 

For  the  literary  merits  of  this  work  we  shall 
again  refer  to  the  criticism  of  Dr.  Johnson,  which 
is  seldom  exceptionable,  when  he  is  not  warped  by 
political  prejudices.  "  In  his  Night  Thoughts," 
says  the  Doctor,  speaking  of  our  author,  "  he  has 
exhibited  a  very  wide  display  of  original  poetry, 
variegated  with  deep  reflections  and  striking  allu- 
sions ;  a  wilderness  of  thought,  in  which  the  fer- 
tility of  fancy  scatters  flowers  of  every  hue,  and 
of  every  odour.  This  is  one  of  the  few  poems  in 
which  blank  verse  could  not  be  changed  for  rhyme, 
but  with  disadvantage.  The  wild  diffusion  of  the 
sentiments  and  the  digressive  sallies  of  imagina- 
tion, would  have  been  compressed  and  restrained 
by  confinement  to  rhyme.  The  excellence  of  this 
work  is  not  exactness,  but  copiousness:  particular 
lines  are  not  to  he  regarded ;  the  power  is  in  the 
whole ;  and  in  the  whole  there  is  a  magnificence 
like  that  ascribed  to  Chinese  plantations,  the  mag- 
nificence of  vast  extent  and  endless  diversity." 

So  far  Dr.  Johnson.— Mr.  Croft  says,  "Of 
these  poems  the  two  or  three  first  have  been  perused 
more  eagerly  and  more  frequently  than  the  rest. 
When  he  got  as  far  as  the  fourth  or  fifth,  his  ori- 
ginal motive  for  taking  up  the  pen  was  answered: 
his  grief  was  naturally  either  diminished  or  ex- 
hausted. We  still  find  the  same  pious  poet ;  but 
we  hear  less  of  Philander  and  Narcissa,  and  less 
of  the  mourner  whom  he  loved  to  pity." 

Notwithstanding  one  might  be  tempted,  from 
some  passages  in  the  Night  Thoughts,  to  suppose 
he  had  taken  his  leave  of  terrestrial  things,  in  the 
alarming  year  1745,  he  could  not  refrain  from  re- 
turning again  to  politics,  but  wrote  Poetical  Re- 
flections on  the  State  of  the  Kingdom,  originally 
appended  to  the  Night  Thoughts,  but  never  re- 
printed with  them. 

In  1753,  his  tragedy  of  The  Brothers,  written 
tlurty  years  before,  now  first  appeared  upon  the 
stage.  It  had  been  in  rehearsal  when  Young  took 
orders,  and  was  withdrawn  on  that  occasion.  The 
Rector  of  Welwyn  devoted  1000Z.  to  "  The  So- 
ciety for  the  propagation  of  the  Gospel,"  and  esti- 
mating the  probable  produce  of  this  play  at  such  a 
sum,  he  perhaps  thought  the  occasion  might  sancti- 
fy the  means ;  and  not  thinking  so  unfavourably 
of  the  stage  as  other  good  men  have  done,  he  com- 
mitted the  monstrous  absurdity  of  giving  a  play  for 
the  propagation  of  the  gospel !  The  author  was, 
(as  is  often  the  case  with  authors)  deceived  in  his 
calculation.  The  Brothers  was  never  a  favourite 
with  the  public:  but  that  the  society  might  not 
suffer,  the  doctor  made  up  the  deficiency  from  his 
own  pocket. 

His  next  was  a  prose  performance,  entitled, 
"  The  Centaur  not  fabulous ;  in  Six  letters  to  a 
Friend  on  the  Life  in  Vogue."  The  third  of  these 


LIFE  OF  DR.  EDWARD  YOUNG. 


Vir 


letters  describes  the  death-bed  of  "  the  gay,  young, 
noble,  ingenktes,  accomplished,  and  most  wretched 
Altamont,"  whom  report  supposed  to  be  Lord 
Euston.  But  whether  Altaraont  or  Lorenzo  were 
real  or  fictitious  characters,  it  is  certain  the  author 
could  be  at  no  loss  for  models  for  them  among  the 
gay  nobility,  with  whom  he  was  acquainted. 

In  1759,  appeared  his  lively  "Conjectures  on 
Original  Composition ;"  which,  according  to  Mr. 
Croft,  appear  "  more  like  the  production  of  untam- 
ed, unbridled  youth,  than  of  jaded  fourscore."  This 
letter  contains  the  pleasing  account  of  the  death 
of  Addison,  and  his  dying  address  to  Lord  War- 
wick,—" See  how  a  Christian  can  die !" 

In  176-2,  but  little  before  his  death,  Young  pub- 
lished his  last,  and  one  of  his  least  esteemed  poems, 
"  Resignation,"  which  was  written  on  the  follow- 
ing occasion: — Observing  that  Mrs.  Boscawen,  in 
the  midst  of  her  grief  for  the  loss  of  the  admiral, 
derived  consolation  from  a  perusal  of  the  Night 
Thoughts,  her  friend  Mrs.  Montague,  proposed  a 
visit  to  the  author,  by  whom  they  were  favourably 
received  ;  and  were  pleased  to  confess  that  his  "  un- 
bounded genius  appeared  to  greater  advantage  in 
the  companion  than  even  in  the  author;  that  the 
Christian  was  in  him  a  character  still  more  inspir- 
ed, more  enraptured,  more  sublime  than  the  poet, 
and  that  in  his  ordinary  conversation, 

"  Letting  down  the  golden  chain  from  high, 

He  drew  his  audience  upward  to  the  sky." 

On  this  occasion,  at  the  request  of  these  ladies, 
the  author  produced  his  Resignation,  above-men- 
tioned, and  which  has  been  so  unmercifully  treated 
by  the  critics,  but  it  has,  in  some  measure,  been 
rescued  from  their  hands  by  Dr.  Johnson,  who 
says,  "  It  was  falsely  represented  as  a  proof  of  de- 
cayed faculties.  There  is  Young  in  every  stanza, 
such  as  he  often  was  in  his  highest  vigour." 

We  now  approach  the  closing  scene  of  our  au- 
thor's life  of  which,  unhappily,  we  have  few  par- 
ticulars. For  three  or  four  years  before  his  death, 
he  appears  to  have  been  incapacitated,  by  the  in- 
firmities of  age  for  public  duty;  yet  he  perfectly  en- 
joyed his  intellects  to  the  last,  and  even  Ms  vivaci- 
ty ;  for  in  his  last  illness,  a  friend  mentioning  the 
recent  decease  of  a  person  who  had  long  been  in  a 
decline,  and  observing  "  that  he  was  quite  worn  to 
a  shell  before  he  died ;"  "  very  likely,"  replied  the 
doctor;  "  but  what  is  become  of  the  kernel  T — He 
is  said  to  have  regretted  to  another  friend,  that  his 
rs'i^ht  Thoughts,  of  all  his  works  most  calculated 
to  do  good,  were  written  so  much  above  the  un- 
derstanding of  common  readers,  as  to  contract  their 
sphere  of  usefulness :  This,  however,  ought  not, 
perhaps  to  be  regretted,  since  there  is  a  great  suffi- 
ciency of  good  books  for  common  readers,  and  the 
style  of  that  work  will  always  introduce  it  where 
plainer  compositions  would  not  be  read. 

He  died  at  the  Parsonage  House,  at  Welwyn, 
14 


April  12,  1765,  and  was  buried,  according  to  his 
desire,  by  the  side  of  his  lady,  under  the  altar-piece 
of  that  church,  which  is  said  to  be  ornamented  in 
a  singular  manner  with  an  elegant  piece  of  needle- 
work by  Lady  Young,  and  some  appropriate  in- 
scriptions, painted  by  the  direction  of  the  doctor. 

His  best  monument  is  to  be  found  in  his  works; 
but  a  less  durable  one  in  marble  was  erected  by 
his  only  son  and  heir,  with  a  very  modest  and  sen- 
sible inscription.  This  son,  Mr.  Frederick  Young, 
had  the  first  part  of  his  education  at  Winchester 
school,  and  becoming  a  scholar  upon  the  founda- 
tion, was  sent,  in  consequence  thereof,  to  New  Col- 
lege, in  Oxford ;  but  there  being  no  vacancy  (though 
the  society  waited  for  one  no  less  than  two  years) 
he  was  admitted  in  the  meantime  in  Baliol,  where 
he  behawd  so  imprudently  as  to  be  forbidden  the 
college.*  This  misconduct  disobliged  his  father  so 
much,  that  it  is  said  he  would  never  see  him  after- 
wards: however,  by  his  will  he  bequeathed  to  him 
the  bulk  of  his  fortune,  which  was  considerable,  re- 
serving only  a  legacy  to  his  friend  Stevens,  the  hat- 
ter at  Temple-gate,  and  1000/.  to  his  house-keeper, 
with  his  dying  charge  to  see  all  his  manuscripts  de- 
stroyed ;  which  may  have  been  some  loss  to  pos- 
terity, though  none,  perhaps,  to  his  own  fame. 

Dr.  Young,  as  a  Christian  and  divine,  has  been 
reckoned  an  example  of  primeval  piety.  He  was 
an  able  orator,  but  it  is  not  known  whether  he 
composed  many  sermons,  and  it  is  certain  that  he 
published  very  few.  The  following  incident  does 
honour  to  his  feelings :  when  preaching  in  his  turn 
one  Sunday  at  St.  James's,  finding  he  could  not 
gain  the  attention  of  his  audience,  his  pity  for 
their  folly  got  the  better  of  all  decorum;  he  sat 
back  in  the  pulpit,  and  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

His  turn  of  mind  was  naturally  solemn;  and  he 
usually  when  at  home  in  the  country,  spent  many 
hours  walking  among  the  tombs  in  his  own  church 
yard.  His  conversation,  as  well  as  writings,  had 
all  a  reference  to  a  future  life;  and  tins  turn  of 
mind  mixed  itself  even  with  his  improvements  in 
gardening ;  he  had,  for  instance,  an  alcove,  with  a 
bench  so  well  painted  in  it,  that  at  a  distance  it 
seemed  to  be  real ;  but  upon  a  nearer  approach  the 
deception  was  perceived,  and  this  motto  appeared : 

IXVISIEILIA  NON  DECIPIUNT. 
The  things  unseen  do  not  deceive  us. 

In  another  part  of  his  garden- was  also  this  in- 
scription: 


Mr.  Croft  denies  this  circumstance,  and  calls  the  poet's  son 
iia  friend. — He  does  not,  however,  pretend  to  vindicate  the 
conduct  of  the  youth ;  but  he  relates  his  repentance  and  regret, 
which  is  far  better.  Perhaps  it  is  not  possible  wholly  to  vin- 
dicate the  father.  Great  genius,  even  accompanied  with  piety, 
is  not  always  most  ornamental  to  domestic  life ;  and  "  the 
jrose  of  ordinary  occurrences,"  says  Croft,  "is  beneath  the 
dignity  of  poets." 


VI11 


LIFE  OF  DR.  EDWARD  YOUNG. 


AMBULANTES  IN  HORTO  AUDIERUNT  VOCEM  DEI. 
Tliey  heard  the  voice  of  God  walking  in  the  garden. 

This  seriousness  occasioned  him  to  be  charged 
with  gloominess  of  temper;  yet  he  was  fond  of 
rural  sports  and  innocent  amusements.  He  would 
sometimes  visit  the  assembly  and  the  bowling 
green ;  and  we  see  in  his  satires  that  he  knew 
how  to  laugh  at  folly.  His  wit  was  poignant,  and 
always  levelled  at  those  who  showed  any  contempt 
for  decency  or  religion ;  an  instance  of  which  we 
have  remarked  in  his  extemporary  epigram  on  Vol- 
taire. 

Dr.  Young  rose  betimes,  and  engaged  with  his 
domestics  in  the  duties  of  Morning  Prayer.  He 
is  said  to  have  read  but  little;  but  he  noted  what 
he  read,  and  many  of  his  books  were  so  swelled 
with  folding  down  his  favourite  passages,  that  they 
would  hardly  shut.  He  was  moderate  in  his  meals, 
and  rarely  drank  wine,  except  when  he  was  ill; 
being  (as  he  used  to  say)  unwilling  to  waste  the 
succours  of  sickness  on  the  stability  of  health. 
After  a  slight  refreshment,  he  retired  to  rest  early 
in  the  evening,  even  though  he  might  have  com- 
pany who  wished  to  prolong  his  stay. 

He  lived  at  a  moderate  expense,  rather  inclined 
to  parsimony  than  profusion;  and  seems  to  have 
possessed  just  conceptions  of  the  vanity  of  the 
world;  yet  (such  Is  the  inconsistency  of  man !)  he 
courted  honours  and  preferments  at  the  borders 
of  the  grave,  even  so  late  as  1758;  but  none  were 
then  conferred.  It  has,  however,  been  asserted, 
that  he  had  a  pension  of  200 /.  a  year  from  govern- 
ment, conferred  under  the  auspices  of  Walpole. 

At  last,  when  he  was  full  fourscore,  the  author 
of  the  Night  Thoughts, 

"  Who  thought  e'en  gold  itself  might  come  a  day  too  late," 

was  made  Clerk  of  the  Closet  to  the  Princess  Dow- 
ager of  Wales.  What  retarded  his  promotion  so 
long  is  not  easy  to  determine.  Some  attribute  it 
to  his  attachment  to  the  Prince  of  Wales  and  his 
friends;  and  others  assert,  that  the  King  thought 
him  sufficiently  provided  for.  Certain  it  is,  that 
he  knew  no  straits  in  pecuniary  matters ;  and  that 
in  the  method  he  has  recommended  of  estimating 
human  life,  honours  are  of  little  value. 

His  merits  as  an  author  have  already  been  con- 
sidered in  a  review  of  his  works ;  and  nothing  seems 
necessary  to  be  added,  but  the  following  general 
characters  of  his  composition,  from  Blair  and 
Johnson. 

Dr.  Blair  says,  in  his  celebrated  lectures:  "Among 
moral  and  didactic  poets,  Dr.  Young  is  of  too  great 


eminence  to  be  passed  over  without  notice.  In  all 
his  works,  the  marks  of  strong  genius  appear.  His 
Universal  Passion,  possesses  the  full  merit  of  that 
animated  conciseness  of  style,  and  lively  descrip- 
tion of  character,  which  I  mention  as  requisite  in 
satirical  and  didactic  compositions.  Though  his 
wit  may  often  be  thought  too  sparkling,  and  his 
sentences  too  pointed,  yet  the  vivacity  of  his  fancy 
is  so  great,  as  to  entertain  every  reader.  In  his 
Night  Thoughts  there  is  much  energy  of  expres- 
sion; in  the  three  first,  there  are  several  pathetic 
passages ;  and  scattered  through  them  all,  happy 
images  and  allusions,  as  well  as  pious  reflections, 
occur.  But  the  sentiments  are  frequently  over- 
strained, and  turgid;  and  the  style  is  too  harsh 
and  obscure  to  be  pleasing." 

The  same  critic  has  said  of  our  author  in  ano- 
ther place,  that  his  "  merit  in  figurative  language 
is  great,  and  deserves  to  be  remarked.  No  writer, 
ancient  or  modern,  had  a  stronger  imagination 
than  Dr.  Young,  or  one  more  fertile  in  figures  of 
every  kind ;  his  metaphors  are  often  new,  and  often 
natural  and  beautiful.  But  his  imagination  was 
strong  and  rich,  rather  than  delicate  and  correct." 

These  strictures  may  be  thought  severe ;  but  it 
should  be  remembered,  that  an  author  derives  far 
more  honour  from  such  a  discriminate  character, 
from  a  judicious  critic,  than  from  the  indiscriminate 
commendation  of  an  admirer.  The  following  is 
the  conclusion  of  Dr.  Johnson's  critique,  and  shall 
conclude  these  memoirs. 

"  It  must  be  allowed  of  Young's  poetry,  that  it 
abounds  in  thought,  but  without  much  accuracy 
of  selection. — When  he  lays  hold  on  a  thought,  he 
pursues  it  beyond  expectation,  [and]  sometimes 
happily,  as  in  his  parallel  of  quicksilver  and  plea- 
sure ....  which  is  very  ingenious,  very  subtle, 
and  almost  exact 

"  His  versification  is  his  own;  neither  his  blank 
nor  his  rhyming  lines  have  any  resemblance  to 
those  of  former  writers;  he  picks  up  no  hemisticks, 
he  copies  no  favourite  expressions;  he  seems  to 
have  laid  up  no  stores  of  thought  or  diction,  but 
to  owe  all  to  the  fortuitous  suggestions  of  the  pre- 
sent moment.  Yet  I  have  reason  to  believe  that, 
when  he  once  formed  a  new  design,  he  then  la- 
boured it  with  very  patient  industry,  and  that  he 
composed  with  great  labour  and  frequent  revisions. 

"  His  verses  are  formed  by  no  certain  model; 
he  is  no  more  like  himself  in  his  different  produc- 
tions than  he  is  like  others.  He  seems  never  to 
have  studied  prosody,  nor  to  have  any  direction, 
but  from  his  own  ear.  But  with  all  his  defects, 
he  was  a  man  of  genius,  and  a  poet." 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


Complaint. 


PREFACE. 

As  the  occasion  of  this  Poem  was  real,  not  fictitious,  so  the  method  pursued  in  it  was  rather  imposed  by  what  sponta- 
neously arose  in  the  Author's  mind  on  that  occasion,  than  meditated  or  designed;  which  will  appear  very  probable  from 
the  nature  of  it ;  for  it  differs  from  the  common  mode  of  poetry,  which  is,  from  long  narrations  to  draw  short  morals :  here, 
on  the  contrary,  the  narrative  is  short,  and  the  morality  arising  from  it  makes  the  bulk  of  the  Poem.  The  reason  of  it  is, 
tliat  the  facts  mentioned  did  naturally  pour  these  moral  reflections  on  the  thoughts  of  the  writer. 


NIGHT   I. 

ON  LIFE,  DEATH,  AND  IMMORTALITY. 

To  the  Right  Hon.  Arthur  Onslow,  Esq.,  Speaker  of  the 
House  of  Commons. 

TIRED  Nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmy  Sleep! 
He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visit  pays, 
Where  Fortune  smiles;  the  wretched  he  forsakes; 
Swift  on  his  downy  pinion  flies  from  wo, 
And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  with  a  tear. 

From  short  (as  usual)  and  disturbed  repose 
I  wake:  how  happy  they  who  wake  no  more ! 
Yet  that  were  vain,  if  dreams  infest  the  grave. 
[  wake,  emerging  from  a  sea  of  dreams 
Tumultuous,    where    my    wrecked    desponding 

thought 

From  wave  to  wave  of  fancied  misery 
At  random  drove,  her  helm  of  reason  lost. 
Though  now  restored,  'tis  only  change  of  pain, 
(A  bitter  change!)  severer  for  severe; 
The  day  too  short  for  my  distress ;  and  night, 
Ev'n  in  the  zenith  of  her  dark  domain, 
Is  sunshine  to  the  colour  of  my  fate. 
Night,  sable  goddess !  from  her  ebon  throne, 
In  rayless  majesty  now  stretches  forth 
Her  leaden  sceptre  o'er  a  slumbering  world. 
Silence  how  dead  !  and  darkness  how  profound ! 
Nor  eye  nor  listening  ear  an  object  finds; 
Creation  sleeps.     'Tis  as  the  general  pulse 
Of  life  stood  still,  and  Nature  made  a  pause; 
An  awful  pause !  prophetic  of  her  end. 
And  let  her  prophecy  be  soon  fulfilled: 
Fate  drop  the  curtain;  I  can  lose  no  more. 

Silence  and  Darkness!  solemn  sisters!  twins 
From  ancient  Night,  who  nurse  the  tender  thought 


To  reason,  and  on  reason  build  resolve, 
(That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man) 
Assist  me:  I  will  thank  you  in  the  grave; 
The  grave  your  kingdom:  there  this  frame  shall 

fall 

A  victim  sacred  to  your  dreary  shrine. 
But  what  are  ye? — 

Thou  who  did'st  put  to  flight 
Primeval  Silence,  when  the  morning  stars. 
Exulting,  shouted  o'er  the  rising  ball; 

0  Thou!  whose  word  from  solid  darkness  struck 
That  spark,  the  sun,  strike  wisdom  from  my  soul; 
My  soul,  which  flies  to  thee,  her  trust  her  treasure, 
As  misers  to  their  gold,  while  others  rest. 

Through  this  opaque  of  nature  and  of  soul, 
This  double  night,  transmit  one  pitying  ray, 
To  lighten  and  to  cheer.     O  lead  my  mind, 
(A  mind  that  fain  would  wander  from  its  wo) 
Lead  it  through  various  scenes  of  life  and  death, 
And  from  each  scene  the  noblest  truths  inspire, 
Nor  less  inspire  my  conduct  than  my  song; 
Teach  my  best  reason,  reason;  my  best  will 
Teach  rectitude;  and  fix  my  firm  resolve 
Wisdom  to  wed,  and  pay  her  long  arrear: 
Nor  let  the  phial  of  thy  vengeance,  poured 
On  this  devoted  head,  be  poured  in  vain. 

The  bell  strikes  one.    We  take  no  note  of  time 
But  from  its  loss:  to  give  it  then  a  tongue 
Is  wise  in  man.     As  if  an  angel  spoke 

1  feel  the  solemn  sound.     If  heard  aright, 
It  is  the  knell  of  my  departed  hours. 

Where  are  they?    With  the  years  beyond  the 

flood. 

It  is  the  signal  that  demands  despatch: 
How  much  is  to  be  donel  My  hopes  and  fears 
Start  up  alarmed,  and  o'er  life's  narrow  verge 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Look  down — on  what!  A  fathomless  abyss. 

A  dread  eternity !  how  surely  mine ! 

And  can  eternity  belong  to  me, 

Poor  pensioner  on  the  bounties  of  an  hour ! 

jf  How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august, 

How  complicate,  how  wonderful,  is  man! 

How  passing  wonder  He  who  made  him  such! 

Who  centered  in  our  make  such  strange  extremes, 

From  different  natures  marvellously  mixed, 

Connexion  exquisite  of  distant  worlds! 

Distinguished  link  in  being's  endless  chain! 

Midway  from  nothing  to  the  Deity ! 

A  beam  ethereal,  sullied  and  absorpt! 

Though  sullied  and  dishonoured,  still  divine! 

Dim  miniature  of  greatness  absolute! 

An  heir  of  glory,  a  frail  child  of  dust ! 

Helpless  immortal !  insect  infinite ! 

A  worm !  a  god ! — I  tremble  at  myself, 

And  in  myself  am  lost.    At  home  a  stranger, 

Thought  wanders  up  and  down,  surprised,  aghast, 

And  wondering  at  her  own.     How  reason  reels  7 

O  what  a  miracle  to  man  is  man! 

Triumphantly  distressed !  what  joy!  what  dread! 

Alternately  transported  and  alarmed; 

What  can  preserve  my  life!  or  what  destroy! 

An  angel's  arm  can't  snatch  me  from  the  grave; 

Legions  of  angels  can't  confine  me  there.  ^ 

'Tis  past  conjecture;  all  things  rise  in  proof. 
While  o'er  my  limbs  Sleep's  soft  dominion  spread, 
What  though  my  soul  fantastic  measures  trod 
O'er  fairy  fields,  or  mourned  along  the  gloom 
Of  pathless  woods,  or  down  the  craggy  steep 
Hurled  headlong,  swam  with  pain  the  mantled 

pool, 

Or  scaled  the  cliff,  or  danced  on  hollow  winds 
With  antic  shapes,  wild  natives  of  the  brain ! 
Her  ceaseless  flight,  though  devious,  speaks  her 

nature 

Of  subtler  essence  than  the  trodden  clod; 
Active,  aerial,  towering,  unconfined, 
Unfettered  with  her  gross  companion's  fall. 
Even  silent  night  proclaims  my  soul  immortal; 
Even  silent  night  proclaims  eternal  day ! 
For  human  weal  Heaven  husbands  all  events: 
Dull  sleep  instructs,  nor  sport  vain  dreams  in  vain. 

Why  then  their  loss  deplore,  that  are  not  lost  7 
Why  wanders  wretched   Thought  their   tombs 

around 

In  infidel  distress  1    Are  angels  there  7 
Slumbers,  raked  up  in  dust,  ethereal  fire  1 

They  live !  they  greatly  live  a  life  on  earth 
Unkindled,  unconceived,  and  from  an  eye 
Of  tenderness  let  heavenly  pity  fall, 
On  me,  more  justly  numbered  with  the  dead. 
This  is  the  desert,  this  the  solitude: 
How  populous,  how  vital  is  the  grave ! 
This  is  creation's  melancholy  vault, 
The  vale  funereal,  the  sad  cypress  gloom ; 
The  land  of  apparitions,  empty  shades  ! 


All,  all  on  earth  is  shadow,  all  beyond 

Is  substance ;  the  reverse  is  Folly's  creed.    ^ 

How  solid  all,  where  change  shall  be  no  more ! 

This  is  the  bud  of  being,  the  dim  dawn, 
The  twilight  of  our  day,  the  vestibule. 
Life's  theatre  as  yet  is  shut,  and  Death, 
Strong  Death,  alone  can  heave  the  rnassy  bar, 
This  gross  impediment  of  clay  remove, 
And  make  us,  embryos  of  existence,  free. 
From  real  life  but  little  more  remote 
Is  he,  not  yet  a  candidate  for  light, 
The  future  embryo,  slumbering  in  his  sire. 
Embryos  we  must  be  till  we  burst  the  shell, 
Yon  ambient  azure  shell,  and  spring  to  life, 
The  life  of  gods,  O  transport !  and  of  man. 

Yet  man,  fool  man !  here  buries  all  his  thoughts, 
Inters  celestial  hopes  without  one  sigh : 
Prisoner  of  earth  and  pent  beneath  the  moon, 
Here  pinions  all  his  wishes ;  wing'd  by  Heav'n 
To  fly  at  infinite,  and  reach  it  there, 
Where  seraphs  gather  immortality. 
On  Life's  fair  tree,  fast  by  the  throne  of  God, 
What  golden  joys  ambrosial  clustering  glow 
In  his  full  beam,  and  ripen  for  the  just, 
Where  momentary  ages  are  no  more ! 
Where  Time,  and  Pain,  and  Chance,  and  Death 

expire  ! 

And  is  it  in  the  flight  of  threescore  years 
To  push  eternity  from  human  thought, 
And  smother  souls  immortal  in  the  dust  7 
A  soul  immortal,  spending  all  her  fires, 
Wasting  her  strength  in  strenuous  idleness, 
Thrown  into  tumult,  raptur'd,  or  alarm'd 
At  aught  this  scene  can  threaten  or  indulge, 
Resembles  ocean  into  tempest  wrought, 
To  waft  a  feather,  or  to  drown  a  fly. 

Where  falls  this  censure  7  it  o'erwhelms  myself. 
Bow  was  my  heart  instructed  by  the  world ! 
3  how  self-fetter'd  was  my  groveling  soul ! 
How,  like  a  worm,  was  I  wrapt  round  and  round 
[n  silken  thought,  which  reptile  Fancy  spun, 
Till  darken'd  Reason  lay  quite  clouded  o'er, 
With  soft  conceit  of  endless  comfort  here, 
N^or  yet  put  forth  her  wings  to  reach  the  skies ! 

Night-visions  may  befriend,  (as  sung  above :) 
Our  waking  dreams  are  fatal.     How  I  dream, 
Of  things  impossible !  (could  sleep  do  more  7) 
Of  joys  perpetual  in  perpetual  change  ! 
Of  stable  pleasures  on  the  tossing  wave; 
Sternal  sunshine  in  the  storms  of  life ! 
How  richly  were  my  noon-tide  trances  hung 
With  gorgeous  tapestries  of  pictur'd  joys, 
Joy  behind  joy,  in  endless  perspective ; 
Till  at  Death's  toll,  whose  restless  iron  tongue 

alls  daily  for  his  millions  at  a  meal, 
Starting  I  woke,  and  found  myself  undone. 
Where  now  my  frenzy's  pompous  furniture  1 
The  cobweb'd  cottage,  with  its  ragged  wall 
Of  mouldering  mud,  is  royalty  to  me ! 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


The  spider's  most  attenuated  thread 
Is  cord,  is  cable,  to  man's  tender  tie 
On  earthly  bliss .  it  breaks  at  every  breeze. 
O  ye  blest  scenes  of  permanent  delight ! 
Full  above  measure !  lasting  beyond  bound  ! 
A  perpetuity  of  bliss  is  bliss. 

ild  you,  so  rich  in  rapture,  fear  an  end, 
That  ghastly  thought  would  drink  up  all  your  joy, 
And  quite  unparadise  the  realms  of  light. 
Safe  are  you  lodged  above  these  rolling  spheres, 
The  baleful  influence  of  whose  giddy  dance 
Sheds  sad  vicissitude  on  all  beneath. 
Here  teems  with  revolutions  every  hour, 
And  rarely  for  the  better ;  or  the  best 
More  mortal  than  the  common  births  of  Fate. 
Each  Moment  has  its  sickle,  emulous 
Of  Time's  enormous  scythe,  whose  ample  sweep 
Strikes  empires  from  the  root :  each  Moment  plays 
His  little  weapon  in  the  narrower  sphere 
Of  sweet  domestic  comfort,  and  cuts  down 
The  fairest  bloom  of  sublunary  bliss. 

Bliss !  sublunary  bliss ! — proud  words,  and  vain ! 
Implicit  treason  to  divine  decree ! 
A  bold  invasion  of  the  rights  of  Heaven ! 
I  clasped  the  phantoms,  and  I  found  them  air. 
O  had  I  weighed  it  ere  my  fond  embrace, 
What  darts  of  agony  had  missed  my  heart ! 
Death !  great  proprietor  of  all !  'tis  thine 
To  tread  out  empire,  and  to  quench  the  stars. 

/  The  sun  himself  by  thy  permission  shines,  / 
And,  one  day,  thou  shalt  pluck  him  from  his  sphere : 
Amid  such  mighty  plunder,  why  exhaust 
Thy  partial  quiver  on  a  mark  so  mean  7 
Why  thy  peculiar  rancour  wreaked  on  me  1 

if  Insatiate  archer!  could  not  one  suffice"? 
/T  Thy  shaft  flew  thrice,  and  thrice  my  peace  was  slain : 
And  thrice,  ere  thrice  yon  moon  had  filled  her  horn. 

0  Cynthia  !  why  so  pale  1  dost  thou  lament 
Thy  wretched  neighbour  7  grieve  to  see  thy  wheel 
Of  ceaseless  change  outwhirled  in  human  life  1 
How  wanes  my  borro  w'd  bliss !  from  Fortune's  smile 
Precarious  courtesy !  not  virtue's  sure, 
Self-given,  solar  ray  of  sound  delight. 

In  every  varied  posture,  place,  and  hour, 
How  widowed  every  thought  of  every  joy ! 
Thought,  busy  thought !  too  busy  for  my  peace, 
Through  the  dark  postern  of  time  long  elaps'd, 
Led  softly,  by  the  stillness  of  the  night,  \ 

Led,  like  a  murderer,  (and  such  it  proves !) 
Strays  (wretched  rover !)  o'er  the  pleasing  past ; 
In  quest  of  wretchedness  perversely  strays, 
And  finds  all  desert  now;  and  meets  the  ghosts 
Of  my  departed  joys,  a  numerous  train ! 

1  rue  the  riches  of  my  former  fate ; 
Sweet  comfort's  blasted  clusters  I  lament ; 
I  tremble  at  the  blessings  once  so  dear, 
And  every  pleasure  pains  me  to  the  heart. 

Yet  why  complain  1  or  why  complain  for  one  7 
Hangs  out  the  sun  his  lustre  but  for  me, 


The  single  man  1  are  angels  all  beside  7 
I  mourn  for  millions ;  'tis  the  common  lot : 
In  this  shape  or  in  that  has  Fate  entail'd 
The  mother's  throes  on  all  of  woman  born; 
Not  more  the  children  than  sure  heirs  of  pain. 

War,  famine,  pest,  volcano,  storm,  and  fire, 
Intestine  broils,  Oppression,  with  her  heart 
Wrapt  up  in  triple  brass,  besiege  mankind. 
God's  image,  disinherited  of  day, 
Here  plung'd  in  mines,  forgets  a  sun  was  made :  / 
There  beings,  deathless  as  their  haughty  lord, 
Are  hammer'd  to  the  galling  oar  for  life, 
And  plough  the  winter's  wave,  and  reap  despair. 
Some  for  hard  masters,  broken  under  arms, 
In  battle  lopt  away,  with  half  their  limbs, 
Beg  bitter  bread  through  realms  their  valour  saved, 
If  so  the  tyrant  or  his  minion  doom. 
Want  and  incurable  disease,  (fell  pair !) 
On  hopeless  multitudes  remorseless  seize 
At  once,  and  make  a  refuge  of  the  grave. 
How  groaning  hospitals  eject  their  dead ! 
What  numbers  groan  for  sad  admission  there! 
What  numbers,  once  in  Fortune's  lap  high-fed, 
Solicit  the  cold  hand  of  Charity ! 
To  shock  us  more,  solicit  it  in  vain ! 
Ye  silken  sons  of  Pleasure !  since  in  pains 
You  rue  more  modish  visits,  visit  here, 
And  breathe  from  your  debauch:  give,  and  reduce 
Surfeits  dominion  o'er  you.     But  so  great 
Your  impudence,  you  blush  at  what  is  right. 

Happy !  did  sorrow  seize  on  such  alone. 
Not  prudence  can  defend,  or  virtue  save, 
Disease  invades  the  chastest  temperance, 
And  punishment  the  guiltless;  and  alarm, 
Through  thickest  shades,  pursues  the  fond  of  peace. 
Man's  caution  often  into  danger  turns, 
And,  his  guard  falling,  crushes  him  to  death. 
Not  Happiness  itself  makes  good  her  name ; 
Our  very  wishes  gives  us  not  our  wish. 
How  distant  oft  the  thing  we  dote  on  most 
From  that  for  which  we  dote,  felicity ! 
The  smoothest  course  of  Nature  has  its  pains, 
And  truest  friends,  through  error,  wound  our  rest. 
Without  misfortune,  what  calamities ! 
And  what  hostilities,  without  a  foe! 
Nor  are  foes  wanting  to  the  best  on  earth. 
But  endless  is  the  list  of  human  ills, 
And  siglis  might  sooner  fail  than  cause  to  sigh-' 

A  part  how  small  of  the  terraqueous  globe 
Is  tenanted  by  man!  the  rest  a  waste, 
Rocks,  deserts,  frozen  seas,  and  burning  sands! 
Wild   haunts  of  monsters,  poisons,   stings,  and 

death, 

Such  is  earth's  melancholy  map !  but,  far 
More  sad !  this  earth  is  a  true  map  of  man : 
So  bounded  are  its  haughty  lord's  delights 
To  wo's  wide  empire,  where  deep  troubles  toss. 
Loud  sorrows  howl,  envenom'd  passions  bite, 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Ravenous  calamities  our  vitals  seize, 
And  threatening  Fame  wide  opens  to  devour. 
What  then  am  I,  who  sorrow  for  myself  7 
In  age,  in  infancy,  from  others'  aid 
Is  all  our  hope ;  to  teach  us  to  be  kind : 
That  Nature's  first,  last  lesson  to  mankind. 
The  selfish  heart  deserves  the  pain  it  feels: 
More  generous  sorrow,  while  it  sinks  exalts, 
And  conscious  virtue  mitigates  the  pang. 
Nor  virtue  more  than  prudence  bids  me  give 
Swoln  thought  a  second  channel:  who  divide, 
They  weaken,  too,  the  torrent  of  their  grief. 
Take,  then,*  O  World !  thy  much  indebted  tear. 
How  sad  a  sight  is  human  happiness 
/  To  those,  whose  thought  can  pierce  beyond  an 
hour!   I 

0  thou!  whate'er  thou  art,  whose  heart  exults,1 
Wouldst  thou  I  should  congratulate  thy  fate ! 

1  know  thou  wouldst;  thy  pride  demands  it  from 

me: 

Let  thy  pride  pardon  what  thy  nature  needs, 
The  salutary  censure  of  a  friend; 
Thou  happy  wretch!  by  blindness  thou  art  bless'd; 
By  dotage  dandled  to  perpetual  smiles. 
Know,  smiler!  at  thy  peril  art  thou  pleas'd; 
Thy  pleasure  is  the  promise  of  thy  pain. 
Misfortune,  like  a  creditor  severe, 
But  rises  in  demand  for  her  delay; 
She  makes  a  scourge  of  past  prosperity, 
To  sling  thee  more,  and  double  thy  distress. 

Lorenzo!  Fortune  makes  her  court  to  thee; 
Thy  fond  heart  dances  while  the  syren  sings. 
Dear  is  thy  welfare  ;  think  me  not  unkind; 
I  would  not  damp,  but  to  secure  thy  joys. 
Think  not  that  fear  is  sacred  to  the  storm ; 
Stand  on  thy  guard  against  the  smiles  of  Fate. 
Is  Heaven  tremendous  in  its  frowns'?  most  sure: 
And  in  its  favours  formidable  too: 
Its  favours  here  are  trials,  not  rewards; 
A  call  to  duty,  not  discharge  from  care, 
And  should  alarm  us  full  as  much  as  woes, 
Awake  us  to  their  cause  and  consequence, 
And  make  us  tremble,  weighed  with  our  desert; 
Awe  Nature's  tumult,  and  chastise  her  joys, 
Lest  while  we  clasp  we  kill  them ;  nay,  invert 
To  worse  than  simple  misery  their  charms. 
Revolted  joys,  like  foes  in  civil  war, 
Like  bosom  friendships  to  resentments  soured, 
With  rage  envenomed  rise  against  our  peace. 
Beware  what  earth  calls  happiness ;  beware 
All  joys  but  joys  that  never  can  expire. 
Who  builds  on  less  than  an  immortal  base, 
Fond  as  he  seems,  condemns  his  joys  to  death. 

Mine  died  with  thee,  Philander ;  thy  last  sigh 
Dissolved  the  charm ;  the  disenchanted  earth 
Lost  all  her  lustre.     Where  her  glittering  towers^ 
Her  golden  mountains  where?  all  darkened  down 
To  naked  waste;  a  dreary  vale  of  tears. 
The  great  magician's  dead !  Thou  poor,  pale  piece 


Of  outcast  earth,  in  darkness :  what  a  change 
i^rom  yesterday !  Thy  darling  hope  so  near, 
Long-laboured  prize!)  O  how  ambition  flushed 
Thy  glowing  cheek ;  ambition  truly  great, 
Of  virtuous  praise.     Death's  subtle  seed  within, 
Sly,  treacherous  miner !)  working  in  the  dark, 
Smiled  at  thy  well  concerted  scheme,  and  beckoned 
The  worm  to  riot  on  that  rose  so  red, 
Unfaded  ere  it  fell,  one  moment's  prey! 

Man's  foresight  is  conditionally  wise, 
liorenzo !  wisdom  into  folly  turns, 
Dft  the  first  instant  its  idea  fair 
To  labouring  thought  is  born.    How  dim  our  eye! 
The  present  moment  terminates  our  sight; 

louds,  thick  as  those  on  Doomsday,  drown  the 

next: 

We  penetrate,  we  prophesy  in  vain; 
Time  is  dealt  out  by  particles,  and  each 
Are  mingled  with  the  streaming  sands  of  life., 
3y  Fate's  inviolable  oath  is  sworn 
Deep  silence, — where  Eternity  begins. 

By  Nature's  law,  what  may  be  may  be  now : 
There's  no  prerogative  in  human  hours. 
:n  human  hearts  what  bolder  thoughts  can  rise 
Than  man's  presumption  on  to-morrow's  dawn? 
Where  is  to-morrow?  In  another  world. 
For  numbers  this  is  certain;  the  reverse 
[s  sure  to  none ;  and  yet  on  this  perhaps, 
This  peradventure,  infamous  for  lies, 
As  on  a  rock  of  adamant  we  build 
Our  mountain-hopes,  spin  out  eternal  schemes, 
As  we  the  fatal  sisters  could  outspiri,  - 

And,  big  with  life's  futurities  expire. 

Not  even  Philander  had  bespoke  his  shroud ; 
Nor  had  he  cause ;  a  warning  was  denied. 
How  many  fall  as  sudden,  not  as  safe  ! 
As  sudden,  though  for  years  admonished  home; 
Of  human  ills  the  last  extreme  beware ; 
Beware,  Lorenzo !  a  slow  sudden  death ; 
How  dreadful  that  deliberate  surprise ! 
Be  wise  to-day ;  'tis  madness  to  defer : 
Next  day  the  fatal  precedent  will  plead, 
Thus  on,  till  wisdom  is  pushed  out  of  life. 
Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time ;  \ 
Year  after  year  it  steals,  till  all  are  fled, 
And  to  the  mercies  of  a  moment  leaves 
The  vast  concerns  of  an  eternal  scene. 
If  not  so  frequent,  would  not  this  be  strange? . 
That  'tis  so  frequent,  this  is  stranger  still. 

Of  man's  miraculous  mistakes  this  bears 
The  palm,  (  That  all  men  are  about  to  live,' 
For  ever  on  the  brink  of  being  born : 
All  pay  themselves  the  compliment  to  think 
They  one  day  shall  not  drivel,  and  their  pride 
On  this  reversion  takes  up  ready  praise ; 
At  least  their  own ;  their  future  selves  applauds, 
How  excellent  that  life  they  ne'er  will  lead  ! 
Time  lodged  in  their  own  hands  is  Folly's  vails ; 
That  lodged  in  Fate's  to  wisdom  they  consign; 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


The  thing  they  can't  but  purpose,  they  postpone 

'Tis  not  in  folly  not  to  scorn  a  fool, 

And  scarce  in  human  wisdom  to  do  more. 

All  promise  is  poor  dilatory  man, 

And  that  through  every  stage.   When  young,  in 

deed, 

In  full  content  we  sometimes  nobly  rest, 
Unanxjous  for  ourselves,  and  only  wish, 
As  duteous  sons,  our  fathers  were  more  wise. 
At  thirty  man  suspects  himself  a  fool; 
Knows  it  at  forty,  arid  reforms  his  plan ; 
At  fifty  chides  his  infamous  delay, 
Pushes  his  prudent  purpose  to  resolve; 
In  all  the  magnanimity  of  thought 
Resolves,  and  re-resolves;  then  dies  the  same. 
And  why?  because  he  thinks  himself  immor 

tal, 

All  men  think  all  men  mortal  but  themselves ; 
Themselves,  when  some  alarming  shock  of  Fate 
Strikes  through  their  wounded  hearts  the  sudden 

dread: 

But  their  hearts  wounded,  like  the  wounded  air, 
Soon  close ;  where  past  the  shaft  no  trace  is  found 
As  from  the  wing  no  scar  the  sky  retains, 
The  parted  wave  no  furrow  from  the  keel, 
So  dies  in  human  hearts  the  thought  of  death : 
Even  with  the  tender  tear  which  Nature  sheds 
O'er  those  we  love,  we  drop  it  in  their  grave. 
Can  I  forget  Philander?  that  were  strange  ! 

0  my  full  heart ! — But  should  I  give  it  vent, 
The  longest  night,  though  longer  far,  would  fail, 
And  the  lark  listen  to  my  midnight  song. 

The  sprightly  lark's  shrill  matin  wakes  the  morn. 
Grief's  sharpest  thorn  hard  pressing  on  my  breast, 

1  strive,  with  wakeful  melody,  to  cheer 

The  sullen  gloom,  sweet  Philomel !  like  thee, 
And  call  the  stars  to  listen:  every  star 
Is  deaf  to  mine,  enamoured  of  thy  lay. 
Yet  be  not  vain ;  there  are  who  thine  excel, 
And   charm   through   distant   ages.     Wrapt   in 

shade, 

Prisoner  of  darkness !  to  the  silent  hours 
How  often  I  repeat  their  rage  divine, 
To  lull  my  griefs,  and  steal  my  heart  from  wo ! 
In  roll  their  raptures,  but  not  catch  their  fire. 
Dark,  though  not  blind,  like  thee  Mseonidas! 
Or,  Milton!  thee;  ah,  could  I  reach  your  strain! 
Or  his*  who  made  Mseonidas  our  own. 
Man.  too,  he  sung:  immortal  man  I  sing: 
Oft  bursts  my  song  beyond  the  bounds  of  life: 
What,  now,  but  immortality  can  please? 
O  had  he  pressed  his  theme,  pursued  the  track 
Which  opens  out  of  darkness  into  day ! 
O  had  he  mounted  on  his  wing  of  fire, 
Soared  where  I  sink,  and  sung  immortal  man, 
How  had  it  blessed  mankind,  and  rescued  me!  f 


•Pope. 


NIGHT  II. 

ON  TIME,  DEATH,  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 

To  the  Right  Honourable,  the  Earl  of  Wilmington. 

'  WHEN  the  cock  crew  he  wept,'— smote  by  that  eye 
Which  looks  on  me,  on  all ;  that  Power  who  bids 
This  midnight  sentinel,  with  clarion  shrill, 
Emblem  of  that  wluch  shall  awake  the  dead, 
Rouse  souls  from  slumber,  into  thoughts  of  Heaven. 
Shall  I  too  weep?  where  then  is  fortitude? 
And  fortitude  abandoned,  where  is  man? 
I  know  the  terms  on  which  he  sees  the  light: 
He  that  is  bom  is  listed:  life  is  war; 
Eternal  war  with  wo:  who  bears  it  best 
Deserves  it  least.— On  other  themes  I'll  dwell. 
Lorenzo !  let  me  turn  my  thoughts  on  thee 
And  thine;  on  themes  may  profit;  profit  there 
Where  most  thy  need.     Themes,  too,  the  genuine 

growth 

Of  dear  Philander's  dust.     He  thus,  though  dead, 
May  still  befriend.— What  themes  ?  Time's  won- 
drous price? 
Death,  friendship,  and  Philander's  final  scene. 

So  could  I  touch  these  themes  as  might  obtain 
Thine  ear,  nor  leave  thy  heart  quite  disengaged, 
The  good  deed  would  delight  me ;  half-impress 
On  my  dark  cloud  an  iris,  and  from  grief 
Call  glory.— Dost  thou  mourn  Philander's  fate  ? 
[  know  thou  say'st  it:  says  thy  life  the  same? 
He  mourns  the  dead  who  lives  as  they  desire. 
Where  is  that  thirst,  that  avarice  of  time, 
O  glorious  avarice!)  thought  of  death  inspires, 
As  rumoured  robberies  endear  our  gold? 
3  Time !  than  gold  more  sacred ;  more  a  load 
Than  lead  to  fools,  and  fools  reputed  wise. 
What  moment  granted  man  without  account  1 
What  years  are  squandered,  wisdom's  debt  un- 
paid! 

Our  wealth  in  days  all  due  to  that  discharge. 
3aste,  haste,  he  lies  in  wait,  he's  at  the  door; 
nsidious  Death !  should  his  strong  hand  arrest, 
So  composition  sets  the  prisoner  free. 
Eternity's  inexorable  chain 
'ast  binds,  and  vengeance  claims  the  full  arrear. 
How  late  I  shuddered  on  the  brink!  how  late 
-.ife  called  for  her  last  refuge  in  despair ! 
That  time  is  mine,  O  Mead!  to  thee  I  owe; 
'ain  would  I  pay  thee  with  eternity, 
Jut  ill  my  genius  answers  my  desire  : 
Vly  sickly  song  is  mortal,  past  thy  cure. 
Accept  the  will : — that  dies  not  with  my  strain. 
For  what  calls  thy  disease,  Lozenzo?  not 
'or  Esculapian,  but  for  moral  aid. 
^hou  think'st  it  folly  to  be  wise  too  soon, 
fouth  is  not  rich  in  time;  it  may  be  poor: 
art  with  it  as  with  money,  sparing ;  pay 


6 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


No  moment,  but  in  purchase  of  its  worth ; 
And  what  its  worth,  ask  death-beds;  they  can  tell. 
Part  with  it  as  with  life,  reluctant ;  big 
With  holy  hope  of  nobler  time  to  come ; 
Time  higher  aimed,  still  nearer  the  great  mark 
Of  men  and  angels,  virtue  more  divine. 

Is  this  our  duty,  wisdom,  glory,  gain  1 
(These  Heaven  benign  in  vital  union  binds) 
And  sport  we  like  the  natives  of  the  bough, 
When  vernal  suns  inspire1?  Amusement  reigns, 
Man's  great  demand :  to  trifle  is  to  live : 
And  is  it  then  a  trifle,  too,  to  die  ? 

Thou  say'st  I  preach,  Lorenzo  1  'tis  confest. 
What  if,  for  once,  I  preach  thee  quite  awake? 
Who  wants  amusement  in  the  flame  of  battle'? 
Is  it  not  treason  to  the  soul  immortal, 
Her  foes  in  arms,  eternity  the  prize  1 
Will  toys  amuse,  when  med'cines  can  not  cure  7 
When  spirits  ebb,  when  life's  enchanting  scenes 
Their  lustre  lose,  and  lessen  in  our  sight, 
As  lands  and  cities  with  their  glittering  spires, 
To  the  poor  shattered  bark,  by  sudden  storm 
Thrown  off  to  sea,  and  soon  to  perish  there; 
W^ill  toys  amuse  1  No ;  thrones  will  then  be  toys, 
And  earth  and  skies  seem  dust  upon  the  scale. 

Redeem  we  time  1 — Its  loss  we  dearly  buy. 
What  pleads  Lorenzo  for  his  high-priz'd  sports  1 
He  pleads  time's  numerous  blanks ;  he  loudly 

pleads 

The  straw-like  trifles  on  life's  common  stream. 
From  whom  those  blanks  and  trifles  but  from  thee? 
No  blank,  no  trifle,  Nature  made,  or  meant. 
Virtue,  or  purposed  virtue,  still  be  thine; 
This  cancels  thy  complaint  at  once ;  this  leaves 
In  act  no  trifle,  and  no  blank  in  time. 
This  greatens,  fills,  immortalizes  all; 
This  the  blest  art  of  turning  all  to  gold; 
This  the  good  heart's  prerogative  to  raise 
A  royal  tribute  from  the  poorest  hours: 
Immense  revenue !  every  moment  pays. 
If  nothing  more  than  purpose  in  thy  power, 
Thy  purpose  firm  is  equal  to  the  deed. 
Who  does  the  best  his  circumstance  allows, 
Does  well,  acts  nobly;  angels  could  no  more. 
Our  outward  act,  indeed,  admits  restraint : 
'Tis  not  in  things  o'er  thought  to  domineer. 
Guard  well  thy  thought :  our  thoughts  are  heard 
in  Heaven ! 

On  all-important  time,  through  every  age, 
Though  much  and  warm  the  wise  have  urged,  the 

man 

Is  yet  unborn  who  duly  weighs  an  hour. 
'  I've  lost,  a  day,' — the  prince  who  nobly  cried, 
Had  been  an  emperor,  without  his  crown. 
Of  Rome  1  say,  rather,  lord  of  human  race: 
He  spoke  as  if  deputed  by  mankind. 
So  should  all  speak:  so  reason  speaks  in  all: 
From  the  soft  whispers  of  that  God  in  man, 
Why  fly  to  folly,  why  to  frenzy  fly, 


For  rescue  from  the  blessings  we  possess? 
Time,  the  supreme ! — Time  is  Eternity ; 
Pregnant  with  all  eternity  can  give; 
Pregnant  with  all  that  makes  archangels  smile. 
Who  murders  Time,  he  crushes  in  the  birth 
A  power  ethereal,  only  not  adored. 

Ah !  how  unjust  to  Nature  and  himself 
Is  thoughtless,  thankless,  inconsistent  man ! 
Like  children  babbling  nonsense  in  their  sports, 
We  censure  Nature  for  a  span  too  short ; 
That  span  too  short  we  tax  as  tedious  too ; 
Torture  invention,  all  expedients  tire, 
To  lash  the  lingering  moments  into  speed, 
And  whirl  us  (happy  riddance !)  from  ourselves. 
Art,  brainless  Art !  our  furious  charioteer, 
(For  Nature's  voice  unstifled  would  recall) 
Drives  headlong  towards  the  precipice  of  death ; 
Death  most  our  dread ;  death  thus  more  dreadful 

made. 

O  what  a  riddle  of  absurdity ! 
Leisure  is  pain;  takes  off  our  chari ot- wheels : 
How  heavily  we  drag  the  load  of  life ! 
Blest  leisure  is  our  curse ;  like  that  of  Cain, 
It  makes  us  wander,  wander  earth  around, 
To  fly  that  tyrant  Thought.     As  Atlas  groaned 
The  world  beneath,  we  groan  beneath  an  hour : 
We  cry  for  mercy  to  the  next  amusement ; 
The  next  amusement  mortgages  our  fields ; 
Slight  inconvenience  !  prisons  hardly  frown, 
From  hateful  Time  if  prisons  set  us  free. 
Yet  when  Death  kindly  tenders  us  relief, 
We  call  him  cruel ;  years  to  moments  shrink, 
Ages  to  years.     The  telescope  is  turned : 
To  man's  false  optics  (from  his  folly  false) 
Time,  in  advance,  behind  him  hides  his  wings, 
And  seems  to  creep,  decrepit  with  his  age. 
Behold  him  when  past  by;  what  then  is  seen 
But  his  broad  pinions  swifter  than  the  winds? 
And  all  mankind,  in  contradiction  strong, 
Rueful,  aghast,  cry  out  on  his  career. 

Leave  to  thy  foes  these  errors  and  these  ills ; 
To  Nature  just,  their  cause  and  cure  explore. 
Not  short  Heaven's  bounty,  boundless  our  expense; 
No  niggard  Nature,  men  are  prodigals. 
We  waste,  not  use  our  time ;  we  breathe,  not  live. 
Time  wasted  is  existence  ;  used,  is  life: 
And  bare  existence  man,  to  live  ordained, 
Wrings  and  oppresses  with  enormous  weight. 
And  why?  since  time  was  given  for  use,  not  waste, 
Enjoined  to  fly,  with  tempest,  tide,  and  stars, 
To  keep  his  speed,  nor  ever  wait  for  man. 
Time's  use  was  doomed  a  pleasure,  waste  a  pain, 
That  man  might  feel  his  error  if  unseen, 
And,  feeling,  fly  to  labour  for  his  cure; 
Not  blundering,  split  on  idleness  for  ease. 
Life's  cares  are  comforts;  such  by  Heaven  de- 
signed ; 

He  that  has  none  must  make  them,  or  be  wretched. 
Cares  are  employments,  and  without  employ 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


The  soul  is  on  a  rack,  the  rack  of  rest, 
To  souls  most  adverse,  action  all  their  joy. 

Here  then  the  riddle,  marked  above,  unfolds; 
Then  time  turns  torment,  when  man  turns  a  fool 
We  rave,  we  wrestle  with  great  Nature's  plan; 
We  thwart  the  Deity;  and 'tis  decreed, 
Who  thwart  His  will  shall  contradict  their  own. 
Hence  our  unnatural  quarrels  with  ourselves; 
Our  thoughts  at  enmity;  our  bosom-broil: 
We  push  Time  from  us,  and  we  wish  him  back: 
Lavish  of  lustrums,  and  yet  fond  of  life: 
Life  we  think  long  and  short ;  death  seek  and  shun  : 
Body  and  soul,  like  peevish  man  and  wife, 
United  jar,  and  yet  are  loth  to  part. 

Oh  the  dark  days  of  vanity !  while  here 
How  tasteless!  and  how  terrible  when  gone! 
Gone?  they  ne'er  go;  when  past,  they  haunt  us 

still: 

The  spirit  walks  of  every  day  deceased, 
And  smiles  an  angel,  or  a  fury  frowns. 
Nor  death  nor  life  delight  us.     If  tune  past 
And  time  possest  both  pain  us,  what  can  please! 
That  wliich  the  Deity  to  please  ordained, 
Time  used.     The  man  who  consecrates  his  hours 
By  vigorous  effort  and  an  honest  aim, 
At  once  he  draws  the  sting  of  life  and  death; 
He  walks  with  Nature,  and  her  paths  are  peace. 
Our  error's  cause  and  cure  are  seen:  see  next 
Time's  nature,  origin,  importance,  speed, 
And  thy  great  gain  from  urging  his  career. 
All  sensual  man,  because  untouch'd,  unseen, 
He  looks  on  time  as  nothing.     Nothing  else 
Is  truly  man's :  'tis  Fortune's — Time's  a  god ! 
Hast  thou  ne'er  heard  of  Time's  omnipotence  1 
For,  or  against,  what  wonders  can  he  do ! 
And  will:  to  stand  blank  neuter  he  disdains. 
Not  on  those  terms  was  Time  (Heaven's  stranger !) 

sent 

On  his  important  embassy  to  man. 
Lorenzo!  no:  on  the  long  destin'd  hour, 
From  everlasting  ages  growing  ripe, 
That  memorable  hour  of  wondrous  birth, 
When  the  Dread  Sire,  on  emanation  bent, 
And  big  with  Nature,  rising  in  his  might, 
Call'd  forth  Creation  (for  then  Time  was  born) 
By  Godhead  streaming  through  a  thousand  worlds; 
Not  on  those  terms,  from  the  great  days  of  Heaven, 
From  old  eternity's  mysterious  orb 
Was  Time  cut  off,  and  cast  beneath  the  skies; 
The  skies,  which  watch  him  in  his  new  abode, 
Measuring  his  motions  by  revolving  spheres, 
That  horologe  machinery  divine. 
Hours,  days,  and  months,  and  years,  his  children 

play, 

Like  numerous  wings,  around  him,  as  he  flies ; 
Or  rather,  as  unequal  plumes,  they  shape 
His  ample  pinions,  swift  as  darted  flame, 
To  gain  his  goal,  to  reach  his  ancient  rest, 
And  join  anew  Eternity,  his  sire; 


In  his  immutability  to  nest, 
When  worlds,  that  count  his  circles  now,unhing'd 
(Fate  the  loud  signal  sounding)  headlong  rush 
To  timeless  night  and  chaos,  whence  they  rose. 

Why  spur  the  speedy?  why  with  levities 
New-wing  thy  short,  short  day's  too  rapid  flight1? 
Know'st  thou,  or  what  thou  dost,  or  what  is  done? 
Man  flies  from  time,  and  time  from  man:  too  soon, 
In  sad  divorce  this  double  flight  must  end ; 
And  then,  where  are  wel  where,  Lorenzo,  then, 
Thy  sports,  thy  pomps'?  I  grant  thee  in  a  state 
Not  unambitious;  in  the  ruffled  shroud, 
Thy  Parian  tomb's  triumphant  arch  beneath. 
Has  Death  his  fopperies'?  then  well  may  Life 
Put  on  her  plume,  and  in  her  rainbow  shine. 

Ye  well-array'd!  ye  lilies  of  our  land! 
Ye  lilies  male !  who  neither  toil  nor  spin, 
(As  sister-lilies  might)  if  not  so  wise 
As  Solomon,  more  sumptuous  to  the  sight ! 
Ye  delicate !  who  nothing  can  support, 
Yourselves  most  insupportable !  for  whom 
The  winter-rose  must  blow,  the  sun  put  on 
A  brighter  beam  in  Leo ;  silky  soft, 
Favonious !  breathe  still  softer,  or  be  chid ; 
And  other  world  send  odours,  sauce,  and  song, 
And  robes,  and  notions,  fram'd  in  foreign  looms! 
O  ye  Lorenzos  of  our  age!  who  deem 
One  moment  unamus'd  a  misery 
Not  made  for  feeble  man!  who  call  aloud 
For  every  bawble  drivell'd  o'er  by  sense; 
For  rattles  and  conceits  of  every  cast; 
For  change  of  follies  and  relays  of  joy 
To  drag  your  patient  through  the  tedious  length 

Of  a  short  winter's  day say,  sages!  say, 

Wit's  oracles!  say  dreamers  of  gay  dreams! 
How  will  you  weather  an  eternal  night, 
Where  such  expedients  fail "? — 

O  treacherous  Conscience !  while  she  seems  to 

sleep 

On  rose  and  myrtle,  lull'd  with  syren  song 
While  she  seems,  nodding  o'er  her  charge,  to  drop 
On  headlong  Appetite  the  slackened  rein, 
And  gives  us  up  to  license  unrecall'd, 
Unmark'd: — see,  from  behind  her  secret  stand, 
The  sly  informer  minutes  every  fault, 
And  her  dread  diary  with  horror  fills. 
Not  the  gross  act  alone  employs  her  pen; 
She  reconnoitres  Fancy's  airy  band. 
A  watchful  foe!  the  formidable  spy 
Listening,  o'erhears  the  whispers  of  our  camp, 
Our  dawning  purposes  of  heart  explores, 
And  steals  our  embryos  of  iniquity. 
As  all-rapacious  usurers  conceal 
Their  doomsday-book  from  all-consuming  heirs, 
Thus,  with  indulgence  most  severe,  she  treats 
Us  spendthrifts  of  inestimable  time, 
Unnoted,  notes  each  moment  misapplied; 
tn  leaves  more  durable  than  leaves  of  brass 
Writes  our  whole  history,  which  Death  shall  read 


8 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


In  every  pale  delinquent's  private  ear, 
And  judgment  publish;  publish  to  more  worlds 
Than  this,  and  endless  age  in  groans  resound. 
Lorenzo!  such  that  sleeper  in  thy  breast; 
Such  is  her  slumber,  and  her  vengeance  such 
For  slighted  counsel;  such  thy  future  peace; 
And  think'st  thou  still  thou  canst  be  wise  too  soon  7 

But  why  on  time  so  lavish  is  my  song  1 
On  this  great  theme  kind  Nature  keeps  a  school 
To  teach  her  sons  herself.     Each  night  we  die ; 
Each  morn  are  born  anew:  each  day  a  life! 
And  shall  we  kill  each  day?  If  trifling  kills, 
Sure  vice  must  butcher.     O  what  heaps  of  slain 
Cry  out  for  vengeance  on  us !  Time  destroy'd 
Is  suicide,  where  more  than  blood  is  spilt. 
Time  flies,  death  urges,  knells  call,  Heaven  invites, 
Hell  threatens:  all  exerts;  in  effort  all, 
More  than  creation  labours!  Labours  more? — 
And  is  there  in  creation  what,  amidst 
This  tumult  universal,  wing'd  despatch, 

And  ardent  energy,  supinely  yawns? 

Man  sleeps,  and  man  alone ;  and  man,  whose  fate, 
Fate  irresistible,  entire,  extreme, 
Endless,  hair-hung,  breeze-shaken,  o'er  the  gulf 
A  moment  trembles ;  drops !  and  man,  for  whom 
All  else  is  an  alarm — man,  the  sole  cause 
Of  this  surrounding  storm !  and  yet  he  sleeps, 
As  the  storm  rocked  to  rest. — Throw  years  away? 
Throw  empires,  and  be  blameless ;  moments  seize, 
Heaven's  on  their  wing !  a  moment  we  may  wish, 
When  worlds  want  wealth  to  buy.  Bid  Day  stand 

still, 

Bid  him  drive  back  his  car,  and  reimport 
The  period  past,  regive  the  given  hour. 
Lorenzo !  more  than  miracles  we  want. 
Lorenzo — O  for  yesterdays  to  come! 

Such  is  the  language  of  the  man  awake, 
His  ardour  such  for  what  oppresses  thee. 
And  is  his  ardour  vain,  Lorenzo?  No; 
That  more  than  miracle  the  gods  indulge. 
To-day  is  yesterday  return'd;  return'd 
Full-powered  to  cancel,  expiate,  raise,  adorn, 
And  reinstate  us  on  the  rock  of  peace. 
Let  it  not  share  its  predecessor's  fate, 
Nor  like  its  elder  sisters,  die  a  fool. 
Shall  it  evaporate  in  fume,  fly  off 
Fuliginous,  and  stain  us  deeper  still? 
Shall  we  be  poorer  for  the  plenty  poured  ? 
More  wretched  for  the  clemencies  of  Heaven? 

Where  shall  I  find  him?  Angels!  tell  me  where: 
You  know  him  :  he  is  near  you;  point  him  out. 
Shall  I  see  glories  beaming  from  his  brow, 
Or  trace  his  footsteps  by  the  rising  flowers? 
Your  golden  wings,  now  hovering  o'er  him,  shed 
Protection;  now  are  waving  in  applause 
To  that  blest  son  of  foresight !  lord  of  fate! 
That  awful  independent  on  to-morrow ! 
Whose  work  is  done ;  who  triumphs  in  the  past ; 
Whose  yesterdays  look  backwards  with  a  smile, 


Nor,  like  the  Parthian,  wound  him  as  they  fly; 

That  common,  but  opprobious  lot !  Past  hours, 

If  not  by  guilt,  yet  wound  us  by  their  flight, 

If  folly  bounds  our  prospect  by  the  grave; 

All  feeling  of  futurity  benumbed; 

All  godlike  passion  for  eternals  quenched ; 

All  relish  of  realities  expired ; 

Renounced  all  correspondence  with  the  skies; 

Our  freedom  chained;  quite  wingless  our  desire; 

In  sense  dark-prisoned  all  that  ought  to  soar; 

Prone  to  the  centre;  crawling  in  the  dust; 

Dismounted  every  great  and  glorious  aim; 

Imbruted  every  faculty  divine; 

Heart-buried  in  the  rubbish  of  the  world, 

The  world,  that  gulf  of  souls,  immortal  souls, 

Souls  elevate,  angelic,  winged  with  fire 

To  reach  the  distant  skies,  and  triumph  there 

On  thrones,  which  shall  not  mourn  their  masters 

changed; 

Though  we  from  earth,  ethereal  they  that  fell. 
Such  veneration  due,  O  man,  to  man! 

Who  venerate  themselves  the  world  despise, 
For  what,  gay  friend!  is  the  escutcheoned  world, 
Which  hangs  out  death  in  one  eternal  night? 
A  night  that  glooms  us  in  the  noon-tide  ray, 
And  wraps  our  thought  at  banquet  in  the  shroud. 
Life's  little  stage  is  a  small  eminence, 
Inch  high  the  grave  above,  that  home  of  man, 
Where  dwells  the  multitude:  we  gaze  around; 
We  read  their  monuments;  we  sigh;  and  while 
We  sigh  we  sink  ;  and  are  what  we  deplored  ; 
Lamenting  or  lamented  all  our  lot ! 

Is  Death  at  distance  ?  No ;  he  has  been  on  thee, 
And  given  sure  earnest  of  his  final  blow. 
Those  hours  that  lately  smiled,  where  are  they 

now? 
Pallid  to  thought,   and  ghastly!    drowned,    all 

drowned 

In  that  great  deep  which  nothing  disembogues! 
And,  dying,  they  bequeathed  thee  small  renown. 
The  rest  are  on  the  wing:  how  fleet  their  flight! 
Already  has  the  fatal  train  took  fire; 
A  moment,  and  the  world's  blown  up  to  thee; 
The  sun  is  darkness,  and  the  stars  are  dust. 

'Tis  greatly  wise  to  talk  with  our  past  hours, 
And  ask  them  what  report  they  bore  to  Heaven, 
And  how  they  might  have  borne  more  welcome 

news. 

Their  answers  form  what  men  Experience  call ; 
If  Wisdom's  friend  her  best,  if  not,  worst  foe. 
O  reconcile  them!  kind  Experience  cries, 
"  There's   nothing   here    but   what  as    nothing 

weighs ; 

The  more  our  joy,  the  more  we  know  it  vain, 
And  by  success  are  tutored  to  despair." 
Nor  is  it  only  thus,  but  must  be  so. 
Who  knows  not  this,  though  gray,  is  still  a  child. 
Loose  then  from  earth  the  grasp  of  fond  desire; 
Weigh  anchor,  and  some  happier  clime  explore. 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


Art  thou  so  moored  thou  canst  not  disengage, 
Nor  give  thy  thoughts  a  ply  to  future  scenes  1 
Since  by  life's  passing  breath,  blown  up  from  earth 
Light  as  the  summer's  dust,  we  take  in  air 
A  moment's  giddy  flight,  and  fall  again, 
Join  the  dull  mass,  increase  the  trodden  soil, 
And  sleep,  till  Earth  herself  shall  be  no  more; 
Since  then  (as  emmets,  their  small  world  o'er 

thrown) 

We,  sore-amazed,  from  out  earth's  ruins  crawl, 
And  rise  to  fate  extreme  of  foul  or  fair, 
As  man's  own  choice,  (controller  of  the  skies!) 
As  man's  despotic  will,  perhaps  one  hour, 
(O  how  omnipotent  is  time!)  decrees; 
Should  not  each  warning  give  a  strong  alarm? 
Warning,  far  less  than  that  of  bosom  torn 
From  bosom,  bleeding  o'er  the  sacred  dead ! 
Should  not  each  dial  strike  us  as  we  pass, 
Portentous,  as  the  written  wall  which  struck, 
O'er  midnight  bowls,  the  proud  Assyrian  pale, 
Ere- while  high-flushed  with  insolence  and  wine? 
Like  that,  the  dial  speaks,  and  points  to  thee, 
Lorenzo !  loth  to  break  thy  banquet  up  :— 
"  O  Man!  thy  kingdom  is  departing  from  thee, 
And,  while  it  lasts,  is  emptier  than  my  shade." 
Its  silent  language  such;  nor  need'st  thou  call 
Thy  Magi  to  decipher  what  it  means. 
Know,  like  the  Median,  Fate  is  in  thy  walls: 
Dost  ask  how1?  whence!  Belshazzar-like,  amazed: 
Man's  make  incloses  the  sure  seeds  of  death; 
Life  feeds  the  murderer:  ingrate!  he  thrives 
On  her  own  meal,  and  then  his  nurse  devours. 

But  here,  Lorenzo,  the  delusion  lies; 
That  solar  shadow,  as  it  measures  life, 
It  life  resembles  too.     Life  speeds  away 
From  point  to  point,  though  seeming  to  stand  still. 
The  cunning  fugitive  is  swift  by  stealth : 
Too  subtle  is  the  movement  to  be  seen ; 
Yet  soon  man's  hour  is  up,  and  we  are  gone. 
Warnings  point  out  our  danger;  gnomons,  time: 
As  these  are  useless  when  the  sun  is  set, 
So  those,  but  when  more  glorious  Reason  shines. 
Reason  should  judge  in  all ;  in  Reason's  eye 
That  sedentary  shadow  travels  hard : 
But  such  our  grav  itation  to  the  wrong, 
So  prone  our  hearts  to  whisper  what  we  wish, 
'Tis  later  with  the  wise  than  he's  aware. 
A  Wilmington  goes  slower  than  the  sun ; 
And  all  mankind  mistake  their  time  of  day; 
Even  age  itself.     Fresh  hopes  are  hourly  sown 
In  furrowed  brows.     So  gentle  life's  descent, 
We  shut  our  eyes,  and  think  it  is  a  plain. 
We  take  fair  days  in  winter  for  the  spring, 
And  turn  our  blessings  into  bane.     Since  oft 
Man  must  compute  that  age  he  can  not  feel, 
He  scarce  believes  he's  older  for  his  years. 
Thus  at  life's  latest  eve  we  keep  in  store 
One  disappointment,  sure  to  crown  the  rest, 
The  disappointment  of  a  promised  hour. 


On  this,  or  similar,  Philander !  thou 
Whose  mind  was  moral  as  the  preacher's  tongue, 
And  strong  to  wield  all  science  worth  the  name, 
How  often  we  talked  down  the  summer's  sun, 
And  cooled  our  passions  by  the  breezy  stream : 
How  often  thawed  and  shortened  winter's  eve 
By  conflict  kind,  that  struck  out  latent  truth, 
Best  found  so  sought,  to  the  recluse  more  coy  ! 
Thoughts  disentangle  passing  o'er  the  lip; 
Clear  runs  the  thread ;  if  not,  tis  thrown  away, 
Or  kept  to  tie  up  nonsense  for  a  song ; 
Song,  fashionably  fruitless,  such  as  stains 
The  fancy,  and  unhallowed  passion  fires, 
Chiming  her  saints  to  Cytherea's  fane. 

Know'st  thou,  Lorenzo !  what  a  friend  contains? 
As  bees  mixed  nectar  draw  from  fragrant  flowers, 
So  men  from  Friendship,  wisdom  and  delight ; 
Twins,  tied  by  Nature ;  if  they  part  they  die. 
Hast  thou  no  friend  to  set  thy  mind  abroach  ? 
Good  sense  will   stagnate.     Thoughts   shut   up 

want  air, 

And  spoil,  like  bales  unopened  to  the  sun. 
Had  thought  been  all.  sweet  speech  had  been  de- 
nied; 

Speech!  thought's  canal;   speech!  thought's  cri- 
terion too : 

Thought  in  mine  may  come  forth  gold  or  dross : 
When  coined  in  word  we  know  its  real  worth 
If  sterling,  store  it  for  thy  future  use; 
'Twill  buy  thee  benefit,  perhaps  renown 
Thought,  too,  delivered,  is  the  more  possessed  ; 
Teaching,  we  learn :  and  giving,  we  retain 
The  births  of  intellect ;  when  dumb,  forgot. 
Speech  ventilates  our  intellectual  fire  ; 
Speech  burnishes  our  mental  magazine ; 
Brightens  for  ornament,  and  whets  for  use. 
What  numbers,  sheathed  in  erudition,  lie 
Plunged  to  the  hilts  in  venerable  tomes, 
And  rusted  in,  who  might  have  borne  an  edge, 
And  played  a  sprightly  beam,  if  born  to  speech, 
[f  bom  blest  heirs  of  half  their  mother's  tongue ! 
Tis  thought's  exchange,  which,  like  the  alternate 

push 

Of  waves  conflicting,  breaks  the  learned  scum, 
And  defecates  the  student's  standing  pool. 
In  contemplation  is  his  proud  resource  1 
Tis  poor  as  proud,  by  converse  unsustained. 
Rude  thought  runs  wild  in  contemplation's  field; 

onverse,  the  menage,  breaks  it  to  the  bit 
Of  due  restraint ;  and  Emulation's  spur 
Gives  graceful  energy,  by  rivals  awed. 
Tis  converse  qualifies  for  solitude, 
As  exercise  for  salutary  rest : 
3y  that  untutored,  Contemplation  raves ; 
And  Nature's  fool  by  Wisdom's  is  outdone. 

Wisdom,  though  richer  than  Peruvian  mines, 
And  sweeter  than  the  sweet  ambrosial  hive, 
What  is  she  but  the  means  of  happiness  1 
That  unobtained,  than  Folly  more  a  fool ; 


10 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


A  melancholy  fool,  without  her  bells. 

Friendship,  the  means  of  wisdom,  richly  gives 

The  precious  end,  which  makes  our  wisdom  wise. 

Mature,  in  zeal  for  human  amity, 

Denies  or  damps  an  undivided  joy. 

Joy  is  an  import ;  joy  is  an  exchange ; 

Joy  flies  monopolists ;  it  calls  for  two: 

Rich  fruit !  heaven-planted !  never  plucked  by  one. 

Needful  auxiliars  are  our  friends,  to  give 

To  social  man  true  relish  of  himself. 

Full  on  ourselves  descending  in  a  line, 

Pleasure's  bright  beam  is  feeble  in  delight: 

Delight  intense  is  taken  by  rebound ; 

Reverberated  pleasures  fire  the  breast. 
Celestial  happiness !  whene'er  she  stoops 

To  visit  earth,  one  shrine  the  goddess  find, 

And  one  alone,  to  make  her  sweet  amends 

For  absent  Heaven— the  bosom  of  a  friend ; 

Where  heart  meets  heart,  reciprocally  soft, 

Each  other's  pillow  to  repose  divine. 

Beware  the  counterfeit ;  in  passion's  flame 

Hearts  melt,  but  melt  like  ice,  soon  harder  froze. 

True  iove  strikes  root  in  reason,  passion's  foe : 

Virtue  alone  intenders  us  for  life; 

I  wrong  her  much — intenders  us  for  ever. 

Of  friendship's  fairest  fruits,  the  fruit  most  fair 

Is  virtue  kindling  at  a  rival  fire. 

And  emulously  rapid  in  her  race. 

O  the  soft  enmity !  endearing  strife ! 

This  carries  Friendship  to  her  noon-tide  point, 

And  gives  the  rivet  of  eternity. 

From  Friendship,  which   outlives  my  former 

themes, 

Glorious  survivor  of  old  Time  and  Death ! 
From  Friendship,  thus,  that  flower  of  heavenly  seed 
The  wise  extract  earth's  most  hyblean  bliss, 
Superior  wisdom,  crown'd  with  smiling  joy. 

But  for  whom  blossoms  this  Elysian  -flower  1 
Abroad  they  find  who  cherish  it  at  home. 
Lorenzo !  pardon  what  my  love  extorts, 
An  honest  love,  and  not  afraid  to  frown. 
Though  choice  of  follies  fasten  on  the  great, 
None  clings  more  obstinate  than  fancy  fond, 
That  sacred  friendship  is  their  easy  prey, 
Caught  by  the  wafture  of  a  golden  lure, 
Or  fascination  of  a  high-born  smile. 
Their  smiles  the  great,  and  the  coquet,  throw  out 
For  others'  hearts,  tenacious  of  their  own ; 
And  we  no  less  of  ours,  when  such  the  bait. 
Ye  Fortune's  cofferers !  ye  powers  of  Wealth  ! 
Can  gold  gain  friendship  ?  impudence  of  hope ! 
As  well  mere  man  an  angel  might  beget. 
Love,  and  love  only,  is  the  loan  for  love. 
Lorenzo!  pride  repress,  nor  hope  to  find 
A  friend,  but  what  has  found  a  friend  in  thee : 
All  like  the  purchase,  few  the  price  will  pay ; 
And  this  makes  friends  such  miracles  below. 
What  if  (since  daring  on  so  nice  a  theme) 


show  thee  friendship  as  delicate  as  dear, 
)f  tender  violations  apt  to  die  ? 
leserve  will  wound  it,  and  distrust  destroy. 
Deliberate  on  all  things  with  thy  friend : 
3ut  since  friends  grow  not  thick  on  every  bough. 
STor  every  friend  unrotten  at  the  core, 
?irst  on  thy  friend  deliberate  with  thyself; 
Pause,  ponder,  sift;  not  eager  in  the  choice, 
S^or  jealous  of  the  chosen :  fixing,  fix ; 
Fudge  before  friendship,  then  confide  till  death. 
Well  for  thy  friend,  but  nobler  far  for  thee. 
How  gallant  danger  for  earth's  highest  prize ! 
A  friend  is  worth  all  hazards  we  can  run. 

Poor  is  the  friendless  master  of  a  world : 
A  world  in  purchase  for  a  friend  is  gain.' 

So  sung  he  (angels  hear  that  angel  sing ! 
Angels  from  friendship  gather  half  their  joy) 
So  sung  Philander,  as  his  friend  went  round 
[n  the  rich  ichor  in  the  generous  blood 
Of  Bacchus,  purple  god  of  joyous  wit, 
A  brow  solute,  and  ever-laughing  eye. 
He  drank  long  health  and  virtue  to  his  friend ; 
His  friend !  who  warmed  him  more,  who  more  in- 
spired. 

Friendship's  the  wine  of  life ;  but  friendship  new 
^Not  such  was  his)  is  neither  strong  nor  pure. 
O !  for  the  bright  complexion,  cordial  warmth, 
And  elevating  spirit  of  a  friend, 
For  twenty  summers  ripening  by  my  side ; 
All  feculence  of  falsehood  long  thrown  down, 
All  social  virtues  rising  in  his  soul, 
As  crystal  clear,  and  smiling  as  they  rise  ! 
Here  nectar  flows  ;  it  sparkles  in  our  sight : 
Rich  to  the  taste,  and  genuine  from  the  heart. 
High-flavoured  bliss  for  gods !  on  earth  how  rare ! 
On  earth  how  lost ! — Philander  is  no  more. 

Thinkest  thou  the  theme  intoxicates  my  song  1 
Am  I  too  warm  1 — Too  warm  I  can  not  be. 
I  loved  him  much,  but  now  I  love  him  more. 
Like  birds,  whose  beauties  languish,  half-concealed, 
Till,  mounted  on  the  wing,  their  glossy  plumes 
Expanded,  shine  with  azure,  green,  and  gold ; 
How  blessings  brighten  as  they  take  their  flight ! 
His  flight  Philander  took,  his  upward  flight, 
If  ever  soul  ascended.     Had  he  dropped, 
(That  eagle  genius !)  O  had  he  let  fall 
One  feather  as  he  flew,  I  then  had  wrote 
What  friends  might  flatter,  prudent  foes  forbear, 
Rivals  scarce  damn,  and  Zoilus  reprieve. 
Yet  what  I  can  I  must :  it  were  profane 
To  quench  a  glory  lighted  at  the  skies, 
And  cast  in  shadows  his  illustrious  close. 
Strange !  the  theme  most  affecting,  most  sublime, 
Momentous  most  to  man,  should  sleep  unsung ! 
And  yet  it  sleeps,  by  genius  unawaked, 
Painim  or  Christian,  to  the  blush  of  Wit. 
Man's  highest  triumph,  man's  profoundest  fall, 
The  death-bed  of  the  just !  is  yet  undrawn 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


11 


By  mortal  hand ;  it  merits  a  divine ; 
Angels  should  paint  it.  angels  ever  there, 
There  on  a  post  of  honour  and  of  joy. 

Dare  I  presume,  then  ]  but  Philander  bids, 
And  glory  tempts,  and  inclination  calls. 
Yet  am  I  struck,  as  struck  the  soul  beneath 
Aerial  groves  impenetrable  gloom, 
Or  in  some  mighty  ruin's  solemn  shade, 
Or  gazing,  by  pale  lamps,  on  high-bom  dust 
In  vaults,  thin  courts  of  poor  unflattered  kings, 
Or  at  the  midnight  altar's  hallowed  flame. 
It  is  religion  to  proceed :  I  pause — 
And  enter,  awed,  the  temple  of  my  theme. 
Is  it  his  death-bed  ]  No ;  it  is  his  shrine : 
Behold  him  there  just  rising  to  a  god. 

The  chamber  where  the  good  man  meets  his  fate 
Is  privileged  beyond  the  common  walk 
Of  virtuous  life,  quite  in  the  verge  of  Heaven. 
Fly,  ye  profane !  if  not,  draw  near  with  awe, 
Receive  the  blessing,  and  adore  the  chance 
That  threw  in  tliis  Bethesda  your  disease : 
If  unrestored  by  this,  despair  your  cure ; 
For  here  resistless  Demonstration  dwells. 
A  death-bed's  a  detector  of  the  heart ! 
Here  tired  Dissimulation  drops  her  mask 
Through  Life's  grimace,  that  mistress  of  the  scene ! 
Here  real  and  apparent  are  the  same, 
You  see  the  man,  you  see  his  hold  on  Heaven, 
If  sound  his  virtue,  as  Philander's  sound. 
Heaven  waits  not  the  last  moment ;  owns  her  friends 
On  this  side  death,  and  points  them  out  to  men  ; 
A  lecture  silent,  but  of  sovereign  power ! 
To  Vice  confusion,  and  to  Virtue  peace. 

Whatever  farce  the  boastful  hero  plays, 
Virtue  alone  has  majesty  in  death ; 
And  greater  still,  the  more  the  tyrant  frowns. 
Philander !  he  severely  frowned  on  thee. 
'  No  warning  given !  unceremonious  fate ! 
A  sudden  rush  from  life's  meridian  joys ! 
A  wrench  from  all  we  love !  from  all  we  are ! 
A  restless  bed  of  pain  !  a  plunge  opaque 
Beyond  conjecture !  feeble  Nature's  dread ! 
Strong  Reason's  shudder,  at  the  dark  unknown ! 
A  sun  extinguish'd !  a  just-opening  grave ! 
And,  oil!  the  last,  last;  what]  (can  words  express, 
Thought  reach  it?)  the  last — silence  of  a  friend!' 
Where  are  those  horrors,  that  amazement,  where 
This  hideous  group  of  ills,  which  singly  shock, 
Demand  from  man. — I  thought  him  man,  till  now. 

Through  Nature's  wreck,  through  vanquish'd 

agonies, 
(Like  the  stars  struggling  through  this  midnight 

gloom) 

What  gleams  of  joy  1  what  more  than  human  peace! 
Where  the  frail  mortal,  the  poor  abject  worm  1 
No,  not  in  death  the  mortal  to  be  found. 
His  conduct  is  a  legacy  for  all, 
Richer  than  Mammon's  for  his  single  heir. 
His  comforters  he  comforts;  great  in  ruin 


With  unreluctant  grandeur  gives,  not  yields 
His  soul  sublime,  and  closes  with  his  fate. 

How  our  hearts  burnt  within  us  at  the  scene; 
Whence  this  brave  bound  o'er  limits  fix'd  to  man? 
His  God  sustains  him  in  his  final  hour ! 
His  final  hour  brings  glory  to  his  God ! 
Man's  glory  Heaven  vouchsafes  to  call  her  own. 
We  gaze,  we  weep;  mixed  tears  of  grief  and  joy! 
Amazement  strikes:  devotion  bursts  to  flame: 
Christians  adore !  and  infidels  believe. 

As  some  tall  tower,  or  lofty  mountain's  brow, 
Detains  the  sun,  illustrious,  from  its  height, 
While  rising  vapours,  and  descending  shades, 
With  damps  and  darkness,  drown  the  spacious 

vale; 

Undampt  by  doubt,  undarken'd  by  despair, 
Philander  thus  august ly  rears  his  head, 
At  that  black  hour  which  general  horror  sheds 
On  the  low  level  of  the  inglorious  throng: 
Sweet  peace,  and  heavenly  hope,  and  humble  joy, 
Divinely  beam  on  his  exalted  soul ; 
Destruction  gild,  and  crown  him  for  the  skies, 
With  incommunicable  lustre  bright 


NIGHT  III. 

NARCISSA. 

To  Her  Grace  the  Duchess  of  Portland 
Ignotcenda  quidem,  sdrent  si  ignoscere  manes. — Virg. 

FROM  dreams,  where  thought  in  Fancy's  maze 
runs  mad, 

To  reason,  that  heaven-lighted  lamp  in  man, 

Once  more  1  wake ;  and  at  the  destined  hour, 

Punctual  as  lovers  to  the  moment  sworn, 

I  keep  my  assignation  with  my  wo. 

O !  lost  to  virtue,  lost  to  manly  thought, 

Lost  to  the  noble  sallies  of  the  soul; 

Who  think  it  solitude  to  be  alone. 

Communion  sweet!  communion  large  and  high ! 

Our  reason,  guardian-angel,  and  our  God ! 

Then  nearest  these,  when  others  most  remote ; 

And  all,  ere  long,  shall  be  remote  but  these; 

How  dreadful,  then,  to  meet  them  all  alone, 

A  stranger !  unacknowledged,  unapprov'd ! 

Now  woo  them,  wed  them,  bind  them  to  thy  breast; 
j  To  win  thy  wish  creation  has  no  more : 

Or  if  we  wish  a  fourth,  it  is  a  friend. 

But  friends  how  mortal !  dangerous  the  desire. 
Take  Phoebus  to  yourselves,  ye  basking  bards ! 

Inebriate  at  fair  fortune's  fountain  head, 

And  reeling  through  the  wilderness  of  joy, 

Where  Sense  runs  savage,  broke  from  Reason's 
chain, 

And  sings  false  peace,  till  smother'd  by  the  pall. 

My  fortune  is  unlike,  unlike  my  song, 
!  Unlike  the  deity  my  song  invokes. 


12 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


I  to  day's  soft-ey'd  sister  pay  my  court, 
(Endymion's  rival)  and  her  aid  implore, 
Now  first  implor'd  in  succour  to  the  Muse. 

Thou  who  didst  lately  borrow  Cynthia's*  form 
And  modestly  forego  thine  own:  O  thou 
Who  didst,  thyself  at  midnight  hours  inspire ! 
Say,  why  not  Cynthia,  patroness  of  song  1 
As  thou  her  crescent,  she  thy  character 
Assumes ;  still  more  a  goddess  by  the  change. 

Are  there  demurring  wits  who  dare  dispute 
This  revolution  in  the  world  inspired  7 
Ye  train  Pierian !  to  the  lunar  sphere, 
In  silent  hour,  address  your  ardent  call 
For  aid  immortal,  less  her  brother's  right. 
She  with  the  spheres  harmonious,  nightly  leads 
The  mazy  dance,  and  hears  their  matchless  strain 
A  strain  for  gods,  denied  to  mortal  ear. 
Transmit  it  heard,  thou  silver  queen  of  Heaven! 
What  title  or  what  name  endears  thee  most  1 
Cynthia!  Cyllene!  Phoebe — or  dost  hear 
With  higher  gust,  fair  Portland  of  the  skies'? 
Is  that  the  soft  enchantment  calls  thee  down, 
More  powerful  than  of  old  Circean  charm'? 
Come,  but  from  heavenly  banquets  with  thee  bring 
The  soul  of  song,-  and  whisper  in  my  ear 
The  theft  divine;  or  in  propitious  dreams 
(For  dreams  are  thine)  transfuse  it  through  the 

breast 

Of  thy  first  votary,  but  not  thy  last, 
If  like  thy  namesake,  thou  art  ever  kind. 

And  kind  thou  wilt  be,  kind  on  such  a  theme; 
A  theme  so  like  thee,  a  quite  lunar  theme, 
Soft,  modest,  melancholy,  female,  fair! 
A  theme  that  rose  all  pale,  and  told  my  soul 
'Twas  night;  on  her  fond  hopes  perpetual  night ; 
A  night  which  struck  a  damp,  a  deadlier  damp 
Than  that  which  smote  me  from  Philander's  tomb ! 
Narcissa  follows  ere  his  tomb  is  closed. 
Woes  cluster;  rare  are  solitary  woes; 
They  love  a  train ;  they  tread  each  other's  heel ; 
Her  death  invades  his  mournful  right,  and  claims 
The  grief  that  started  from  my  lids  for  him; 
Seizes  the  faithless,  alienated  tear, 
Or  shares  it  ere  it  falls.     So  frequent  Death, 
Sorrow  he  more  than  causes,  he  confounds; 
For  human  sighs  his  rival  strokes  contend, 
And  make  distress  distraction.     Oh,  Philander! 
What  was  thy  fate?  a  double  fate  to  me? 
Portent  and  plain !  a  menace  and  a  blow ! 
Like  the  black  raven  hovering  o'er  my  peace, 
Not  less  a  bird  of  omen  than  of  prey. 
It  called  Narcissa  long  before  her  hour ; 
It  called  her  tender  soul  by  break  of  bliss, 
From  the  first  blossom,  from  the  buds  of  joy; 
Those  few  our  noxious  fate  unblasted  leaves, 
In  this  inclement  clime  of  human  life. 

Sweet  harmonist!  and  beautiful  as  sweet! 


*  At  the  Duke  of  Norfolk's  masquerade. 


And  young  as  beautiful !  and  soft  as  young  • 
And  gay  as  soft !  and  innocent  as  gay ! 
And  happy  (if  aught  happy  here)  as  good! 
For  Fortune,  fond,  had  built  her  nest  on  high. 
Like  birds  quite  exquisite  of  note  and  plume, 
Transfixed  by  Fate  (who  loves  a  lofty  mark) 
How  from  the  summit  of  the  grove  she  fell, 
And  left  it  unharmonious !  all  its  charm 
Extinguish'd  in  the  wonders  of  her  song ! 
Her  song  still  vibrates  in  my  ravished  ear. 
Still  melting  there,  and  with  voluptuous  pain 
(O  to  forget  her!)  thrilling  through  my  heart. 

Song,  beauty,  youth,  love,  virtue,  joy;  this  group 
Of  bright  ideas,  flowers  of  Paradise, 
As  yet  unforfeit!  in  one  blaze  we  bind, 
Kneel,  and  present  it  to  the  skies,  as  all 
We  guess  of  Heaven!  and  these  were  all  her  own ; 
And  she  was  mine;  and  I  was — was — most  blest — 
Gay  title  of  the  deepest  misery ! 
As  bodies  grow  more  ponderous  robbed  of  life, 
Good  lost,  weighs  more  in  grief,  than  gained  in 

joy- 

Like  blossomed  trees  o'ertum'd  by  vernal  storm, 
Lovely  in  death  the  beauteous  ruin  lay; 
And  if  in  death  still  lovely,  lovelier  there; 
Far  lovelier;  pity  swells  the  tide  of  love. 
And  will  not  the  severe  excuse  a  sign? 
Scorn  the  proud  man  that  is  ashamed  to  weep. 
Our  tears  indulged  indeed  deserve  our  shame. 
Ye  that  e'er  lost  an  angel,  pity  me! 

Soon  as  the  lustre  languished  in  her  eye, 
Dawning  a  dimmer  day  on  human  sight, 
And  on  her  cheek,  the  residence  of  Spring, 
Pale  Omen  sat,  and  scattered  fears  around 
On  all  that  saw,  (and  who  would  cease  to  gaze 
That  once  had  seen?)  with  haste,  parental  haste, 
I  flew,  I  snatched  her  from  the  rigid  North, 
Her  native  bed,  on  which  bleak  Boreas  blew, 
And  bore  her  nearer  to  the  sun ;  the  sun 
(As  if  the  sun  could  envy)  checked  his  beam, 
Denied  his  wonted  succour;  nor  with  more 
Regret  beheld  her  drooping  than  the  bells 
Of  lilies ;  fairest  lilies  not  so  fair. 

Glueen  lilies !  and  ye  painted  populace 
Who  dwell  in  fields,  and  lead  ambrosial  lives! 
In  morn  and  evening  dew  your  beauties  bathe, 
And  drink  the  sun,  which  gives  your  cheeks  to 

glow, 

And  outblush  (mine  excepted)  every  fair; 
You  gladlier  grew,  ambitious  of  her  hand, 
Which  often  cropt  your  odours,  incense  meet 
To  thought  so  pure !   Ye  lovely  fugitives ! 

oe'val  race  with  man!  for  man  you  smile; 
Why  not  smile  at  him  too?  You  share,  indeed, 
His  sudden  pass;  but  not  his  constant  pain. 

So  man  is  made,  nought  ministers  delight 
But  what  his  glowing  passions  can  engage ; 
And  glowing  passions,  bent  on  aught  below, 
Must,  soon  or  late,  with  anguish  turn  the  scale ; 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


13 


And  anguish  after  rapture,  how  severe! 
Rapture  ?  bold  man !  who  tempts  the  wrath  divine, 
By  plucking  fruit  denied  to  mortal  taste, 
While  here  presuming  on  the  rights  of  Heaven. 
For  transport  dost  thou  call  on  every  hour, 
Lorenzo?  at  thy  friend's  expense  be  wise: 
Lean  not  on  earth;  'twill  pierce  thee  to  the  heart; 
A  broken  reed  at  best;  but  oft  a  spear; 
On  its  sharp  point  Peace  bleeds,  and  Hope  ex- 
pires. 
Turn,    hopeless    thought!    turn  from    her. — 

Thought  repelled, 

Resenting  rallies,  and  wakes  every  wo. 
Snatched  ere  thy  prime!  and  in  thy  bridal  hour! 
And  when  kind  Fortune,  with  thy  lover,  smiled ! 
And  when  high-flavoured  thy  fresh -opening  joys ' 
And  when  blind  man  pronounced  thy  bliss  com- 
plete! 

And  on  a  foreign  shore  where  strangers  wept! 
Strangers  to  thee,  and,  more  surprising  still, 
Strangers  to  kindness,  wept.    Their  eyes  let  fall 
Inhuman  tears ;  strange  tears  !  that  trickled  down 
From  marble  hearts !  obdurate  tenderness ! 
A  tenderness  that  called  them  more  severe, 
In  spite  of  Nature's  soft  persuasion  steeled : 
While  Nature  melted,  Superstition  raved  ; 
That  mourned  the  dead,  and  this  denied  a  grave. 
Their  sighs  incensed  ;  sighs  foreign  to  the  will! 
Their  will  the  tiger-sucked  outraged  the  storm : 
For,  oh !  the  cursed  ungodliness  of  Zeal ! 
While  sinful  flesh  relented,  spirit  nursed 
In  blind  Infallibility's  embrace, 
The  sainted  spirit  petrified  the  breast : 
Denied  the  charity  of  dust  to  spread 
O'er  dust !  a  charity  their  dogs  enjoy. 
What  could  I  do  7  what  succour!  what  resource? 
With  pious  sacrilege  a  grave  I  stole ; 
With  impious  piety  that  grave  I  wronged ; 
Short  in  my  duty,  coward  in  my  grief! 
More  like  her  murderer  than  friend,  I  crept 
With  soft-suspended  step,  and,  muffled  deep 
In  midnight  darkness,  whispered  my  last  sigh. 
I  whispered  what  should  echo  through  their  realms, 
Nor  writ  her  name,  whose  tomb  should  pierce  the 

Presumptuous  fear  !  how  durst  I  dread  her  foes, 
While  Naure's  loudest  dictates  I  obeyed  1 
Pardon  necessity,  blest  shade !  of  grief 
And  indignation  rival  bursts  I  poured ; 
Half-execration  mingled  with  my  prayer; 
Kindled  at  man,  while  I  his  God  adored: 
Sore  grudged  the  savage  land  her  sacred  dust ; 
Stamped  the  curst  soil ;  and  with  humanity 
(Denied  Narcissa)  wished  them  all  a  grave. 

Glows  my  resentment  into  guilt  1  what  guilt 
Can  equal  violations  of  the  dead? 
The  dead  how  sacred  !  sarred  is  the  dust 
Of  this  heaven-laboured  form,  erect,  divine! 
This  heaven  assumed,  majestic,  robe  of  earth 


He  deigned  to  wear,  who  hung  the  vast  expanse 
With  azure  bright,  and  clothed  the  sun  in  gold. 
When  every  passion  sleeps  that  can  offend; 
When  strikes  us  every  motive  that  can  melt ; 
When  man  can  wreak  his  rancour  uncontrolled, 
That  strongest  curb  on  insult  and  ill-will ; 
Then!  spleen  to  dust?  the  dust  of  innocence  1 
An  angel's  dust! — This  Lucifer  transcends; 
When  he  contended  for  the  patriarch's  bones, 
'Twas  not  the  strife  of  malice,  but  of  pride ; 
The  strife  of  pontiff  pride,  not  pontiff  gall. 

Far  less  than  this  i&  shocking  in  a  race 
Most  wretched,  but  from  streams  of  mutual  love, 
And  uncreated,  but  for  love  divine; 
And  but  for  love  divine  this  moment  lost, 
By  Fate  resorbed,  and  sunk  in  endless  night. 
Man  hard  of  heart  to  man !  of  horrid  things 
Most  horrid !  mid  stupendous  highly  strange ! 
Yet  oft  his  courtesies  are  smoother  wrongs; 
Pride  brandishes  the  favours  he  confers, 
And  contumelious  his  humanity : 
What  then  his  vengeance?  Hear  it  not,  ye  Stare! 
And  thou,  pale  Moon !  turn  paler  at  the  sound, 
Man  is  to  man  the  sorest,  surest  ill. 
A  previous  blast  foretells  the  rising  storm; 
O'erwhelming  turrets  threaten,  ere  they  fall ; 
Volcanos  bellow,  ere  they  disembogue ; 
Earth  trembles,  ere  her  yawning  jaws  devour; 
And  smoke  betrays  the  wide-consuming  fire : 
Ruin  from  man  is  most  concealed  when  near, 
And  sends  the  dreadful  tidings  in  the  blow. 
Is  this  the  flight  of  Fancy  ?  would  it  were ! 
Heaven's  Sovereign  saves  all  beings,  but  Himself, 
That  hideous  sight,  a  naked  human  heart. 

Fired  is  the  Muse?  and  let  the  Muse  be  fired: 
Who  not  inflamed,  when  what  he  speaks  he  feels, 
And  in  the  nerve  most  tender,  in  his  friends; 
Shame  to  mankind !  Philander  had  his  foes; 
He  felt  the  truths  I  sing,  and  I  in  him: 
But  he  nor  I  feel  more.     Past  ills,  Narcissa! 
Are  sunk  in  thee,  thou  recent  wound  of  heart, 
Which  bleeds  with  other  cares,  with  other  pangs: 
Pangs  numerous  as  the  numerous  ills  that  swarmed 
O'er  thy  distinguished  fate,  and  clustering  there, 
Thick  as  the  locust  on  the  land  of  Nile, 
Made  death  more  deadly,  and  more  dark  the  grave. 
Reflect  (if  not  forgot  my  touching  tale) 
How  was  each  circumstance  with  aspics  armed? 
An  aspic  each,  and  all  an  hydra-wo. 
What  strong  Herculean  virtue  could  suffice  ? — 
Or  is  it  virtue  to  be  conquered  here? 
This  hoary  cheek  a  train  of  tears  bedews, 
And  each  tear  mourns  its  own  distinct  distress, 
And  each  distress,  distinctly  mourn'd,  demands 
Of  grief  still  more,  as  heightened  by  the  whole. 
A  grief  like  this  proprietors  excludes  : 
Not  friends  alone  such  obsequies  deplore; 
They  make  mankind  the  mourner;  carry  sighs 
Far  as  the  fatal  Fame  can  wing  her  way,' 


14 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


And  turn  the  gayest  thought  of  gayest  age 
Down  their  right  channel,  through  the  vale  of 
death. 

The  vale  of  death?  that  hush'd  Cimmerian  vale, 
Where  Darkness,  brooding  o'er  unfinished  fates, 
With  raven  whig  incumbent,  waits  the  day 
(Dread  day!)  that  interdicts  all  future  change; 
That  subterranean  world,  that  land  of  ruin! 
Fit  walk,  Lorenzo!  for  proud  human  thought! 
There  let  my  thoughts  expatiate,  and  explore 
Balsamic  truths  and  healing  sentiments, 
Of  all  most  wanted,  and  most  welcome,  here. 
For  gay  Lorenzo's  sake,  and  for  thy  own. 
My  soul!  '  The  fruits  of  dying  friends  survey; 
Expose  the  vain  of  life;  weigh  life  and  death ; 
Give  Death  his  eulogy ;  thy  fear  subdued; 
And  labour  that  first  palm  of  noble  minds, 
A  manly  scorn  of  terror  from  the  tomb.' 

This  harvest  reap  from  thy  Narcissa's  grave. 
As  poets  feigned  from  Ajax'  streaming  blood 
Arose,  with  grief  inscribed,  a  mournful  flower, 
Let  wisdom  blossom  from  my  mortal  wound. 
And  first,  of  dying  friends;  what  fruit  from  these? 
It  brings  us  more  than  triple  aid;  an  aid 
To  chase  our  thoughtlessness,  fear,   pride,  and 
guilt. 

Our  dying  friends  come  o'er  us  like  a  cloud, 
To  damp  our  brainless  ardours,  and  abate 
That  glare  of  light,  which  often  blinds  the  wise. 
Our  dying  friends  are  pioneers,  to  smooth 
Our  rugged  pass  to  death;  to  break  those  .bars 
Of  terror  and  abhorrence  Nature  throws 
Cross  our  obstructed  way,  and  thus  to  make 
Welcome,  as  safe,  our  port  from  every  storm. 
Each  friend  by  Fate  snatched  from  us  is  a  plume 
Plucked  from  the  wing  of  human  vanity, 
Which  makes  us  stoop  from  our  aerial  heights, 
And  damped  with  omen  of  our  own  decease, 
On  drooping  pinions  of  ambition  lowered, 
Just  skim  earth's  surface  ere  we  break  it  up, 
O'er  putrid  earth  to  scratch  a  little  dust, 
And  save  the  world  a  nuisance.     Smitten  friends 
Are  angels  sent  on  errands  full  of  love ; 
For  us  they  languish,  and  for  us  they  die: 
And  shall  they  languish,  shall  they  die,  in  vain? 
Ungrateful,  shall  we  grieve  their  hovering  shades, 
Which  wait  the  revolution  in  our  hearts? 
Shall  we  disdain  their  silent,  soft,  address, 
Their  posthumous  advice,  and  pious  prayer? 
Senseless  as  herds  that  graze  their  hallowed  graves, 
Tread  under  foot  their  agonies  and  groans, 
Frustrate  their  anguish,  and  destroy  their  deaths? 

Lorenzo!  no;  the  thought  of  death  indulge ; 
Give  it  its  wholesome  empire!  let  it  reign, 
That  kind  chastiser  of  thy  soul,  in  joy! 
Its  reign  will  spread  thy  glorious  conquests  far, 
And  still  the  tumults  of  thy  ruffled  breast. 
Auspicious  era !  golden  days,  begin ! 
The  thought  of  death  shall,  like  a  god,  inspire. 


And  why  not  think  on  death  ?  Is  life  the  theme 

Of  every  thought?  and  wish  of  every  hour? 

And  song  of  every  joy  ?  surprising  truth! 

The  beaten  spaniel's  fondness  not  so  strange. 

To  wave  the  numerous  ills  that  seize  on  life 

As  their  own  property,  their  lawful  prey; 

Ere  man  has  measured  half  his  weary  stage, 

His  luxuries  have  left  him  no  reserve, 

No  maiden  relishes,  unbroached  delights: 

On  cold-served  repetitions  he  subsists, 

And  in  the  tasteless  present  chews  the  past ; 

Disgusted  chews,  and  scarce  can  swallow  down. 

Like  lavish  ancestors,  his  earlier  years 

Have  disinherited  his  future  hours, 

Which  starve  on  orts,  and  glean  their  former 

field. 

Live  ever  here,  Lorenzo  ! — shocking  thought! 
So  shocking !  they  who  wish  disown  it  too ; 
Disown  from  shame,  what  they  from  folly  crave. 
Live  ever  in  the  womb,  nor  see  the  light  ? 
For  what,  live  ever  here  ? — with  labouring  step 
To  tread  our  former  footsteps  ?  pace  the  round 
Eternal  ?  to  climb  life's  worn  heavy  wheel, 
Which  draws  up  nothing  new  ?  to  beat,  and  beat, 
The  beaten  track?  to  bid  each  wretched  day 
The  former  mock?  to  surfeit  on  the  same, 
And  yawn  our  joys  ?  or  thank  a  misery 
For  change  though  sad !    to  see  what  we  have 

seen? 

Hear,  till  unheard,  the  same  old  slabbered  tale? 
To  taste  the  tasted,  and  at  each  return 
Less  tasteful  ?  o'er  our  palates  to  decant 
Another  vintage?  strain  a  flatter  year 
Through  loaded  vessels,  and  a  laxer  tone  ? 
Crazy  machines  to  grind  earth's  wasted  fruits ! 
Ill  ground,  and  worse  concocted  !  load,  not  life ! 
The  rational  foul  kennels  of  excess ! 
Still-streaming  thoroughfares  of  dull  debauch ! 
Trembling  each  gulp,  lest  Death  should  snatch 

the  bowl. 

Such  of  our  fine  ones  is  the  wish  refined ! 
So  would  they  have  it:  elegant  desire ! 
Why  not  invite  the  bellowing  stalls  and  wilds? 
But  such  examples  might  their  riot  awe. 
Through  want  of  virtue,  that  is,  want  of  thought, 
(Though  on  bright  thought  they  father  all  their 

flights) 

To  what  are  they  reduced  ?  to  love  and  hate 
The  same  vain  world;  to  censure  and  espouse 
This  painted  shrew  of  life,  who  calls  them  fool 
Each  moment  of  each  day ;  to  flatter  bad, 
Through  dread  of  worse ;  to  cling  to  this  rude 

rock, 

Barren  to  them  of  good,  and  sharp  with  ills, 
And  hourly  blackened  with  impending  storms, 
And  infamous  for  wrecks  of  human  hope — 
Scared  at  the  gloomy  gulf  that  yawns  beneath. 
Such  are  their  triumphs  !  such  their  pangs  of  joy! 
'Tis  time,  high  time,  to  shift  this  dismal  scene. 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


15 


Tliis  hugged,  this  hideous  state,  what  art  can  cure' 

only,  but  that  one  what  all  may  reach : 
Virtue — she,  wonder-working  goddess !  charms 
That  rock  to  bloom,  and  t:unes  the  painted  shrew 
And,  what  will  more  surprise,  Lorenzo !  gives 
To  life's  sick,  nauseous  iteration,  change ; 
And  straitens  Nature's  circle  to  a  line. 
Believ'st  thou  this,  Loren7x>?  lend  an  ear, 
A  patient  ear ;  thou'lt  blush  to  disbelieve. 

A  languid,  leaden  iteration  rrjgns, 
And  ever  must,  o'er  those  whose  joys  are  joys 
Of  sight,  smell,  taste.     The  cuckow-seasons  sing 
The  same  dull  note  to  such  as  notlu'ng  prize 
But  what  those  seasons,  from  the  teeming  earth, 
To  doting  sense  indulge :  but  nobler  minds, 
Which  relish  fruits  unripened  by  the  sun, 
Make  their  days  various;  various  as  the  dyes 
Oft  the  dove's  neck,  which  wanton  in  his  rays. 
Ou  minds  of  dove-like  innocence  possessed, 
Oiyightened  minds,  that  bask  in  virtue's  beams, 
Notling  hangs  tedious,  nothing  old  revolves 
In  that  for  wlu'ch  they  long,  for  which  they  live. 
Their  glorious  efforts,  winged  with  heavenly  hope 
Each  rising  morning  sees  still  higher  rise  ; 
Each  bounteous  dawn  its  novelty  presents 
To  worth  maturing,  new  strength,  lustre,  fame; 
While  Nature's  circle,  like  a  chariot-wheel 
Rolling  beneath  their  elevated  aims, 
Makes  their  fair  prospect  fairer  every  hour, 
Advancing  virtue  in  a  line  to  bliss ; 
Virtue,  which  Christian  motives  best  inspire ; 
And  bliss,  which  Christian  schemes  alone  ensue ! 

And  shall  we  then,  for  virtue's  sake,  commence 
Apostates,  and  turn  infidels  for  joy  1 
A  truth  it  is  few  doubt,  but  fewer  trust, 
'  He  sins  against  tliis  life  who  slights  the  next.' 
What  is  this  life!  how  few  their  favourite  know? 
Fond  in  the  dark,  and  blind  in  our  embrace, 
By  passionately  loving  life,  we  make 
Loved  life  unlovely,  hugging  her  to  death. 
We  give  to  time  eternity's  regard, 
And  dreaming,  take  our  passage  for  our  port. 
Life  has  no  value  as  an  end,  but  means; 
An  end  deplorable !  a  means  divine  ! 
When  'tis  our  all,  'tis  nothing;  worse  than  nought; 
A  nest  of  pains;  when  held  as  nothing,  much. 
Like  some  fair  humorists,  life  is  most  enjoyed 
When    courted    least;    most    worth   when    dis- 

esteemed; 

Then  'tis  the  seat  of  comfort,  rich  in  peace ; 
In  prospect  richer  far ;  important !  awful ! 
Not  to  be  mentioned  but  with  shouts  of  praise ! 
Not  to  be  thought  on  but  with  tides  of  joy ! 
The  mighty  basis  of  eternal  buss! 

Where  now  the  barren  rock  1  the  painted  shrew  ? 
Where  now,  Lorenzo,  life's  eternal  round  1 
Have  I  not  made  my  triple  promise  good  7 
Vain  is  the  world,  but  only  to  the  vain. 
To  what  compare  we  then  this  varying  scene, 
15 


Whose  worth,  ambiguous,  rises  and  declines? 
Waxes  and  wanes?  (in  all  propitious  Night 
Assists  me  here)  compare  it  to  the  moon; 
Dark  in  herself,  and  indigent,  but  rich 
In  borrowed  lustre  from  a  higher  sphere. 
When  gross  guilt  interposes,  labouring  earth, 
O'ershadow'd,  mourns  a  deep  eclipse  of  joy; 
Her  joys,  at  brightest,  pallid  to  that  font 
Of  full  effulgent  glory  whence  they  flow. 

Nor  is  that  glory  distant.     Oh,  Lorenzo! 
A  good  man  and  an  angel !  these  between 
How  thin  the  barrier !  what  divides  their  fate? 
Perhaps  a  moment,  or  perhaps  a  year; 
Or  if  an  age  it  is  a  moment  still ; 
A  moment,  or  eternity's  forgot. 
Then  be  what  once  they  were  who  now  are  gods 
Be  what  Philander  was,  and  claim  the  skies. 
Starts  timid  Nature  at  the  gloomy  pass? 
The  soft  transition  call  it,  and  be.cheered : 
Such  it  is  often,  and  why  not  to  thee  ? 
To  hope  the  best  is  pious,  brave,  and  wise, 
And  may  itself  procure  what  it  presumes. 
Life  is  much  flattered,  Death  is  much  traduced; 
Compare  the  rivals,  and  the  kinder  crown. 
'  Strange  competition !' — True,  Lorenzo !  strange 
So  little  life  can  cast  into  the  scale. 

Life  makes  the  soul  dependent  on  the  dust, 
Death  gives  her  wings  to  mount  above  the  spheres. 
Through  chinks,  stiled  organs,  dim  life  peeps  at 

light; 

Death  bursts  the  involving  cloud,  and  all  is  day : 
All  eye,  all  ear,  the  disembodied  power. 
Death  has  feigned  evils  nature  shall  not  feel ; 
Life,  ills  substantial  wisdom  can  not  shun. 
Is  not  the  mighty  mind,  that  sun  of  Heaven ! 
By  tyrant  life  dethroned,  imprisoned,  pained? 
By  Death  enlarged,  ennobled,  deified? 
Death  but  entombs  the  body,  life  the  soul. 

'  Is  Death  then  guiltless?  How  he  marks  his  way 
With  dreadful  waste  of  what  deserves  to  shine! 
Art,  genius,  fortune,  elevated  power! 
With  various  lustres  these  light  up  the  world, 
Wliich  Death  puts  out,  and  darkens  human  race.1 
[  grant,  Lorenzo !  this  indictment  just: 
The  sage,  peer,  potentate,  king,  conqueror ! 
Death  humbles  these;   more  barbarous  life,  the 

man. 

Life  is  the  triumph  of  our  mouldering  clay; 
Death  of  the  spirit  infinite!  divine ! 
Death  has  no  dread  but  what  frail  life  imparts, 
$or  life  true  joy  but  what  kind  death  improves, 
^o  bliss  has  life  to  boast,  till  death  can  give 
^ar  greater.    Life's  a  debtor  to  the  grave ; 
)ark  lattice !  letting  in  ethereal  day. 
Lorenzo!  blush  at  fondness  for  a  life 

sends  celestial  souls  on  errands  vile, 
To  cater  for  the  sense,  and  serve  at  boards 
Where  every  ranger  of  the  wilds,  perhaps 
£ach  reptile,  justly  claims  our  upper-hand. 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Luxurious  feast !  a  soul,  a  soul  immortal, 
In  all  the  dainties  of  a  brute  bemired ! 
Lorenzo !  blush  at  terror  for  a  death 
Which  gives  thee  to  repose  in  festive  bowers, 
Where  nectars  sparkle,  angels  minister, 
And  more  than  angels  share,  and  raise  and  crown, 
And  eternize,  the  birth,  bloom,  bursts  of  bliss. 
What  need  I  morel— O  Death!  the  palm  is  thine. 
Then  welcome,  Death !  thy  dreaded  harbingers, 
Age  and  disease ;  Disease,  though  long,  my  guest, 
That  plucks  my  nerves,  those  tender  strings  of  life, 
Which,  plucked  a  little  more,  will  toll  the  bell 
That  calls  my  few  friends  to  my  funeral; 
Where  feeble  Nature  drops,  perhaps,  a  tear, 
While  Reason  and  Religion,  better  taught, 
Congratulate  the  dead,  and  crown  his  tomb 
With  wreath  triumphant.     Death  is  victory ! 
It  binds  in  chains  the  raging  ills  of  life: 
Lust  and  Ambition,  Wrath  and  Avarice, 
Dragged  at  his  chariot-wheel,  applaud  his  power. 
That  ills  corrosive,  cares  importunate, 
Are  not  immortal  too,  O  Death !  is  thine. 
Our  day  of  dissolution ! — name  it  right, 
'Tis  our  great  pay-day ;  'tis  our  harvest,  rich 
And  ripe.     What  though  the  sickle,  sometimes 

keen, 

Just  scars  us  as  we  reap  the  golden  grain ! 
More  than  thy  balm,  O  Gilead !  heals  the  wound. 
Birth's  feeble  cry,  and  Death's  deep  dismal  groan, 
Are  slender  tributes  low-taxed  Nature  pays 
For  mighty  gain :  the  gain  of  each  a  life ! 
But,  O !  the  last  the  former  so  transcends, 
Life  dies,  compared ;  Life  lives  beyond  the  grave. 

And  feel  I,  Death !  no  joy  from  thought  of  thee? 
Death !  the  great  counsellor,  who  man  inspires 
With  every  nobler  thought  and  fairer  deed! 
Death!  the  deliverer,  who  rescues  man! 
Death!  the  rewarder,  who  the  rescued  crowns! 
Death!  that  absolves  my  birth,  a  curse  without  it! 
Rich  Death !  that  realizes  all  my  cares, 
Toils,  virtues,  hopes;  without  it  a  chimera; 
Death!  of  all  pain  the  period,  not  of  joy; 
Joy's  source  and  subject  still  subsist  unhurt ; 
One  in  my  soul,  and  one  in  her  great  sire, 
Though  the  four  winds  were  warring  for  my  dust : 
Yes,  and  from  winds  and  waves,  and  central  night, 
Though  prisoned  there,  my  dust,  too,  I  reclaim, 
(To  dust  when  drop  proud  Nature's  proudest 

spheres) 

And  live  entire.     Death  is  the  crown  of  life ! 
Were  death  denied,  poor  man  would  live  in  vain 
Were  death  denied,  to  live  would  not  be  life  : 
Were  death  denied,  even  fools  would  wish  to  die 
Death  wounds  to  cure ;  we  fall,  we  rise,  we  reign 
Spring  from  our  fetters,  fasten  in  the  skies, 
Where  blooming  Eden  withers  in  our  sight. 
Death  gives  us  more  than  was  in  Eden  lost : 
This  king  of  terrors  is  the  prince  of  peace. 


When  shall  I  die  to  vanity,  pain,  death  1 
When  shall  I  die  1—. when  shall  I  live  for  ever  7 


NIGHT  IV. 

THE  CHRISTIAN  TRIUMPH. 

CONTAINING  OUR  ONLY  CURE  FOR  THE  FEAR  OF 
DEATH,  AND  PROPER  SENTIMENTS  OF  HEART  ON 
THAT  INESTIMABLE  BLESSING. 

To  the  Hon.  Mr.  Yorke. 

A  MUCH-indebted  Muse,  O  Yorke !  intrudes 
Amid  the  smiles  of  fortune  and  of  youth, 
Thine  ear  is  patient  of  a  serious  song. 

How  deep  implanted  in  the  breast  of  man 
The  dread  of  death  1  I  sing,  its  sovereign  cure.  ^ 

Why  start  at  Death  ?  where  is  he  T  Death  arrivea, 
s  past ;  not  come,  or  gone :  he's  never  here.    *" 
5re  hope,  sensation  fails.     Black-boding  mai£ 
leceives,  not  suffers,  Death's  tremendous  blow. 
The  knell,  the  shroud,  the  mattock,  and  the  grave ; 
The  deep  damp  vault,  the  darkness,  and  the  worm; 
These  are  the  bugbears  of  a  winter's  eve, 
The  terrors  of  the  living,  not  the  dead ; 
Imagination's  fool,  and  Error's  wretch. 
Man  makes  a  death  which  Nature  never  made, 
Then  on  the  point  of  his  own  fancy  falls, 
And  feels  a  thousand  deaths  in  fearing  one. 

But  were  Death  frightful,  what  has  age  to  fear  1 
[f  prudent,  age  should  meet  the  friendly  foe, 
And  shelter  in  his  hospitable  gloom. 
[  scarce  can  meet  a  monument  but  holds 
VTy  younger ;  every  date  cries — '  Come  away.' 
And  what  recalls  me?  look  the  world  around, 
And  tell  me  what.     The  wisest  can  not  tell. 
Should  any  born  of  woman  give  his  thought 
Full  range,  on  just  Dislike's  unbounded  field ; 
Of  things  the  vanity,  of  men  the  flaws; 
Flaws  in  the  best ;  the  many,  flaw  all  o'er ; 
As  leopards  spotted,  or  as  Ethiops  dark ; 
Vivacious  ill ;  good  dying  immature  ; 
^How  immature  Narcissa's  marble  tells) 
And  at  its  death  bequeathing  endless  pain ; 
His  heart,  though  bold,  would  sicken  at  the  sight, 
And  spend  itself  in  sighs  for  future  scenes. 

But  grant  to  life  (and  just  it  is  to  grant 
To  lucky  life)  some  perquisites  of  joy ; 
A  time  there  is  when,  like  a  thrice-told  tale, 
Long-rifled  life  of  sweet  can  yield  no  more, 
But  from  our  comment  on  the  comedy ; 
Pleasing  reflections  on  parts  well-sustained, 
Or  purposed  emendations  where  we  failed, 
Or  hopes  of  plaudits  from  our  candid  Judge, 
When,  on  their  exit,  souls  are  bid  unrobe, 
Toss  Fortune  back  her  tinsel  and  her  plume, 
And  drop  this  mask  of  flesh  behind  the  scene. 
With  me  that  time  is  come  ;  my  world  is  dead; 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


17 


A  new  world  rises,  and  new  manners  reign. 
Foreign  comedians,  a  spruce  band !  arrive, 
To  push  me  from  the  scene,  or  hiss  me  there. 
What  a  pert  race  starts  up !  the  strangers  gaze, 
And  I  at  them ;  my  neighbour  is  unknown ; 
Nor  that  the  worst.    Ah  me !  the  dire  eflect 
Of  loitering  here,  of  death  defrauded  long. 
Of  old  so  gracious  (and  let  that  suffice) 
My  very  muster  knows  me  not. 

Shall  I  dare  say  peculiar  is  my  fate  7 
I've  been  so  long  remembered,  I'm  forgot. 
An  object  ever  pressing  dims  the  sight, 
And  hides  behind  its  ardour  to  be  seen. 
When  in  his  courtiers'  ears  I  pour  my  plaint, 
They  drink  it  as  the  nectar  of  the  great, 
And  squeeze  ray  hand,  and  beg  me  come  to-mor- 
row. 
Refusal !  canst  thou  wear  a  smoother  form  7 

Indulge  me,  nor  conceive  I  drop  my  theme. 
Who  cheapens  life  abates  the  fear  of  death. 
Twice  told  the  period  spent  on  stubborn  Troy, 
Court-favour,  yet  untaken,  I  besiege ; 
Ambition's  ill-judged  effort  to  be  rich. 
Alas !  ambition  makes  my  little  less, 
Embittering  the  possessed.     Why  wish  for  more  7 
Wishing,  of  all  employments,  is  the  worst ; 
Philosophy's  reverse,  and  health's  decay ! 
Were  I  as  plurnp  as  stalled  Theology, 
Wishing  would  waste  me  to  this  shade  again. 
Were  I  as  wealthy  as  a  South-sea  dream, 
Wishing  is  an  expedient  to  be  poor. 
Wishing,  that  constant  hectic  of  a  fool, 
Caught  at  a  court,  purged  off  by  purer  air 
And  simpler  diet,  gifts  of  rural  life ! 

Blest  be  that  hand  divine,  which  gently  laid 
My  heart  at  rest,  beneath  this  humble  shed. 
The  world's  a  stately  bark,  on  dangerous  seas 
With  pleasure  seen,  but  boarded  at  our  peril ; 
Here  on  a  single  plank,  thrown  safe  ashore, 
I  hear  the  tumult  of  the  distant  throng, 
As  that  of  seas  remote,  or  dying  storms, 
And  meditate  on  scenes  more  silent  still, 
Pursue  my  theme,  and  fight  the  fear  of  death. 
Here,  like  a  shepherd  gazing  from  his  hut, 
Toucliing  his  reed,  or  leaning  on  his  staff, 
Eager  Ambition's  fiery  chase  I  see ; 
I  see  the  circling  hunt  of  noisy  men 
Burst  law's  inclosure,  leap  the  mounds  of  right, 
Pursuing  and  pursued,  each  other's  prey  ; 
As  wolves  for  rapine,  as  the  fox  for  wiles, 
Till  Death,  that  mighty  hunter,  earth's  them  all. 

Why  all  this  toil  for  triumphs  of  an  hour  ? 
What  though  we  wade  in  wealth,  or  soar  in  fame  7 
Earth's  highest  station  ends  in,  '  Here  he  lies ;' 
And  '  dust  to  dust'  concludes  her  noblest  song. 
If  this  song  lives,  posterity  shall  know 
One,  though  in  Britain  born,  with  courtiers  bred, 
Who  thought  even  gold  might  come  a  day  too  late ; 
Nor  on  his  subtle  death-bed  planned  his  scheme 


For  future  vacancies  in  church  or  state, 

Some  avocation  deeming  it — to  die ; 

Unbit  by  rage  canine  of  dying  rich, 

Guilt's  blunder !  and  the  loudest  laugh  of  Hell. 

O  my  coevals !  remnants  of  yourselves ! 
Poor  human  ruins,  tottering  o'er  the  grave ! 
Shall  we,  shall  aged  men,  like  aged  trees, 
Strike  deeper  their  vile  root,  and  closer  cling, 
Still  more  enamoured  of  this  wretched  soil  7 
Shall  our  pale  withered  hands  be  still  stretched 

out, 

Trembling,  at  once  with  eagerness  and  age  7 
With  avarice  and  convulsions,  grasping  hard 
Grasping  at  air !  for  what  has  earth  beside  1 
Man  wants  but  little,  nor  that  little  long : 
How  soon  must  he  resign  his  very  dust, 
Which  frugal  Nature  lent  him  for  an  hour ! 
Years  unexperienced  rush  on  numerous  ills : 
And  soon  as  man,  expert  from  time,  has  found 
The  key  of  life,  it  opes  the  gates  of  death. 

When  in  this  vale  of  years  I  backward  look, 
And  miss  such  numbers,  numbers  too,  of  such 
Firmer  in  health,  and  greener  in  their  age, 
And  stricter  on  their  guard,  and  fitter  far 
To  play  life's  subtle  game,  I  scarce  believe 
I  still  survive.     And  am  I  fond  of  life, 
Who  scarce  can  think  it  possible  1  li ve  7 
Alive  by  miracle !  or,  what  is  next, 
Alive  by  Mead !  if  I  am  still  alive, 
Who  long  have  buried  what  gives  life  to  live, 
Firmness  of  nerve,  and  energy  of  thought. 
Life's  lee  is  not  more  shallow  than  impure 
And  vapid :  Sense  and  Reason  show  the  door, 
Call  for  my  bier,  and  point  me  to  the  dust. 

O  thou  great  Arbiter  of  life  and  death ! 
Nature's  immortal,  immaterial  Sun ! 
Whose  all-prolific  beam  late  called  me  forth 
Prom  darkness,  teeming  darkness,  where  I  lay 
The  worm's  inferior ;  and,  in  rank,  beneath 
The  dust  I  tread  on ;  high  to  bear  my  brow, 
To  drink  the  spirit  of  the  golden  day, 
And  triumph  in  existence;  and  could'st  know 
N"o  motive  but  my  bliss,  and  hast,  ordained 
A  rise  in  blessing !  with  the  patriarch's  joy, 
Thy  call  I  follow  to  the  land  unknown ; 
t  trust  in  thee,  and  know  in  whom  I  trust : 
Or  life  or  death  is  equal ;  neither  weighs ; 
All  weight  in  this— O  let  me  live  to  Thee ! 

Though  Nature's  terrors,  thus,  may  be  represt, 
Still  frowns  grim  Death ;  guilt  points  the  tyrant's 

spear. 

And  whence  all  human  guilt  7-^From  Death  forgot. 
Ah  me !  too  long  I  set  at  nought  the  swarm 
Of  friendly  warnings  which  around  me  flew, 
And  smiled  unsmitten.    Small  my  cause  to  smile ! 
Death's  admonitions,  like  shafts  upward  shot, 
More  dreadful  by  delay;  the  longer  ere 
They  strike  our  hearts,  the  deeper  is  their  wound: 
0  think  how  deep  Lorenzo!  here  it  stings; 


18 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Who  can  appease  its  anguish  1  How  it  burns ! 
What  hand  the  barbed,  envenomed  thought  can 

draw1? 

What  healing  hand  can  pour  the  balm  of  peace, 
And  turn  my  sight  undaunted  on  the  tomb  1 

With  joy,— with  grief,  that  healing  hand  I  see: 
Ah !  too  conspicuous !  it  is  fixed  on  high. 
On  high  1  what  means  my  frenzy  1  I  blaspheme: 
Alas  !  how  low  1  how  far  beneath  the  skies  1 
The  skies  it  formed,  and  now  it  bleeds  for  me — 
But  bleeds  the  balm  I  want— yet  still  it  bleeds ; 
Draw  the  dire  steel— ah,  no !  the  dreadful  blessing 
What  heart  or  can  sustain  or  dares  forego "? 
There  hangs  all  human  hope ;  that  nail  supports 
The  falling  universe:  that  gone,  we  drop, 
Horror  receives  us,  and  the  dismal  wish 
Creation  had  been  smothered  in  her  birth — 
Darkness  his  curtain,  and  his  bed  the  dust, 
When  stars  and  suns  are  dust  beneath  his  throne; 
In  Heaven  itself  can  such  indulgence  dwell  ? 
O  what  a  groan  was  there !  a  groan  not  his : 
He  seized  our  dreadful  right,  the  load  sustained, 
And  heaved  the  mountain  from  a  guilty  world. 
A  thousand  worlds  so  bought,  were  bought  too 

dear; 

Sensations  new  in  angels'  bosoms  rise, 
Suspend  their  song,  and  make  a  pause  in  bliss. 

O  for  their  song  to  reach  my  lofty  theme ! 
Inspire  me,  Night !  with  all  thy  tuneful  spheres, 
Whilst  I  with  seraphs  share  seraphic  themes, 
And  show  to  men  the  dignity  of  man, 
Lest  I  blaspheme  my  subject  with  my  song. 
Shall  pagan  pages  glow  celestial  flame, 
And  Christian  languish?  On  our  hearts,  not  heads, 
Falls  the  foul  infamy.    My  heart !  awake : 
What  can  awake  thee,  unawaked  by  this, 
'  Expended  Deity  on  human  weal  V 
Feel  the  great  truths  which  burst  the  tenfold  night 
Of  Heathen  error  with  a  golden  flood 
Of  endless  day.     To  feel  is  to  be  fired ; 
And  to  believe,  Lorenzo  !  is  to  feel. 

Thou  most  indulgent,  most  tremendous  Power! 
Still  more  tremendous  for  thy  wondrous  love  ; 
That  arms  with  awe  more  awful  thy  commands, 
And  foul  transgression  dips  in  sevenfold  guilt ; 
How  our  hearts  tremble  at  thy  love  immense ! 
In  love  immense,  inviolably  just! 
Thou,  rather  than  thy  justice  should  be  stained, 
Did  stain  the  Cross;  and,  work  of  wonders  far 
The  greatest,  that  thy  dearest  far  might  bleed. 

Bold  thought!  shall  I  dare  speak  it  or  repress? 
Should  man  more  execrate  or  boast  the  guilt 
Which  roused  such  vengeance  ?  which  such  love 

inflamed? 
O'er  guilt  (how  mountainous!)  with  outstretched 

arms 

Stern  Justice  and  soft-smiling  Love,  embrace, 
Supporting,  in  full  majesty,  thy  throne, 
When  seemed  its  majesty  to  need  support; 


Or  that,  or  man,  inevitably  lost : 
What  but  the  fathomless  of  thought  divine 
Could  labour  such  expedient  from  despair, 
And  rescue  both  ?  Both  rescue !  both  exalt ! 

0  how  are  both  exalted  by  the  deed ! 

The  wondrous  deed !  or  shall  I  call  it  more  1 
A  wonder  in  Omnipotence  itself! 
A  mystery  no  less  to  gods  than  men ! 

Not  thus  otir  infidels  the  Eternal  draw, 
A  God  all-o'er  consummate,  absolute, 
Full  orbed,  in  his  whole  round  of  rayacomplete: 
Th#y  set  at  odds  Heaven's  jarring  attributes, 
And  with  one  excellence  another  wound  ; 
Maim  Heaven's  perfection,  break  its  equal  beams, 
Bid  mercy  triumph  over — God  himself, 
Undeified  by  their  opprobrious  praise. 
A  God  all  mercy  is  a  God  unjust. 

Ye  brainless  wits !  ye  baptized  infidels ! 
Ye  worse  for  mending !  washed  to  fouler  stains  ! 
The  ransom  was  paid  down;  the  fund  of  Heaven, 
Heaven's  inexhaustible,  exhausted'  fund, 
Amazing  and  amazed,  poured  forth  the  price, 
All  price  beyond :  though  curious  to  compute, 
Archangels  failed  to  cast  the  mighty  sum : 
Its  value  vast,  ungrasped  by  minds  create, 
For  ever  hides  and  glows  in  the  Supreme. 

And  was  the  ransom  paid  ?  It  was,  and  paid 
(What  can  exalt  the  bounty  more  ?)  for  you ! 
The  sun  beheld  it. — No,  the  shocking  scene 
Drove  back  his  chariot :  midnight  veiled  his  face : 
Not  such  as  this,  not  such  as  nature  makes; 
A  midnight  Nature  shuddered  to  behold ; 
A  midnight  new !  a  dread  eclipse  (without 
Opposing  spheres)  from  her  Creator's  frown ! 
Sun !  didst  thou  fly  thy  maker's  pain  1  or  start 
At  that  enormous  load  of  human  guilt 
Which  bowed  his  blessed  head,  o'erwhelmed  his 

cross, 

Made  groan  the  centre,  burst  earth's  marble  womb 
With  pangs,  strange  pangs !  delivered  of  her  dead? 
Hell  howled;  and  Heaven  that  hour  let  fall  a  tear ; 
Heaven  wept,  that  men  might  smile !  Heaven  bled 

that  man 

Might  never  die  ! 

And  is  devotion  virtue  ?  'tis  compelled. 
What  heart  of  stone  but  glows  at  thoughts  like 

these? 

Such  contemplations  mount  us,  and  should  mount 
The  mind  still  higher,  nor  ever  glance  on  man 
Unraptured,    uninflamed. — Where    rolled    my 

thoughts 

To  rest  from  wonders  ?  other  wonders  rise, 
And  strike  where'er  they  roll:  my  soul  is  caught: 
Heaven's  sovereign  blessing,  clustering  from  the 

cross, 

Rush  on  her,  in  a  throng,  and  close  her  round, 
The  prisoner  of  amaze!— In  his  blest  life 

1  see  the  path,  and  in  his  death  the  price, 
And  in  his  great  ascent  the  proof  supreme 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


Of  immortality  .—And  did  he  rise?— 

N  aliens !  hear  it,  O  ye  Dead  ! 
1 1  c  rose !  he  rose !  he  burst  the  bars  of  death. 
Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  everlasting  Gates! 
And  give  the  King  of  glory  to  come  in. 
Who  is  the  Kinj:  of  glory  1  he  who  left 
His  throne  of  glory  for  the  pang  of  death. 
Litl  up  your  heads,  ye  everlasting  Gates ! 
And  give  the  King  of  glory  to  come  in. 
Who  is  the  King  of  glory  1  he  who  slew 
The  ravenous  foe  that  gorged  all  human  race ! 
The  King  of  glory  He,  whose  glory  filled 
Heaven  with  amazement  at  his  love  to  man, 
And  with  divine  complacency  beheld 
Powers  most  illumined,  wildered  in  the  theme. 

The  theme,  the  joy,  how  then  shall  man  sustain? 
Oh,  the  burst  gates!  crushed  sting!  demolished 

throne ! 
Last  gasp  of  vanquished  Death !  Shout,  earth  and 

Heaven, 

This  sum  of  good  to  man!  whose  nature  then 
Took  wing,  and  mounted  with  him  from  the  tomb. 
Then,  then,  I  rose;  then  first  Humanity 
Triumphant  past  the  crystal  ports  of  light, 
(Stupendous  guest!)  and  seized  eternal  youth, 

in  our  name.     E'er  since  'tis  blasphemous 
To  call  man  mortal.     Man's  mortality 
Was  then  transferred  to  death;   and  Heaven's 

duration 

Unalienably  sealed  to  this  frail  frame, 
This  child  of  dust. — Man,  all-immortal!  hail! 
Hail,  Heaven!  All  lavish  of  strange  gifts  toman! 
Thine  all  the  glory,  man's  the  boundless  bliss ! 

Where  am  I  rapt  by  this  triumphant  theme, 
On  Christian  joys  exulting  wing,  above 
The  Aonian  mount! — Alas!  small  cause  for  joy ! 
What,  if  to  pain  immortal?  if  extent 
Of  being,  to  preclude  a  close  of  wo  1 
Where,  then,  my  boast  of  immortality  ? 
I  boast  it  still,  though  covered  o'er  with  guilt : 
For  guilt,  not  innocence,  his  life  he  poured ; 
'Tis  guilt  alone  can  justify  his  death  ; 
Nor  that,  unless  his  death  can  justify 
Relenting  guilt  in  Heaven's  indulgent  sight. 
If,  sick  of  folly,  I  relent,  he  writes 
My  name  in  Heaven  with  that  inverted  spear, 
(A  spear  deep-dipt  in  blood)  which  pierced  his 

side, 

And  opened  there  a  font  for  all  mankind 
Who  strive,  who  combat  crimes,  to  drink  and  live: 
This,  only  this,  subdues  the  fear  of  death  ! 

And  what  is  this? — Survey  the  wondrous  cure, 
And  at  each  step  let  higher  wonder  rise ! 
'  Pardon  for  infinite  offence !  and  pardon 
Through  means  that  speak  its  value  infinite ! 
A  pardon  bought  with  blood !  with  blood  divine ! 
With  blood  div  ine  of  him  I  made  my  foe  ; 
Persisted  to  provoke;  though  wooed  and  awed ; 
Blest,  and  chastised ;  a  flagrant  rebel  still ; 


A  rebel  midst  the  thunders  of  his  throne ; 

Nor  I  alone ;  a  rebel  universe ; 

My  species  up  in  arms;  not  one  exempt! 

Yet  for  the  foulest  of  the  foul  he  dies, 

Most  joyed  for  the  redeemed  from  deepest  guilt; 

As  if  our  race  were  held  of  highest  rank, 

And  Godhead  dea'rer,  as  more  kind  to  man. 

Bound  every  heart,  and  every  bosom  burn; 
O  what  a  scale  of  miracles  is  here ! 
Its  lowest  round  high  planted  in  the  skies, 
Its  towering  summit  lost  beyond  the  thought 
Of  man  or  angel !  O  that  I  could  climb 
The  wonderful  ascent,  with  equal  praise! 
Praise !  flow  for  ever,  (if  astonishment 
Will  give  thee  leave)  my  praise;  for  ever  flow; 
Praise  ardent,  cordial,  constant,  to  high  Heaven 
More  fragrant  than  Arabia  sacrificed, 
And  all  her  spicy  mountains  in  a  flame. 

So  dear,  so  due  to  Heaven,  shall  Praise  descend 
With  her  soft  plume  (from  plausive  angels'  wing 
First  plucked  by  man)  to  tickle  mortal  ears, 
Thus  diving  in  the  pockets  of  the  great? 
Is  praise  the  perquisite  of  every  paw, 
Though  black  as  hell,  that  grapples  well  for  gold? 
Oh,  love  of  gold !  thou  meanest  of  amours ! 
Shall  praise  her  odours  waste  on  virtues  dead, 
Embalm  the  base,  perfume  the  stench  of  guilt, 
Earn  dirty  bread  by  washing  Ethiops  fair, 
Removing  filth,  or  sinking  it  from  sight ; 
A  scavenger  in  scenes  where  vacant  posts, 
Like  gibbets  yet  untenanted,  expect 
Their  future  ornaments?  From  courts  and  tlirones 
Return,  apostate  Praise !  thou  vagabond ! 
Thou  prostitute !  to  thy  first  love  return, 
Thy  first,  thy  greatest,  once  unrivalled  theme. 

There  flow  redundant,  like  Meander  flow. 
Back  to  the  fountain,  to  that  parent  power, 
Who  gives  the  tongue  to  sound,  the  thought  to 

soar, 

The  soul  to  be.     Men  homage  pay  to  men, 
Thoughtless  beneath  whose  dreadful  eye  they  bow, 
In  mutual  awe  profound,  of  clay  to  clay, 
Of  guilt  to  guilt,  and  turn  their  backs  on  thee, 
Great  Sire!  whom  thrones  celestial  ceaseless  sing; 
To  prostrate  angels  an  amazing  scene ! 
O  the  presumption  of  man's  awe  for  man! 
Man's  Author,  End,  Restorer,  Law  and  Judge! 
Thine  all;   day  thine,  and  thine  this  gloom  of 

night, 

With  all  her  wealth,  with  all  her  radiant  worlds. 
What  night  eternal,  but  a  frown  from  thee? 
What  Heaven's  meridian  glory,  but  thy  smile  1 
And  shall  not  praise  be  thine,  not  human  praise, 
While  Heaven's  high  host  on  hallelujah's  live? 

O  may  I  breathe  no  longer  than  I  breathe 
My  soul  in  praise  to  Him  who  gave  my  soul ; 
And  all  her  infinite  of  prospect  fair, 
Cut  through  the  shades  of  hell,  great  Love !  by 
thee, 


20 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Oh  most  adorable!  most  unadorned! 

Where  shall  that  praise  begin,  which  ne'er  should 

end! 

Where'er  I  turn,  what  claim  on  all  applause! 
How  is  Night's  sable  mantle  laboured  o'er, 
How  richly  wrought  with  attributes  divine ! 
What  wisdom  shines !  what  love !  This  midnight 

pomp, 

This  gorgeous  arch,  with  golden  worlds  inlaid ; 
Built  with  divine  ambition;  nought  to  thee; 
For  others  his  profusion.     Thou  apart, 
Above,  beyond:  Oh,  tell  me,  mighty  Mind, 
Where  art  thou  ?    Shall  I  dive  into  the  deep  1 
Call  to  the  sun  ?  or  ask  the  roaring  winds 
For  their  Creator  1  shall  I  question  loud 
The  thunder,  if  in  that  the  Almighty  dwells? 
Or  holds  he  furious  storms  in  straitened  reins, 
And  bids  fierce  whirlwinds  wheel  his  rapid  car? 
What  mean  these  questions  ?  Trembling,  I  re- 
tract ; 

My  prostrate  soul  adores  the  present  God; 
Praise  I  a  distant  deity  ?  He  tunes 
My  voice  (if  tuned ;)  the  nerve  that  writes  sustains: 
Wrapped  in  his  being  I  resound  his  praise : 
But  though  past  all  diffused,  without  a  shore 
His  essence,  local  in  his  throne  (as  meet) 
To  gather  the  dispersed  (as  standards  call 
The  listed  from  afar) ;  to  fix  a  point, 
A  central  point,  collective  of  his  sons, 
Since  finite  every  nature  but  his  own. 

The  nameless  He,  whose  nod  is  Nature's  birth, 
And  Nature's  shield  the  shadow  of  his  hand  j 
Her  dissolution  his  suspended  smile ! 
The  great  First-Last ;  pavilioned  high  he  sits, 
In  darkness,  from  excessive  splendour  borne, 
By  gods  unseen,  unless  through  lustre  lost. 
His  glory,  to  created  glory,  bright, 
As  that  to  central  horrors  :  he  looks  down 
On  all  that  soars,  and  spans  immensity. 

Though  night  unnumbered  worlds  unfolds  to 

view, 

Boundless  creation,  what  art  thou  ?  a  beam, 
A  mere  effluvium  of  his  majesty. 
And  shall  an  atom  of  this  atom-world 
Mutter,  in  dust  and  sin,  the  theme  of  Heaven  7 
Down  to  the  centre  should  I  send  my  thought, 
Through  beds  of  glittering  ore  and  glowing  gems, 
Their  beggar'd  blaze  wants  lustre  for  my  lay;  • 
Goes  out  in  darkness :  if,  on  towering  wing, 
I  send  it  through  the  boundless  vault  of  stars, 
(The  stars,  though  rich,  what  dross  their  gold  to 

thee, 

Great,  good,  wise,  wonderful,  eternal  king!) 
If  to  those  conscious  stars  thy  throne  around, 
Praise  ever-pouring,  and  imbibing  bliss, 
And  ask  their  strain :  they  want  it,  more  they 

want; 

Poor  their  abundance,  humble  their  sublime, 
Languid  their  energy,  their  ardour  cold; 


Indebted  still,  their  highest  rapture  burns, 
Short  of  its  mark,  defective  though  divine! 

Still  more — this  theme  is  man's,  and  man's  alone; 
Their  vast  appointments  reach  it  not ;  they  see 
On  earth  a  bounty  not  indulged  on  high, 
And  downward  look  for  Heaven's  superior  praise ; 
First-born  of  Ether !  high  in  fields  of  Light ! 
View  man,  to  see  the  glory  of  your  God. 
Could  angels  envy,  they  had  envied  here : 
And  some  did  envy ;  and  the  rest,  though  gods, 
Yet  still  gods  unredeem'd,  (there  triumphs  man, 
Tempted  to  weigh  the  dust  against  the  skies) 
They  less  would  feel,  though  more  adorn  my  theme. 
They  sung  Creation  (for  in  that  they  shared) 
How  rose  in  melody  that  child  of  Love, 
Creation's  great  superior,  man,  is  thine ; 
Thine  is  Redemption ;  they  just  gave  the  key; 
'Tis  thine  to  raise  and  eternize  the  song, 
Though  human,  yet  divine;  for  should  not  this 
Raise  man  o'er  man,  and  kindle  seraphs  here? 
Redemption !  'twas  creation  more  sublime ; 
Redemption !  'twas  the  labour  of  the  skies ; 
Far  more  than  labour— rit  was  death  in  Heaven ! 
A  truth  so  strange,  'twere  bold  to  think  it  true, 
If  not  far  bolder  still  to  disbelieve. 

Here  pause  and  ponder.     Was  there  Death  in 

Heaven  1 
What  then  on  earth — on  earth  which  struck  the 

blow? 

Who  struck  it?  Who — O  how  is  man  enlarged, 
Seen  through  this  medium?  How  the  pigmy  tow- 
ers! 

How  counterpoised  his  origin  from  dust ! 
How  counterpoised,  to  dust  his  sad  return ! 
How  voided  his  vast  distance  frpm  the  skies! 
How  near  he  presses  on  the  seraph's  wing  ! 
Which  is  the  seraph  ?  which  the  born  of  clay? 
How  this  demonstrates,  through  the  thickest  cloud 
Of  guilt  and  clay  condensed,  the  Son  of  Heaven, 
The  double  Son ;  the  made,  and  the  remade ; 
And  shall  Heaven's  double  property  be  lost  ? 
Man's  double  madness  only  can  destroy. 
To  man  the  bleeding  cross  has  promised  all ; 
The  bleeding  cross  has  sworn  eternal  grace. 
Who  gave  His  life,  what  grace  shall  He  deny? 
D  ye,  who  from  this  rock  of  ages  leap 
Apostates,  plunging  headlong  in  the  deep, 
What  cordial  joy,  what  consolation  strong, 
Whatever  winds  arise,  or  billows  roll, 
Our  interest  in  the  Master  of  the  storm, 

ling  there,  and  in  wreck'd  Nature's  ruins  smile, 
While  vile  apostates  tremble  in  a  calm. 

Man,  know  thyself:  all  wisdom  centres  there. 
To  none  man  seems  ignoble  but  to  man; 
Angels,  that  grandeur  men  o'erlook,  admire : 
How  long  shall  human  nature  be  their  book  ? 
Degenerate  mortal !  and  unread  by  thee? 
The  beam  dim  reason  sheds  shows  wonders  there: 
What  high  contents— illustrious  faculties! 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


Hut  the  grand  comment,  which  displays  at  full 
Our  human  height,  scarce  severed  from  divine, 
By  Heaven  com  posed,  was  published  on  the  cross. 

Who  looks  on  that,  and  sees  not  in  himself 
An  awful  stranger,  a  terrestrial  god? 
A  glorious  partner  with  the  Deity 
In  that  high  attribute,  immortal  life! 
If  a  God  bleeds,  he  bleeds  not  for  a  worm 
I  gaze,  and  as  I  gaze,  my  mounting  soul 
Catches  strange  fire,  Eternity,  at  thee, 
And  drops  the  world,  or  rather,  more  enjoys. 
1  low  changed  the  face  of  Nature !  how  improved ! 
What  seem'd  a  chaos  shines  a  glorious  world ; 
Or  what  a  world,  an  Eden ;  heighten'd  all ! 
It  is  another  scene — another  self ! 
And  still  another,  as  time  rolls  along, 
And  that  a  self  far  more  illustrious  still. 
Beyond  long  ages,  yet  roll'd  up  in  shades 
Unpierc'd  by  bold  Conjecture's  keenest  ray. 
What  evolutions  of  surprising  Fate ! 
How  Nature  opens,  and  receives  my  soul, 
In  boundless  walks  of  raptur'd  thought,  where 

gods 

Encounter  and  embrace  me.    What  new  births 
Of  strange  adventure,  foreign  to  the  sun, 
Where  what  now  charms,  perhaps  whate'er  exists, 
Old  Time  and  fair  Creation  are  forgot. 

Is  this  extravagant?  of  man  we  form 
Extravagant  conception,  to  be  just: 
Conception  unconfined  wants  wings  to  reach  him ; 
Beyond  its  reach  the  Godhead  only  more. 
Het  the  great  Father!  kindled  at  one  flame 
The  world  of  rationals;  one  spirit  poured 
From  spirit's  awful  Fountain — poured  Himself 
Through  all  their  souls,  but  not  in  equal  stream, 
Profuse  or  frugal,  of  the  inspiring  God, 
As  his  wise  plan  demanded ;  and  when  past 
Their  various  trials,  in  their  various  spheres, 
If  they  continue  rational,  as  made, 
Resorbs  them  all  into  Himself  again, 
His  throne  their  centre,  and  his  smile  their  crown. 

Why  doubt  we,  then,  the  glorious  truth  to  sing, 
Though  yet  unsung,  as  deemed,  perhaps,  too  bold? 
Angels  are  men  of  a  superior  kind ; 
Angels  are  men  in  lighter  habit  clad, 
High  o'er  celestial  mountains  wing' d  in  flight; 
And  men  are  angels,  loaded  for  an  hour, 
Who  wade  this  miry  vale,  and  climb  with  pain, 
And  slippery  step,  the  bottom  of  the  steep. 
Angels  their  failings,  mortals  have  their  praise: 
While  here,  of  corps  ethereal,  such  enrolled 
And  summoned  to  the  glorious  standard  soon, 
Which  flames  eternal  crimson  through  the  skies. 
Nor  are  our  brothers  thoughtless  of  their  kin, 
Yet  absent;  but  not  absent  from  their  love.  . 
Michael  has  fought  our  battles ;  Raphael  sung 
Our  triumphs;  Gabriel  on  our  errands  flown, 
Sent  by  the  Sovereign :  and  are  these,  O  man ! 


Thy  friends,  thy  warm  allies  7  and  thou  (shame 

burn 
The  cheek  to  cinder !)  rival  to  the  brute? 

Religion's  all.     Descending  from  the  skies 
To  wretched  man,  the  goddess  in  her  left 
Holds  out  this  world,  and  in  her  right  the  next. 
Religion !  the  sole  voucher  man  is  man; 
Supporter  sole  of  man  above  himself; 
E'en  in  this  night  of  frailty,  change,  and  death, 
She  gives  the  soul  a  soul  that  acts  a  god. 
Religion,  Providence,  an  after-state ! 
Here  is  firm  footing ;  here  is  solid  rock ; 
This  can  support  us ;  all  is  sea  beside ; 
Sinks  under  us;  bestorms,  and  then  devours. 
His  hand  the  good  man  fastens  on  the  skies, 
And  bids  earth  roll,  nor  feels  her  idle  whirl. 

As  when  a  wretch,  from  thick  polluted  air, 
Darkness  and  stench,  and  suffocating  damps, 
And  dungeon- horrors,  by  kind  Fate  discharged, 
Climbs  some  fair  eminence,  where  ether  pure, 
Surrounds  him,  and  Elysian  prospects  rise; 
His  heart  exults,' his  spirits  cast  their  load, 
As  if  new-born  he  triumphs  in  the  change : 
So  joys  the  soul,  when  from  inglorious  aims 
And  sordid  sweets,  from  feculence  and  froth 
Of  ties  terrestrial  set  at  large,  she  mounts 
To  Reason's  region,  her  own  element, 
Breathes  hopes  immortal,  and  affects  the  skies. 

Religion !  thou  the  soul  of  happiness, 
And,  groaning  Calvary!  of  thee:  there  shine 
The  noblest  truths ;  there  strongest  motives  sing ; 
There  sacred  violence  assaults  the  soul ; 
There  nothing  but  compulsion  is  forborne. 
Can  love  allure  us!  or  can  terror  awe? 
He  weeps ! — the  falling  drop  puts  out  the  sun ; 
He  sighs! — the  sigh  earth's  deep  foundation  shakes. 
If  in  his  love  so  terrible,  what  then 
His  wrath  inflamed  ?  his  tenderness  on  fire  ? 
Like  soft,  smooth  oil,  outblazing  other  fires  ? 

an  prayer,  can  praise,  avert  it? — Thou,  my  all! 
My  theme!  my  inspiration!  and  my  crown! 
My  strength  in  age !  my  rise  in  low  estate ! 
My  soul's  ambition,  pleasure,  wealth! — my  world! 
My  light  in  darkness !  and  my  life  in  death ! 
My  boast  through  time !  bliss  through  eternity ! 
Eternity,  too  short  to  speak  thy  praise, 
Or  fathom  thy  profound  of  love  to  man! 
To  man  of  men  the  meanest,  even  to  me  ; 
My  sacrifice!  my  God! — what  things  are  these ! 

What  then  art  Thou?  by  what  name  shall  I 

call  thee? 

ECnew  I  the  name  devout  archangels  use, 
Devout  archangels  should  the  name  enjoy, 
3y  me  unrivalled ;  thousands  more  sublime, 
None  half  so  dear  as  that  which,  though  unspoke, 
Still  glows  at  heart.     O  how  Omnipotence 
s  lost  in  love!  thou  great  Philanthropist! 
Father  of  angels !  but  the  friend  of  man ! 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Like  Jacob,  fondest  of  the  younger  born ! 

Thou  who  did'st  save  him,  snatch  the  smoking 

brand 

From  out  the  flames,  and  quench  it  in  thy  blood ! 
How  art  thou  pleased  by  bounty  to  distress ! 
To  make  us  groan  beneath  our  gratitude, 
Too  big  for  birth !  to  favour  and  confound ; 
To  challenge,  and  to  distance  all  return ! 
Of  lavish  love  stupendous  heights  to  soar, 
And  leave  Praise  panting  in  the  distant  vale ! 
Thy  right,  too  great,  defrauds  thee  of  thy  due ; 
And  sacrilegious  our  sublimest  song ! 
But  since  the  naked  will  obtains  thy  smile, 
Beneath  this  monument  of  praise  unpaid, 
And  future  life  symphonious  to  my  strain, 
(That  noblest  hymn  to  Heaven!)  for  every  lie 
Intombed  my  fear  of  death !  and  every  fear, 
The  dread  of  every  evil,  but  thy  frown. 

Whom  see  I  yonder  so  demurely  smile'? 
Laughter  a  labour,  and  might  break  their  rest. 
Ye  duietists !  in  homage  to  the  skies ! 
Serene !  of  soft  address !  who  mildly  make 
An  unobtrusive  tender  of  your  hearts, 
Abhorring  violence !  who  halt  indeed, 
But,  for  the  blessing,  wrestle  not  with  Heaven ! 
Think  you  my  song  too  turbulent  1  too  warm  7 
Are  passions,  then,  the  pagans  of  the  soul  1 
Reason  alone  baptiz'd  ?  alone  ordained 
To  touch  things  sacred'?  Oh,  for  warmer  still! 
Guilt  chills  my  zeal,  and  age  benumbs  my  powers: 
Oh,  for  an  humbler  heart  and  prouder  song ! 
Thou,  my  much  injured  Theme  !  with  that  soft  eye 
Which  melted  o'er  doomed  Salem,  deign  to  look 
Compassion  to  the  coldness  of  my  breast 
And  pardon  to  the  winter  in  my  strain. 

Oh,  ye  cold-hearted,  frozen  Formalists ! 
On  such  a  theme  'tis  impious  to  be  calm : 
Passion  is  reason,  transport  temper  here. 
Shall  Heaven,  which  gave  us  ardour,  and  has 

shown 

Her  own  for  man  so  strongly,  not  disdain 
What  smooth  emollients  in  theology, 
Recumbent  Virtue's  downy  doctors,  preach ; 
That  prose  of  piety,  a  lukewarm  praise  1 
Rise  odours  sweet  from  incense  uninflamed  7 
Devotion  when  lukewarm  is  undevout ; 
But  when  it  glows,  its  heat  is  struck  to  Heaven ; 
To  human  hearts  her  golden  harps  are  strung; 
High  Heaven's  orchestra  chaunts  Amen  to  man. 

Hear  I,  or  dream  I  hear,  their  distant  strain, 
Sweet  to  the  soul,  and  tasting  strong  of  Heaven, 
Soft-wafted  on  celestial  Pity's  plume, 
Through  the  vast  spaces  of  the  universe, 
To  cheer  me  in  this  melancholy  gloom  1 
Oh,  when  will  death  (now  stingless)  like  a  friend 
Admit  me  of  their  choir  1  Oh,  when  will  death 
This  mouldering,  old,  partition-wall  throw  down? 
Give  beings,  one  in  nature,  one  abode? 
Oh,  Death  divine !  that  giv'st  us  to  the  skies : 


Great  future !  glorious  patron  of  the  past 

And  present !  when  shall  I  thy  shrine  adore  ? 

From  nature's  continent,  immensely  wide, 

Immensely  blest,  this  little  isle  of  life, 

This  dark  incarcerating  colony, 

Divides  us.     Happy  day !  that  breaks  our  chain ; 

That  manumits :  that  calls  from  exile  home 

That  leads  to  Nature's  great  metropolis, 

And  re-admits  us,  through  the  guardian  hand 

Of  elder  brothers,  to  our  Father's  throne; 

Who  hears  our  Advocate,  and,  through  his  wounds 

Beholding  man,  allows  that  tender  name. 

'Tis  this  makes  Christian-triumph  a  command ; 

'Tis  this  makes  joy  a  duty  to  the  wise. 

'Tis  impious  in  a  good  man  to  be  sad.. 

Seest  thou,  Lorenzo,  where  hangs  all  our  hope  ? 
Touched  by  the  Cross  we  live,  or  more  than  die ; 
That  touch  which  touched  not  angels ;  more  divine 
Than  that  which  touched  confusion  into  form, 
And  darkness  into  glory:  partial  touch ! 
Ineffably  pre-eminent  regard ! 
Sacred  to  man,  and  sovereign  through  the  whole 
Long  golden  chain  of  miracles,  which  hangs 
From  Heaven  through  all  duration,  and  supports, 
In  one  illustrious  and  amazing  plan, 
Thy  welfare,  Nature !  and  thy  God's  renown. 
That  touch,  with  charms  celestial,  heals  the  soul 
Diseased,  drives  pain  from  guilt,  lights  life  in  death, 
Turns  earth  to  heaven,  to  heavenly  thrones  trans- 
forms 
The  ghastly  ruins  of  the  mouldering  tomb. 

Dost  ask  me  when  ?    When  He  who  died,  re- 
turns ; 

Returns,  how  changed !  where  then  the  man  of  wo? 
In  Glory's  terrors  all  the  Godhead  burns, 
And  all  his  courts,  exhausted  by  the  tide 
Of  deities  triumphant  in  his  train, 
Leave  a  stupendous  solitude  in  Heaven; 
Replenished  soon,  replenished  with  increase 
Of  pomp  and  multitude ;  a  radiant  band 
Of  angels  new,  of  angels  from  the  tomb! 

Is  this  by  fancy  thrown  remote  1  and  rise 
Dark  doubts  between  the  promise  and  event  ? 
I  send  thee  not  to  volumes  for  thy  cure; 
Read  Nature ;  Nature  is  a  friend  to  truth; 
Nature  is  Christian ;  preaches  to  mankind, 
And  bids  dead  matter  aid  us  in  our  creed. 
Hast  thou  ne'er  seen  the  comet's  flaming  flight? 
The  illustrious  stranger  passing  terror  sheds 
On  gazing  nations  from  his  fiery  train, 
Of  length  enormous ;  takes  his  ample  round 
Through  depths  of  ether;  coasts  unnumbered 

worlds 

Of  more  than  solar  glory;  doubles  wide 
Heaven's  mighty  cape ;  and  then  revisits  earth, 
From  the  long  travel  of  a  thousand  years. 
Thus  at  the  destined  period  shall  return 
He,  once  on  earth,  who  bids  the  comet  blaze, 
And  with  Him  all  our  triumph  o'er  the  tomb. 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


23 


Nature  is  dumb  on  this  important  point, 
Or  Hope  precarious  in  low  whisper  breathes; 
Faith  speaks  aloiul,  distinct  j-ev'n  adders  hear, 
But  turn,  and  dart  into  the  dark  again. 
Faith  builds  a  bridge  across  the  gulf  of  death, 
To  break  the  shock  blind  Nature  can  not  shun, 
And  lands  Thought  smoothly  on  the  farther  shore. 
Death's  terror  is  the  mountain  faith  removes, 
That  mountain-barrier  between  man  and  peace. 
'Tis  faith  disarms  Destruction,  and  absolves 
From  every  clamorous  charge  the  guiltless  tomb. 

Why  disbelieve]  Lorenzo! — '  Reason  bids; 
All-sacred  Reason.' — Hold  her  sacred  still ; 
Nor  shall  thou  want  a  rival  in  thy  flame : 
All-sacred  Reason !  source  and  soul  of  all 
Demanding  praise  on  earth,  or  earth  above ! 
My  heart  is  thine  :  deep  in  its  inmost  folds 
Live  thou  with  life ;  live  dearer  of  the  two. 
Wear  I  the  blessed  Cross,  by  Fortune  stamp'd 
On  passive  Nature  before  Thought  was  born  1 
My  birth's  blind  bigot!  fired  with  local  zeal!— 
No  :  Reason  rebaptized  me  when  adult; 
Weighed  true  and  false  in  her  impartial  scale ; 
My  heart  became  the  convert  of  my  head, 
And  made  that  choice  which  once  was  but  my  fate. 
'  On  argument  alone  my  faith  is  built,' 
Reason  pursued  is  Faith;  and  unpursued, 
Where  proof  invites.'  tis  reason  then  no  more: 
And  such  our  proof,  that  or  our  Faith  is  right, 
Or  Reason  lies,  and  Heaven  designed  it  wrong. 
Absolve  we  this!  what  then  is  blasphemy'? — 

Fond  as  we  are,  and  justly  fond  of  Faith, 
Reason,  we  grant,  demands  our  first  regard  ; 
The  mother  honoured,  as  the  daughter  dear. 
Reason  the  root,  fair  Faith  is  but  the  flower; 
The  fading  flower  shall  die,  but  Reason  lives 
Immortal,  as  her  Father  in  the  skies ! 
When  faith  is  virtue,  reason  mak«s  it  so. 
Wrong  not  the  Christian;  think  not  Reason  yours; 
'Tis  Reason  our  great  Master  holds  so  dear; 
'Tis  Reason's  injured  rights  his  wrath  resents; 
'Tis  Reason's  voice  obeyed  his  glorious  crown : 
To  give  lost  Reason  life  he  poured  his  own. 
Believe,  and  show  the  reason  of  a  man ; 
Believe,  and  taste  the  pleasure  of  a  god ; 
Believe,  and  look  with  triumph  on  the  tomb. 
Through  Reason's  wounds  alone  thy  Faith  can 

die, 

Which  dying,  tenfold  terrors  gives  to  Death, 
And  dips  in  venom  his  twice-mortal  sting. 

Learn  hence  what  honours,  what  loud  paeans, 

due 

To  those  who  push  our  antidote  aside ; 
Those  boasted  friends  to  reason  and  to  man, 
Whose  fatal  love  stabs  every  joy,  and  leaves 
Death's  terror  heightened,  gnawing  on  his  heart. 
These  pompous  sons  of  Reason  idolized, 
And  vilified  at  once ;  of  Reason  dead, 
Then  deified,  a*  monarchs  were  of  old; 


What  conduct  plants  proud  laurels  on  their  brow! 
While  love  of  truth  through  all  their  camp  re- 
sounds, 

They  draw  Pride's  curtain  o'er  the  noon-tide  ray, 
Spike  up  their  inch  of  reason  on  the  point 
Of  philosophic  wit,  called  Argument, 
And  then  exulting  in  their  taper,  cry, 
1  Behold  the  sun!'  and,  Indian-like,  adore. 

Talk  they  of  morals  1  O  thou  bleeding  Love ! 
Thou  Maker  of  new  morals  to  mankind ! 
The  grand  morality -is  love  of  Thee.    . 
As  wise  as  Socrates,  if  such  they  were, 
(Nor  will  they  bate  of  that  sublime  renown,) 
As  wise  as  Socrates  might  justly  stand 
The  definition  of  a  modern  fool. 

A  Christian  is  the  highest  style  of  man ! 
And  is  there  who  the  blessed  cross  wipes  off, 
As  a  foul  blot,  from  his  dishonoured  brow  7 
If  angels  tremble,  'tis  at  such  a  sight : 
The  wretch  they  quit,  desponding  of  their  charge, 
More  struck  with  grief  or  wonder  who  can  tell  1 

Ye  sold  to  sense !  ye  citizens  of  earth ! 
(For  such  alone  the  Christian  banner  fly) 
Know  ye  how  wise  your  choice,  how  great  your 

gain"? 

Behold  the  picture  of  earth's  happiest  man : 
'  He  calls  his  wish,  it  comes ;  he  sends  it  back, 
And  says  he  called  another:  that  arrives, 
Meets  the  .same  welcome ;  yet  he  still  calls  on ; 
Till  one  calls  him,  who  varies  not  his  call, 
But  holds  him  fast,  in  chains  of  darkness  bound 
Till  Nature  dies,  and  Judgment  sets  him  free ; 
A  freedom  far  less  welcome  than  his  chain.' 

But  grant  man  happy ;  grant  him  happy  long ; 
Add  to  life's  highest  prize  her  latest  hour : 
That  hour,  so  late,  is  nimble  in  approach, 
That,  like  a  post,  comes  on  in  full  career. 
How  swift  the  shuttle  flies  that  weaves  thy  shroud! 
Where  is  the  fable  of  thy  former  years'? 
Thrown  down  the  gulf  of  time ;  as  far  from  thee 
As  they  had  ne'er  been  thine  :  the  day  in  hand, 
Like  a  bird  struggling  to  get  loose,  is  going ; 
Scarce  now  possessed,  so  suddenly  'tis  gone; 
And  each  swift  moment  fled,  is  death  advanced 
By  strides  as  swift.     Eternity  is  all ; 
And  whose  eternity  1  who  triumphs  there  7 
Bathing  for  ever  in  the  font  of  bliss ! 
For  ever  basking  in  the  Deity ! 
Lorenzo !  who? — thy  conscience  shall  reply. 

O  give  it  leave  to  speak ;  'twill  speak  ere  long, 
Thy  leave  unasked.     Lorenzo !  hear  it  now, 
While  useful  its  advice,  its  accent  mild. 
By  the  great  edict,  the  divjne  decree, 
Truth  is  deposited  with  man's  last  hour ; 
An  honest  hour,  and  faithful  to  her  trust  ; 
Truth  !  eldest  daughter  of  the  Deity; 
Truth  !  of  his  council  when  he  made  the  worlds ; 
tfor  less,  when  he  shall  judge  the  worlds  he  made; 
Though  silent  long,  and  sleeping  ne'er  so  sound, 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Smothered  with  errors,  and  oppressed  with  toys, 
That  heaven-commissioned  hour  no  sooner  calls, 
But  from  her  cavern  in  the  soul's  abyss, 
Like  him  they  fable  under  Mtna.  whelmed, 
The  goddess  bursts  in  thunder  and  in  flame, 
Loudly  convinces,  and  severely  pains. 
Dark  demons  I  discharge,  and  hydra-stings ; 
The  keen  vibration  of  bright  truth — is  hell ; 
Just  definition  !  though  by  schools  untaught. 
Ye  deaf  to  truth !  peruse  this  parsoned  page, 
And  trust,  for  once,  a  prophet  and  a  priest ; — 
'  Men  may  live  fools,  but  fools  they  can  not  die.' 


NIGHT  V. 

THE  RELAPSE. 

To  the  Right  Hon.  the  Earl  of .  Litchfield. 

LORENZO  !  to  recriminate  is  just. 

'  Fondness  for  fame  is  avarice  of  air.' 

I  grant  the  man  is  vain  who  writes  for  praise : 

Praise  no  man  e'er  deserved,  who  sought  no  more. 

As  just  thy  second  charge.     I  grant  the  Muse 
Has  often  blushed  at  her  degenerate  sons, 
Retained  by  Sense  to  plead  her  filthy  cause, 
To  raise  the  low,  to  magnify  the  mean, 
And  subtilize  the  gross  into  refined ; 
As  if  to  magic  numbers'  powerful  charm 
JTwas  given  to  make  a  civet  of  their  song 
Obscene,  and  sweeten  ordure  to  perfume. 
Wit,  a  true  pagan,  deifies  the  brute, 
And  lifts  our  swine-enjoyments  from  the  mire. 

The  fact  notorious,  nor  obscure  the  cause. 
We  wear  the  chains  of  pleasure  and  of  pride : 
These  share  the*man,  and  these  distract  him  too; 
Draw  different  ways,  and  clash  in  their  commands. 
Pride,  like  an  eagle,  builds  among  the  stars ; 
But  Pleasure,  lark-like,  nests  upon  the  ground, 
Joys,  shared  by  brute  creation,  Pride  resents ; 
Pleasure  embraces :  man  would  both  enjoy, 
And  both  at  once :  a  point  how  hard  to  gain ! 
But  what  can't  Wit,  when  stung  by  strong  desire  ? 

Wit  dares  attempt  this  arduous  enterprise. 
Since  joys  of  Sense  can't  rise  to  Reason's  taste, 
In  subtle  Sophistry's  laborious  forge 
Wit  hammers  out  a  reason  new,  that  stoops 
To  sordid  scenes,  and  meets  them  with  applause. 
Wit  calls  the  Graces  the  chaste  zone  to  loose, 
Nor  less  than  a  plump  god  to  fill  the  bowl : 
A  thousand  phantoms  and  a  thousand  spells, 
A  thousand  opiates  scatters  to  delude, 
To  fascinate,  inebriate,  lay  asleep, 
And  the  fooled  mind  delightfully  confound. 
Thus  that  which  shocked  the  judgment  shocks  no 

more; 

That  which  gave  pride  offence,  no  more  offends. 
Pleasure  and  Pride,  by  nature  mortal  foes, 


At  war  eternal,  which  in  man  shall  reign, 
By  Wit's  address  patch  up  a  fatal  peace, 
And  hand  in  hand  lead  on  the  rank  debauch, 
From  rank  refined  to  delicate  and  gay. 
Art,  cursed  Art !  wipes  off  the'  indebted  blush 
From  Nature's  cheek,  and  bronzes  every  shame. 
Man  smiles  in  ruin,  glories  in  his  guilt, 
And  Infamy  stands  candidate  for  praise. 

All  writ  by  man  in  favour  of  the  soul, 
These  sensual  ethics  far,  in  bulk,  transcend. 
The  flowers  of  eloquence,  profusely  poured 
O'er  spotted  Vice,  fill  half  the  lettered  world. 
Can  powers  of  genius  exorcise  their  page, 
And  consecrate  enormities  with  song  1 

But  let  not  these  inexpiable  strains 
Condemn  the  Muse  that  knows  her  dignity, 
Nor  meanly  stops  at  time,  but  holds  the  world 
As  'tis,  in  Nature's  ample  field,  a  point ; . 
A  point  in  her  esteem,  from  whence  to  start, 
And  run  the  round  of  universal  space, 
To  visit  being  universal  there, 
And  being's  Source,  that  utmost  flight  of  mind ! 
Yet  spite  of  this  so  vast  circumference, 
Well  knows  but  what  is  moral  nought  is  great. 
Sing  syrens  only  1  do  not  angels  sing  1 
There  is  in  Poesy  a  decent  pride, 
Which  well  becomes  her  when  she  speaks  to  Prose, 
Her  younger  sister,  haply  not  more  wise. 

Thinkest  thou,  Lorenzo,  to  find  pastimes  here  1 
No  guilty  passion  blown  into  a  flame, 
No  foible  flattered,  dignity  disgraced, 
No  fairy  field  of  fiction,  all  on  flower, 
No  rainbow-colours  here,  or  silken  tale ; 
But  solemn  counsels,  images  of  awe, 
Truths  which  Eternity  lets  fall  on  man, 
With  .double  weight,   through   these    revolving 

spheres, 

This  death-deep  silence,  and  incumbent  shade  : 
Thoughts  such  as  shall  revisit  your  last  hour, 
Visit  uncalled,  and  live  when  life  expires; 
And  thy  dark  pencil,  Midnight !  darker  still 
In  melancholy  dipped,  imbrowns  the  whole. 

Yet  this,  even  this,  my  laughter-loving  friends ! 
Lorenzo !  and  thy  brothers  of  the  smile  J 
If  what  imports  you  most  can  most  engage, 
Shall  steal  your  ear,  and  chain  you  to  my  song. 
Or  if  you  fail  me,  know  the  wise  shall  taste 
The  truths  I  sing  ;  the  truths  I  sing  shall  feel ; 
And,  feeling,  give  assent ;  and  their  assent 
Is  ample  recompense ;  is  more  than  praise. 
But  chiefly  thine,  O  Litchfield! — nor  mistake; 
Think  not  unintroduced  I  force  my  way : 
Narcissa,  not  unknown,  nor  unallied 
By  virtue,  or  by  blood,  illustrious  youth ! 
To  thee,  from  blooming  amaranthine  bowers, 
Where  all  the  language  harmony,  descends 
Uncalled,  and  asks  admittance  for  the  Muse ; 
A  Muse  that  will  not  pain  thee  with  thy  praise ; 
Thy  praise  she  drops,  by  nobler  still  inspired. 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


O  thou,  bless'd  Spirit !  whether  the  Supreme, 
Great  antemundane  Father !  in  whose  breast 
Embryo-Creation,  unborn  beinir.  dwi-lt, 
And  all  its  various  revolutions  rolled 
Present,  though  future,  prior  to  themselves; 
Whose  breath  can  blow  it  into  nought  again, 
Or  from  his  throne  some  delegated  power, 
Who,  studious  of  our  peace,  dost  turn  the  though 
From  vain  and  \ile  to  solid  and  sublime ! 
Unseen  thou  lead'st  me  to  delicious  draughts 
Of  inspiration,  from  a  purer  stream, 
And  fuller  of  the  God,  than  that  which  burst 
From  famed  Castalia ;  nor  is  yet  allayed 
My  sacred  thirst,  though  long  my  soul  has  rangec 
Through  pleasing  paths  of  moral  and  divine, 
By  thee  sustained,  and  lighted  by  the  stars. 

By  them  best  lighted  are  the  paths  of  thought 
Nighta  are  their  days,  their  most  illumined  hours 
By.  day  the  soul,  o'erborne  by  life's  career, 
Stunned  by  the  din,  and  giddy  with  the  glare, 
Reels  far  from  reason,  jostled  by  the  throng. 
By  day  the  soul  is  passive,  all  her  thoughts 
Imposed,  precarious,  broken,  ere  mature. 
By  night,  from  objects  free,  from  passion  cool, 
Thoughts  uncontrolled  and  unimpressed,  the  births 
Of  pure  election,  arbitrary  range, 
Not  to  the  limits  of  one  world  confined ; 
But  from  ethereal  travels  light  on  earth, 
As  voyagers  drop  anchor,  for  repose. 

Let  Indians,  and  the  gay,  like  Indians,  fond 
Of  feathered  fopperies,  the  sun  adore : 
Darkness  has  more  divinity  for  me ; 
It  strikes  thought  inward ;  it  drives  back  the  soul 
To  settle  on  herself,  our  point  supreme ! 
There  lies  our  theatre ;  there  sits  our  judge. 
Darkness  the  curtain  drops  o'er  life's  dull  scene ; 
'Tis  the  kind  hand  of  Providence  stjctched  out 
'Twixt  man  and  vanity;  'tis  Reason's  reign, 
And  Virtue's  too;  these  tutelary  shades 
Are  man's  asylum  from  the  tainted  throng. 
Night  is  the  good  man's  friend,  and  guardian  too; 
It  no  less  rescues  virtue  than  inspires. 

Virtue,  for  ever  frail  as  fair  below, 
Her  tender  nature  suffers  in  the  crowd, 
Nor  touches  on  the  world  without  a  stain. 
The  world's  infectious ;  few  bring  back  at  ere, 
Immaculate,  the  manners  of  the  morn. 
Something  we  thought,  is  blotted ;  we  resolved, 
Is  shaken ;  we  renounced,  returns  again. 
Each  salutation  may  slide  in  a  sin 
Unthought  before,  or  fix  a  firmer  flaw. 
Nor  is  it  strange ;  light,  motion,  concourse,  noise, 
All  scatter  us  abroad.     Thought,  outward-bound, 
Neglectful  of  our  home-affairs,  flies  off 
In  fume  and  dissipation,  quits  her  charge, 
And  leaves  the  breast  unguarded  to  the  foe. 

Present  example  gets  within  our  guard, 
And  acts  with  double  force,  by  few  repelled. 
Ambition  fires  ambition ;  love  of  gain 


Strikes,  like  a  pestilence,  from  breast  to  breast ; 

Riot,  pride,  perfidy,  blue  vapours  breathe ; 

And  inhumanity  is  caught  from  man, 

From  smih'ng  man !     A  slight,  a  single  glance, 

And  shot  at  random,  often  has  brought  home 

A  sudden  fever  to  the  throbbing  heart 

Of  envy,  rancour,  or  impure  desire. 

We  see,  we  hear,  with  peril:  Safety  dwells 

Remote  from  multitude.     The  world's  a  school 

Of  wrong,  and  what  proficients  swarm  around 

We  must  or  imitate  or  disapprove ; 

Must  list  as  their  accomplices  or  foes: 

That  stains  our  innocence,  this  wounds  our  peace. 

From  Nature's  birth,  hence,  Wisdom  has  been 

smit 
With  sweet  recess,  and  languished  for  the  shade. 

This  sacred  shade  and  solitude,  what  is  it? 
'Tis  the  felt  presence  of  the  Deity! 
Few  are  the  faults  we  flatter  when  alone ; 
Vice  sinks  in  her  allurements,  is  ungilt, 
And  looks,  like  other  objects,  black  by  night. 
By  night  an  atheist  half  believes  a  God ! 

Night  is  fair  Virtue's  immemorial  friend. 
The  conscious  Moon,  through  every  distant  age, 
Has  held  a  lamp  to  Wisdom,  and  let  fall, 
On  Contemplation's  eye,  her  purging  ray. 
The  famed"  Athenian,  he  who  wooed  from  Heaven 
Philosophy  the  fair,  to  dwell  with  men, 
And  form  their  manners,  not  inflame  their  pride; 
While  o'ej  his  head,  as  fearful  to  molest 
His  labouring  mind,  the  stars  in  silence  slide 
And  seem  all  gazing  on  their  future  guest, 
See  him  soliciting  his  ardent  suit 
In  private  audience :  all  the  live-long  night, 
Higid  in  thought,  and  motionless,  he  stands, 
Nor  quits  his  theme  or  posture  till  the  sun 
^Rude  drunkard !  rising  rosy  from  the  main) 
Disturbs  his  nobler  intellectual  beam, 
And  gives  him  to  the  tumult  of  the  world. 
Hail,  precious  moments,  stolen  from  the  black 

waste 

Of  murdered  time ;  auspicious  Midnight,  hail ! 
The  world  excluded,  every  passion  hushed, 
And  opened  a  calm  intercourse  with  Heaven, 
rlere  the  soul  sits  in  council,  ponders  past, 
Predestines  future  action ;  sees,  not  feels, 
Tumultuous  life,  and  reasons  with  the  storm, 
All  her  lies  answers,  and  thinks  down  her  charms. 
What  awful  joy !  what  mental  liberty ! 
am  not  pent  in  darkness ;  rather  say 
If  not  too  bold)  in  darkness  I'm  imbowered. 
Delightful  gloom !  the  clustering  thoughts  around 
pontaneous  rise,  and  blossom  in  the  shade; 
Jut  droop  by  day,  and  sicken  in  the  sun. 
Thought  borrows  light  elsewhere;  from  that  first 

fire, 

fountain  of  animation !  whence  descends 
Jrania,  my  celestial  guest !  who  deigns 
Vightly  to  visit  me,  so  mean;  and  now, 


26 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Conscious  how  needful  discipline  to  man, 
From  pleasing  dalliance  with  the  charms  of  night, 
My  wandering  thought  recalls,  to  what  excites 
Far  other  beat  of  heart,  Narcissa's  tomb'? 

Or  is  it  feeble  nature  calls  me  back, 
And  breaks  my  spirit  into  grief  again  7  ' 
Is  it  a  Stygian  vapour  in  my  blood  1 
A  cold  slow  puddle,  creeping  through  my  veins  1 
Or  is  it  thus  with  all  men?— Thus,  with  all. 
What  are  we1?  how  unequal;  now  we  soar, 
And  now  we  sink.     To  be  the  same,  transcends 
Our  present  prowess.     Dearly  pays  the  soul 
For  lodging  ill ;  too  dearly  rents  her  clay. 
Reason,  a  baffled  counsellor !  but  adds 
The  blush  of  weakness  to  the  bane  of  wo. 
The  noblest  spirit,  fighting  her  hard  fate 
In  this  damp,  dusky  region,  charged  with  storms, 
But  feebly  flutters,  yet  untaught  to  fly ; 
Or,  flying,  short  her  flight,  and  sure  her  fall: 
Our  utmost  strength,  when  down,  to  rise  again ; 
And  not  to  yield,  though  beaten,  all  our  praise. 

'Tis  vain  to  seek  in  men  for  more  than  man. 
Though  proud  in  promise,  big  in  previous  thought, 
Experience  damps  our  triumph.     I,  who  late 
Emerging  from  the  shadows  of  the  grave, 
Where  grief  detained  me  prisoner,  mqunting  high, 
Threw  wide  the  gates  of  everlasting  day. 
And  called  mankind  to  glory,  shook  off  pain, 
Mortality  shook  off,  in  ether  pure, 
And  struck  the  stars ;  now  feel  my  spirits  fail ; 
They  drop  me  from  the  zenith;  down  I  rush, 
Like  him  whom  fable  fledged  with  waxen  wings, 
In  sorrow  drowned — but  not  in  sorrow  lost. 
How  wretched  is  the  man  who  never  mourned ! 
I  dive  for  precious  pearl  in  Sorrow's  stream : 
Not  so  the  thoughtless  man  that  only  grieves, 
Takes  all  the  torment,  and  rejects  the  gain, 
(Inestimable  gain !)  and  gives  Heaven  leave 
To  make  him  but  more  wretched,  not  more  wise. 

If  wisdom  is  our  lesson  (and  what  else 
Ennobles  man  1  what  else  have  angels  learned  7) 
Grief !  more  proficients  in  thy  school  are  made, 
Than  Genius  or  proud  Learning  e'er  could  boast. 
Voracious  learning,  often  o'er-fed, 
Digests  not  into  sense  her  motley  meal. 
This  book-case,  with  dark  booty  almost  burst, 
This  forager  on  other's  wisdom,  leaves 
Her  native  farm,  her  reason,  quite  untilled ; 
With  mixed  manure  she  surfeits  the  rank  soil, 
Dunged,  but  not  drest,  and  rich  to  beggary : 
A  pomp  untameable  of  weeds  prevails ; 
Her    servant's    wealth,    incumbered,     Wisdom 
mourns. 

And  what  says  Genius  1  '  Let  the  dull  be  wise ;' 
Genius,  too  hard  for  right,  can  prove  it  wrong, 
And  loves  to  boast,  where  blush  men  less  inspired. 
It  pleads  exemption  from  the  laws  of  Sense, 
Considers  Reason  as  a  leveller, 
And  scorns  to  share  a  blessing  with  the  crowd. 


That  wise  it  could  be.  thinks  an  ample  claim; 
To  glory  and  to  pleasure  gives  the  rest. 
Crassus  but  sleeps,  Ardelio  is  undone, 
Wisdom  less  shudders  at  a  fool  than  wit. 

But  Wisdom  smiles,  when   humbled   mortals 

weep. 
When  Sorrow  wounds  the  breast,  as  ploughs  the 

glebe, 

And  hearts  obdurate  feel  her  softening  shower, 
Her  seed  celestial,  then,  glad  Wisdom  sows  ; 
Her  golden  harvest  triumphs  in  the  soil. 
If  so,  Narcissa,  welcome  my  relapse; 
I'll  raise  a  tax  on  my  calamity, 
And  reap  rich  compensation  from  my  pain. 
I'll  range  the  plenteous  intellectual  field, 
And  gather  every  thought  of  sovereign  power 
To  chase  the  moral  maladies  of  man ;    , 
Thoughts  which  may  bear  transplanting  to  the 

skies, 

Though  natives  of  this  coarse  penurious  soil ; 
Nor  wholly  wither  there,  where  seraphs  sing, 
Refined,  exalted,  not  annulled,  in  Heaven: 
Reason,  the  sun  that  gives  them  birth,  the  same 
In  either  clime,  though  more  illustrious  there. 
These  choicely  culled,  and  elegantly  ranged,     , 
Shall  form  a  garland  for  Narcissa's  tomb, 
And,  peradventure,  of  no  fading  flowers. 

Say,  on  what  themes  shall  puzzled  choice  de- 
scend'? 

'  The  importance  of  contemplating  the  tomb ; 
Why  men  decline  it;  suicide's  foul  birth  ; 
The  various  kinds  of  grief;  the  faults  of  age; 
And  death's  dread  character — invite  my  song.' 

And,  first,  the  importance  of  our  end  surveyed. 
Friends  counsel  quick  dismission  of  our  grief. 
Mistaken  kindness  !  our  hearts  heal  too  soon. 
Are  they  more  kind  than  He  who  struck  the  blow? 
Who  bid  it  do  its  errand  in  our  hearts, 
And  banish  peace  till  nobler  guests  arrive, 
And  bring  it  back  a  true  and  endless  peace  .- 
Calamities  are  friends,  as  glaring  day 
Of  these  unnumbered  lustres  rob  our  sight, 
Prosperity  puts  out  unnumbered  thoughts. 
Of  import  high,  and  light  divine  to  man. 

The  man  how  blessed,  who,  sick  of  gaudy  scenes, 
(Scenes  apt  to  thrust  between  us  and  ourselves!) 
Is  led  by  choice  to  take  his  favourite  walk 
Beneath  Death's  gloomy,  silent,  cypress  shades, 
Unpierced  by  Vanity's  fantastic  ray ; 
To  read  his  monuments,  to  weigh  his  dust, 
Visit  his  vaults,  and  dwell  among  the  tombs  ! 
Lorenzo !  read  with  me  Narcissa's  stone  j 
(Narcissa  was  thy  favourite)  let  us  read 
Her  moral  stone ;  few  doctors  preach  so  well  ; 
Few  orators  so  tenderly  can  touch 
The  feeling  heart.    What  pathos  in  the  date ! 
Apt  words  can  strike;  and  yet  in  them  we  see 
Faint  images  of  what  we  here  enjoy. 
What  cause  have  we  to  build  on  length  of  life  ? 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


M'i/.e  \vh.-n  t.-iir  is  laid  asleep, 
And  ill  foreboded  is  our  strongest  guard. 

r'roin  IUT  tomb,  as  from  an  humble  shrine, 
Truth,  radiant  goddess  !  sallies  on  my  soul, 
And  puts  Delusion's  dusky  train  to  flight ; 

-  the  mist  our  sultry  passions  raise, 
From  objects  low,  terrestrial,  and  obscene, 
And  shows  the  real  estimate  of  things, 
Which  no  man,  unafflicted  ever  saw; 
Pulls  off  the  veil  from  Virtue's  rising  charms ; 
Detects  temptation  in  a  thousand  lies. 
Truth  bids  me  look  on  men  as  autumn-leaves, 
And  all  they  bleed  for  as  the  summer's  dust 
Driven  by  the  whirlwind:  lighted  by  her  beams, 
I  widen  my  horizon,  gain  new  powers, 
invisible,  feel  things  remote, 
Am  present  with  futurities;  think  nought 
To  man  so  foreign,  as  the  joys  possessed, 
Nought  so  much  his  as  those  beyond  the  grave. 

:  )lly  keeps  its  colour  in  her  si^ht; 
Pale  worldly  Wisdom  loses  all  her  charms. 
In  pompous  promise  from  her  schemes  profound, 
If  future  fato  she  plans,  'tis  all  in  leaves, 
Like  sybil,  unsubstantial,  fleeting  bliss  ! 
At  the  first  blast  it  vanishes  in  air. 
Not  so  celestial.     Wouldst  thou  know,  Lorenzo! 
How  differ  wordly  wisdom  and  divine'? 
Just  as  the  waning  and  the  waxing  moon. 
More  empty  worldly  wisdom  every  day, 
And  every  day  more  fair  her  rival  shines. 
When  later,  there's  less  time  to  play  the  fool. 
Soon  our  whole  turn  for  Wisdom  is  expired, 
(Thou  knowest  she  calls  no  council  in  the  grave) 
And  everlasting  fool  is  writ  in  fire, 
Or  real  wisdom  wafts  us  to  the  skies. 

As  worldly  schemes  resemble  sybils'  leaves, 
The  good  man's  days  to  sybils'  books  compare, 
(In  ancient  story  read,  thou  know'st  the  tale) 
In  price  still  rising  as  in  number  less, 
Inestimable  quite  his  final  hour. 
For  that  who  thrones  can  offer,  offer  thrones ; 
Insolvent  worlds  the  purchase  can  not  pay. 
1  Oh  let  me  die  his  death !'  all  Nature  cries. 
1  Then  live  his  life.'— All  Nature  falters  there; 
Our  great  physician  daily  to  consult, 
To  commune  with  the  grave  our  only  cure. 

What  grave  prescribes  the  best? — A  friend's; 

and  yet 

From  a  friend's  grave  how  soon  we  disengage  ! 
Ev'n  to  the  dearest,  as  his  marble,  cold. 
Why  are  friends  rarished  from  us?  'tis  to  bind, 
By  soft  Affection's  ties,  on  human  hearts 
The  thought  of  Death,  which  reason,  too  supine, 
Or  misemployed,  so  rarely  fastens  there. 
Nor  Reason  nor  Affection,  no,  nor  both 
Combined,  can  break  the  witchcrafts  of  the  world. 
Behold  the  inexorable  hour  at  hand  ; 
Behold  the  inexorable  hour  forgot ! 
And  to  forget  it  the  chief  aim  of  life, 


Though  well  to  ponder  it  is  life's  chief  end. 
Is  Death,  that  ever-threatening,  ne'er  remote, 
That  all-important,  and  that  only  sure, 
(Come  when  he  will)  an  unexpected  guest  1 
Nay,  though  invited  by  the  loudest  calls 
Of  blind  Imprudence,  unexpected  still ; 
Though  numerous  messengers  are  sent  before, 
To  warn  his  great  arrival !  What  the  cause, 
The  wondrous  cause,  of  this  mysterious  ill  ? 
All  Heaven  looks  down,  astonished  at  the  sight ! 

Is  it  that  Life  has  sown  her  joys  so  thick, 
We  can't  thrust  in  a  single  care  between"? 
Is  it  that  Life  has  such  a  swarm  of  cares, 
The  thought  of. Death  can't  enter  for  the  throng? 
Is  it  that  Time  steals  on  with  downy  feet, 
Nor  wakes  Indulgence  from  her  golden  dream  1 
To-day  is  so  like  yesterday,  it  cheats ', 
We  take  the  lying  sister  for  the  same. 
Life  glides  away,  Lorenzo!  like  a  brook, 
For  ever  changing,  unperceived  the  change, 
In  the  same  brook  none  ever  bathed  him  twice ; 
To  the  same  life  none  ever  twice  awoke. 
We  call  the  brook  the  same;  the  same  we  think 
Our  life,  though  still  more  rapid  in  its  flow, 
Nor  mark  the  much  irrevflHroly  lapsed, 
And  mingled  with  the  sea.     Or  shall  we  say 
(Retaining  still  the  brook  to  bear  us  on) 
That  life  is  like  a  vessel  on  the  stream'? 
In  life  embarked,  we  smoothly  down  the  tide 
Of  time  descend,  but  not  on  time  intent ; 
Amused,  unconscious  of  the  gliding  wave, 
Till  on  a  sudden  we  perceive  a  shock ; 
We  start,  awake,  look  out:  what  see  we  there? — 
Our  brittle  bark  is  burst  on  Charon's  shore. 

Is  this  the  cause  Death  flies  all  human  thought? 
Or  is  it  Judgment  by  the  Will  struck  blind, 
That  domineering  mistress  of  the  soul ! 
Like  him  so  strong,  by  Dalilah  the  fair  ? 
Or  is  it  Fear  turns  startled  Reason  back. 
From  looking  down  a  precipice  so  steep  ? — 
'Tis  dreadful;  and  the  dread  is  wisely  placed 
By  Nature,  conscious  of  the  make  of  man. 
A  dreadful  friend  it  is,  a  terror  kind, 
A  flaming  sword  to  guard  the  tree  of  Life. 
By  that  unawed,  in  life's  most  smiling  hour 
The  good  man  would  repine :  would  suffer  joys, 
And  burn  impatient  for  his  promised  skies, 
The  bad,  on  each  punctilious  pique  of  pride, 
Or  gloom  of  humour,  would  give  Rage  the  rein, 
Bound  o'er  the  barrier,  rush  into  the  dark, 
And  mar  the  scenes  of  Providence  below. 

What  groan  was  that,  Lorenzo? — Furies !  rise, 
And  drown  in  your  less  execrable  yell, 
Britannia's  shame.    There  took  her  gloomy  flight, 
On  wing  impetuous,  a  black  sullen  soul. 
Blasted  from  hell,  with  horrid  lust  of  death. 
Thy  friend,  the  brave,  the  gallant  Altamont, 
So  called,  so  thought — and  then  he  fled  the  field ; 
Less  base  the  fear  of  death  than  fear  of  life. 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


O  Britain!  infamous  for  suicide ! 
An  island,  in  thy  manners :  far  disjoined 
From  the  whole  world  of  rationals  besides ! 
In  ambient  waves  plunge  thy  polluted  head, 
Wash  the  dire  stain,  nor  shock  the  continent. 

But  thou  be  shocked,  while  I  detect  the  cause 
Of  self-assault,  expose  the  monster's  birth, 
And  bid  abhorrence  hiss  it  round  the  world. 
Blame  not  thy 'clime,  nor  chide  the  distant  sun; 
The  sun  is  innocent,  thy  clime  absolved.- 
Immoral  climes  kind  Nature  never  made. 
The  cause  I  sing,  in  Eden  might  prevail, 
And  proves  it  is  thy  folly,  not  thy  fate. 

The  soul  of  man,  (let  man  in  homage  bow, 
Who  names  his  soul)  a  native  of  the  skies ! 
High-born  and  free,  her  freedom  should  maintain, 
Unsold,  unmortgaged  for  earth's  little  bribes. 
The  illustrious  stranger,  in  this  foreign  land, 
Like  strangers,  jealous  of  her  dignity, 
Studious  of  home,  and  ardent  to  return. 
Of  earth  suspicious,  earth's  enchanted  cup 
With  cool  reserve  light  touching,  should  indulge 
On  immortality,  her  godlike  taste ; 
There  take  large  draughts ;  make  her  chief  ban- 
quet there. 

But  some  reject  this  sustenance  divine, 
To  beggarly  vile  appetites  descend, 
Ask  alms  of  earth,  for  guests  that  came  from 

Heaven ! 

Sink  into  slaves,  and  sell,  for  present  hire, 
Their  rich  reversion,  and  (what  shares  its  fate) 
Their  native  freedom,  to  the  prince  who  sways 
This  nether  world :  and  when  his  payments  fail, 
When  his  foul  basket  gorges  them  no  more, 
Or  their  palled  palates  loath  the  basket  full, 
Are  instantly,  with  wild  demoniac  rage, 
For  breaking  all  the  chains  of  Providence, 
And  bursting  their  confinement,  though  fast  barred 
By  laws  divine  and  human,  guarded  strong 
With  horrors  doubled  to  defend  the  pass, 
The  blackest  Nature  or  dire  guilt  can  raise, 
And  moated  round  with  fathomless  destruction, 
Sure  to  receive  and  whelm  them  in  their  fall. 

Such,  Britons !  is  the  cause,  to  you  unknown, 
Or,  worse,  o'erlooked;  o'erlooked  by  magistrates, 
Thus  criminals  themselves!  I  grant  the  deed 
Is  madness;  but  the  madness  of  the  heart. 
And  what  is  that  1  our  utmost  bound  of  guilt. 
A  sensual  unreflecting  life  is  big 
With  monstrous  births,  and  Suicide,  to  crown 
The  black  infernal  brood.     The  bold  to  break 
Heaven's  law  supreme,  and  desperately  rush 
Through  sacred  Nature's  murder,  on  their  own, 
Because  they  never  think  of  death,  they  die. 
'Tis  equally  man's  duty,  glory,  gain, 
At  once  to  shun,  and  meditate  his  end. 
When  by  the  bed  of  languishment  we  sit, 
(The  seat  of  Wisdom!  if  our  choice,  not  fate) 
Or  o'er  our  dying  friends  in  anguish  hang 


Wipe  the  cold  dew,  or  stay  the  sinking  head ; 

Number  their  moments,  and  in  every  clock 

Start  at  the  voice  of  an  eternity; 

See  the  dim  lamp  of  life  just  feebly  lift 

An  agonizing  beam,  at  us  to  gaze, 

Then  sink  again,  and  quiver  into  death, 

That  most  pathetic  herald  of  our  own; 

How  read  we  such  sad  scenes?    As  sent  to  man 

In  perfect  vengeance?  no;  in  "pity  sent, 

To  meft  him  down,  like  wax,  and  then  impress, 

Indelible,  Death's  image  on  his  heart, 

Bleeding  for  others,  trembling  for  himself. 

We  bleed,  we  tremble,  we  forget,  we  smile, 

The  mind  turns  fool  before  the  cheek  is  dry. 

Our  quick-returning  folly  cancels  all, 

As  the  tide  rushing  razes  what  is  writ 

In  yielding  sands,  and  smoothes  the  lettered  shore. 

Lorenzo !  hast  thou  ever  weighed  a  sigh  1 
Or  studied  the  philosophy  of  tears  1 
(A  science  yet  unlectured  in  our  schools !) 
Hast  thou  descended  deep  into  the  breast, 
And  seen  their  source  1  if  not,  descend  with  me, 
And  trace  these  briny  rivulets  to  their  springs. 

Our  funeral  tears  from  different  causes  rise : 
As  if  from  separate  cisterns  in  the  soul, 
Of  various  kinds  they  flow.    From  tender  hearts, 
By  soft  contagion  called,  some  burst  at  once, 
And  stream  obsequious  to  the  leading  eye : 
Some  ask  more  time,  by  curious  art  distilled. 
Some  hearts,  in  secret  hard,  unapt  to  melt, 
Struck  by  the  magic  of  the  public  eye, 
Like  Moses'  smitten  rock,  gush  out  amain: 
Some  weep  to  share  the  fame  of  the  deceased, 
So  high  in  merit,  and  to  them  so  dear: 
They  dwell  on  praises  which  they  think  they  share, 
And  thus,  without  a  blush,  commend  themselves. 
Some  mourn,  in  proof  that  something  they  could 

love ; 

They  weep  not  to  relieve  their  grief,  but  show. 
Some  weep  in  perfect  justice  to  the  dead, 
As  conscious  all  their  love  is  in  arrear. 
Some  mischievously  weep,  not  unapprised 
Tears  sometimes  aid  the  conquest  of  an  eye. 
With  what  address  the  soft  Ephesians  draw 
Their  sable  network  o'er  entangled  hearts'? 
As  seen  through  crystal,  how  their  roses  glow, 
While   liquid  pearl  runs  trickling  down   their 

cheek? 

Of  her's  not  prouder  Egypt's  wanton  queen, 
Carousing  gems,  herself  dissolved  in  love. 
Some  weep  at  death,  abstracted  from  the  dead, 
And  celebrate,  like  Charles,  their  own  decease. 
By  kind  construction  some  are  deemed  to  weep, 
Because  a  decent  veil  conceals  their  joy. 
Some  weep  in  earnest,  and  yet  weep  in  vain, 
As  deep  in  indiscretion  as  in  wo. 
Passion,  blind  passion!  impotently  pours 
Tears  that  deserve  more  tears;    while  Reason 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


29 


Or  gazes,  like  an  idiot,  unconcerned, 
Nor  comprehends  the  meaning  of  the  storm; 
Knows  not  it  sj>eaks  to  her,  and  her  alone. 
Irrationals  all  sorrows  are  beneath, 
That  noble  gift !  that  priv  ilege  of  man ! 
From  sorrow's  pang,  the  birth  of  endless  joy: 
But  these  are  barren  of  that  birth  divine; 
They  weep  impetuous  as  the  summer-storm, 
And  full  as  short !  the  cruel  grief  soon  tam'd, 
They  make  a  pastime  of  the  stingless  tale; 
Far  as  the  deep-resounding  knell  they  spread 
The  dreadful  news,  and  hardly  feel  it  more: 
No  grain  of  wisdom  pays  them  for  their  wo. 

Half-round  the  globe  the  tears  pumped  up  by 

death 

Are  spent  in  watering  vanities  of  life; 
In  making  folly  nourish  still  more  fair. 
When  the  sick  soul,  her  wonted  stay  withdrawn, 
Reclines  on  earth  and  sorrows  in  the  dust ; 
Instead  of  learning  there  her  true  support, 
(Though  there  thrown  down  her  true  support  to 

leam,) 

Without  Heaven's  aid,  impatient  to  be  blest, 
She  crawls  to  the  next  shrub  or  bramble  vile, 
Though  from  the  stately  cedar's  arms  she  fell; 
With  stale  foresworn  embraces  clings  anew, 
The  stranger  weds,  and  blossoms  as  before, 
In  all  the  fruitless  fopperies  of  life, 
Presents  her  weed,  well-fancied  at  the  ball, 
And  raffles  for  the  death's-head  on  the  ring. 

So  wept  Aurelia,  till  the  destined  youth 
Stept  in  with  his  receipt  for  making  smiles, 
And  blanching  sables  into,  bridal  bloom. 
So  wept  Lorenzo  fair  Clarissa's  fate, 
Who  gave  that  angel-boy  on  whom  he  dotes, 
And  died  to  give  him,  orphaned  in  h^is  birth ! 
Not  such,  Narcissa !  my  distress  for  thee. 
I'll  make  an  altar  of  thy  sacred  tomb, 
To  sacrifice  to  Wisdom.— What  wast  thou  1 
1  Young,  gay,  and  fortunate!'  Each  yields  a  theme: 
I'll  dwell  on  each,  to  shun  thought  more  severe ; 
(Heaven  knows  I  labour  with  severer  still !) 
I'll  dwell  on  each,  and  quite  exhaust  thy  death. 
A  soul  without  reflection,  like  a  pile 
Without  inhabitant,  to  ruin  runs. 

And,  first,  thy  youth:  what  says  it  to  gray 

hairs  7 

Narcissa !  I'm  become  thy  pupil  now. 
Early,  bright,  transient,  chaste,  as  morning  dew, 
She  sparkled,  was  exhaled,  and  went  to  Heaven  ! 
Time  on  this  head  has  snowed,  yet  still  'tis  borne 
Aloft,  nor  thinks  but  on  another's  grave. 
Covered  with  shame  I  speak  it,  age  severe 
Old  worn-out  vice  sets  down  for  virtue  fair ; 
With  graceless  gravity  chastising  youth, 
That  youth  chastised  surpassing  in  a  fault, 
Father  of  all,  forgetfulness  of  death  ! 
As  if,  like  objects  pressing  on  the  sight, 
Death  had  advanced  too  near  us  to  be  seen ; 


Or  that  life's  loan  Time  ripened  into  right, 
And  men  might  plead  prescription  from  the  grave ; 
Deathless,  from  repetition  of  reprieve. 
Deathless  1  far  from  it !  such  are  dead  already ; 
Their  hearts  are  buried,  and  the  world  their  grave. 

Tell  me,  some  god !  my  guardian  angel !  tell 
What  thus  infatuates  1  what  enchantment  plants 
The  phantom  of  an  age  'twixt  us  and  Death, 
Already  at  the  door "?  He  knocks ;  we  hear  him, 
And  yet  we  will  not  hear.    What  mail  defends 
Our  untouched  hearts  1  what  miracle  turns  off 
The  pointed  thought,  which  from  a  thousand 

quivers 

Is  daily  darted,  and  is"  daily  shunned! 
We  stand,  as  in  a  battle,  throngs  on  throngs 
Around  us  falling,  wounded  oft  ourselves, 
Though  bleeding  with  our  wounds,  immortal  still ! 
We  see  Time's  furrows  on  another's  brow, 
And  Death  intrenched,  preparing  his  assault ; 
How  few  themselves  in  that  just  mirror  see ! 
Or,  seeing,  draw  their  inference  as  strong ! 
There  death  is  certain ;  doubtful  here :  he  must, 
And  soon:  we  may,  within  an  age,  expire, 
Though  gray  our  heads,  our  thoughts  and  amis  are 

green: 

Like  damaged  clocks,  whose  hand  and  bell  dissent, 
Folly  sings  six,  while  Nature  points  at  twelve. 

Absurd  longevity !  more,  more,  it  cries : 
More  life,  more  wealth,  more  trash  of  every  kind. 
And  wherefore  mad  for  more,  w'hen  relish  fails'? 
Object  and  appetite  must  club  for  joy : 
Shall  Folly  labour  hard  to  mend  the  bow, 
Bawbles,  I  mean,  that  strike  us  from  without, 
While  Nature  is  relaxing  every  string ! 
Ask  Thought  for  joy;  grow  rich,  and  hoard  within, 
Think  you  the  soul,  when  this  life's  rattles  cease, 
Has  nothing  of  more  manly  to  succeed  1 
Contract  the  taste  immortal ;  learn  even  now 
To  relish  what  alone  subsists  hereafter. 
Divine,  or  none,  henceforth,  your  joys  for  ever ; 
Of  age,  the  glory  is  to  wish  to  die : 
That  wish  is  praise  and  promise ;  it  applauds 
Past  life,  and  promises  our  future  bliss. 
What  weakness  see  not  children  in  their  sires ! 
Grand  climacterical  absurdities ! 
Gray-hair'd  authority,  to  faults  of  youth 
How  shocking  !  it  makes  folly  thrice  a  fool ; 
And  our  first  childhood  might  our  last  despise. 
Peace  and  esteem  is  all  that  age  can  hope : 
Nothing  but  wisdom  gives  the  first ;  the  last 
Nothing  but  the  repute  of  being  wise. 
Folly  bars  both :  our  age  is  quite  undone. 

What  folly  can  be  ranker  1  like  our  shadows, 
Our  wishes  lengthen  as  our  sun  declines. 
No  wish  should  loiter,  then,  this  side  the  grave. 
Our  hearts  should  leave  the  world  before  the  knell 
Cafls  for  our  carcasses  to  mend  the  soil. 
Enough  to  live  in  tempest — die  in  port ; 
Age  should  fly  concourse,  cover  in  retreat 


30 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Defects  of  judgment,  and  the  will  subdue : 
Walk  thoughtful  on  the  silent  solemn  shore 
Of  that  vast  ocean  it  must  sail  <so  soon, 
And  put  good  works  on  board,  and  wait  the  wind 
That  shortly  blows  us  into  worjds'unknown : 
If  unconsidered,  too," a  dreadful  scene! 

All  should  be  prophets  to  themselves— foresee 
Their  future  fate— their  future  fate  foretaste : 
This  art  would  waste  the  bitterness  of  death. 
The  thought  of  death  alone  the  fear  destroys : 
A  disaffection  to  that  precious  thought 
Is  more  than  midnight  darkness  on  the  soul, 
Which  sleeps  beneath  it  on  a  precipice, 
Puffed  off  by  the  first  blast,  and  lost  for  ever. 

Dost  ask,  Lorenzo,  why  so  warmly  prest, 
By  repetition  hammered  on  thine  ear, 
The  thought  of  Death  1  that  thought  is  the  ma- 
chine, 

The  grand  machine,  that  heaves  us  from  the  dust, 
And  rears  us  into  men.  The  thought,  ply'd  home, 
Will  soon  reduce  the  ghastly  precipice 
O'erhanging  hell,  will  soften  the  descent, 
And  gently  slope  our  passage  to  the  grave. 
How  warmly  to  be  wish'd ;  what  heart  of  flesh 
Would  trifle  with  tremendous  1  dare  extremes  1 
Yawn  over  the  fate  of  infinite!  what  hand, 
Beyond  the  blackest  brand  of  censure  bold, 
(To  speak  a  language  too  well  known  to  thee) 
Would  at  a  moment  give  its  all  to  Chance, 
And  stamp  the  dye  for  an  Eternity. 

Aid  me,  Narcissa ;  aid  me  to  keep  pace 
With  Destiny,  and,  ere  her  scissars  cut 
My  thread  of  life,  to  break  this  tougher  thread 
Of  moral  death  that  ties  me  to  the  world. 
Sting  thou  my  slumbering  Reason,  to  send  forth 
A  thought  of  observation  on  the  foe ; 
To  sally  and  survey  the  rapid  march 
Of  his  ten  thousand  messengers  to  man, 
Who,  Jehu-like,  behind  him  turns  them  all. 
All  accident  apart,  by  Nature  sign'd, 
My  warrant  is  gone  out,  though  dormant  yet; 
Perhaps  behind  one  moment  lurks  my  fate. 
Must  I  then  forward  only  look  for  Death  1 — 
Backward  I  turn  mine  eye.  and  find  him  there. 
Man  is  a  self-survivor  every  year. 
Man,  like  a  stream,  is  in  perpetual  flow. 
Death's  a  destroyer  of  quotidian  prey: 
My  youth,  my  noon-tide  his — my  yesterday: 
The  bold  invader  shares  the  present  hour : 
Each  moment  on  the  former  shuts  the  grave. 
While  man  is  growing,  life  is  in  decrease, 
And  cradles  rock  us  nearer  to  the  tomb. 
Our  birth  is  nothing  but  our  death  begun, 
As  tapers  waste  that  instant  they  take  fire. 

Shall  we  then  fear  lest  that  should  come  to  pass, 
Which  comes  to  pass  each  moment  of  our  lives? 
If  fear  we  must,  let  that  Death  turn  us  pale 
Which  murders  strength  and  ardour;  what  re- 
mains 


Should  rather  call  on  Death  than  dread  his  call. 
Ye  partners  of  rny  fault,  and  my  decline, 
Thoughtless  of  death  but  when  your  neighbour's 

kneUV 

(Rude  visitant)  knocks  hard  at  your  dull  sense, 
And  with  its  thunder  scarce  obtains  your  ear. 
Be  death  your  theme,  in  every  place  and  hour ; 
Nor  longer  want,  ye  monumental  sires, 
A  brother-tomb  to  tell  you — you  shall  die. 
That  death  you  dread,  (so  great  is  Nature's  skill ;) 
Know  you  shall  court,  before  you  shall  enjoy. 

But  you  are  learned :  in  volumes  deep  you  sit, 
In  wisdom  shallow.     Pompous  ignorance ! 
Would  you  be  still  more  learned  than  the  learned? 
Learn  well  to  know  how  much  need  not  be  known, 
And  what  that  knowledge  which  impairs  your 

sense. 

Our  needful  knowledge,  like  our  needful  food, 
Unhedg'd,  lies  open  in  Life's  common  field, 
And  bids  all  welcome  to  the  vital  feast. 
You  scorn  what  lies  before  you  in  the  page 
Of  Nature  and  Experience,  moral  truth  ; 
Of  indispensable  eternal  fruit ; 
Fruit  on  which  mortals  feeding,  turn  to  gods, 
And  dfve  in  science  for  distinguish'd  names, 
Dishonest  fomentation  of  your  pride, 
Sinking  in  virtue  as  you  rise  in  fame. 
Your  learning,  like  the  lunar  beam,  affords 
Light,  but  not  heat;  it  leaves  you  undevout, 
Frozen  at  heart  while  speculation  shines. 
Awake,  ye  curious  Indagators !  fond 
Of  knowing  all  but  what  avails  you,  known. 
If  you  would  learn  Death's  character,  attend. 
All  casts  of  conduct,  all  degrees  of  health. 
All  dyes  of  fortune,  and  all  dates  of  age, 
Together  shook  in  his  impartial  urn, 
Come  forth  at  random:  or,  if  choice  is  made, 
The  choice  is  quite  sarcastic,  and  insults 
All  bold  conjecture  and  fond  hopes  of  man. 
What  countless  multitudes  not  only  leave, 
But  deeply  disappoint  us,  by  their  deaths ! 
Though  great  our  sorrow,  greater  our  surprise. 

Like  other  tyrants,  Death  delights  to  smite 
What,  smitten,  most  proclaims  the  pride  of  power 
And  arbitrary  nod.     His  joy  supreme, 
To  bid  the  wretch  survive  the  fortunate ; 
The  feeble  wrap  the  athletic  in  his  shroud ; 
And  weeping  fathers  build  their  children's  tomb: 
Me  thine,  Narcissa! — What,  though  short  thy 

date'? 

Virtue,  not  rolling  suns,  the  mind  matures. 
That  life  is  long  which  answers  life's  great  end. 
The  time  that  bears  no  fruit  deserves  no  name. 
The  man  of  wisdom  is  the  man  of  years. 
In  hoary  youth  Methusalems  may  die ; 
O  how  misdated  on  their  flattering  tombs ; 

Narcissa's  youth  has  lectured  me  thus  far : 
And  can  her  gaiety  give  counsel  too? 
That  like  the  Jews'  famed  oracle  of  gems, 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


Sjkirklea  instruction ;  such  as  throws  new  light, 
And  opens  more  the  character  of  Death, 
111  known  to  thee,  Lorenzo!  this  thy  vaunt  !— 
K>ath  his  due,  the  wretched  and  the  old; 
K\'n  let  him  sw»vp  his  rubbish  to  the  grave; 
Let  him  not  violate  kiinl  nature's  1 
But  own  man  born  to  live  as  well  as  die,' — 
Wretched  and  oldthou  giv'st  him  ;  young  and  gay 
He  takes;  and  plunder  is  a  tyrant's  joy. 
What  if  I  prove,  '  the  farthest  from  the  fear 
Are  often  nearest  to  the  stroke  of  fate  V 

All,  more  than  common,  menaces  an  end. 
A  Maze  betokens  brevity  of  life: 
As  if  hri;:!it  eml>ers  should  emit  a  flame, 
Glad  spirits  sparkled  from  Narciss-a's  eye, 
And  made  Youth  younger,  and  taught  life  to  live. 
As  natures  opposites  wage  endless  war, 
For  this  oflence.  as  treason  to  the  deep 
Imiolable  stupor  of  his  reign, 
Where  lust  and  turbulent  ambition  sleep, 
Death  took  swift  vengeance.     As  he  life  detests, 
More  life  is  still  jnore  odious;  and,  reduced 
By  conquest,  aggrandizes  more  lu's  power. 
But  wherefore  aggrandized? — By  Heaven's  decree 
To  plant  the  soul  on  her  eternal  guard, 
In  awful  expectation  of  our  end. 
Thus  runs  Death's  dread  commission ;   '  Strike 

but  so 

As  most  alarms  the  living  by  the  dead.' 
Hence  stratagem  delights  him,  and  surprise, 
And  cruel  sport  with  man's  securities. 
Not  simple  conquest,  triumph  is  his  aim ; 
And  where  least  feared,  there  conquest  triumphs 

most. 
This  proves  my  bold  assertion  not  too  bold. 

What  are  his  arts  to  lay  our  fears  asleep? 
Tiberian  arts  his  purposes  wrap  up 
In  deep  Dissimulation's  darkest  night. 
Like  princes  unconfess'd  in  foreign  courts, 
Who  travel  under  cover,  Death  assumes 
The  name  and  look  of  Life,  and  dwells  among  us: 
He  takes  all  shapes  that  serve  his  black  designs: 
Though  master  of  a  wider  empire  far 
Than  that  o'er  which  the  Roman  eagle  flew. 
Like  Nero,  he's  a  fiddler,  charioteer : 
Or  drives  his  phaeton  in  female  guise ; 
Gluite  unsuspected,  till,  the  wheel  beneath, 
His  disarray'd  oblation  he  devours. 

He  most  affects  the  forms  least  like  himself, 
His  slender  self:  hence  burly  corpulence 
Is  his  familiar  wear,  and  sleek  disguise. 
Behind  the  rosy  bloom  he  loves  to  lurk, 
Or  ambush  in  a  smile ;  or,  wanton,  dive 
In  dimples  deep;  Love's  eddies,  which  draw  in 
Unwary  hearts,  and  sink  them  in  despair. 
Such  on  Narcissa's  couch  he  loitered  long 
Unknown,  and  when  detected,  still  was  seen 
To  smile :  such  peace  has  Innocence  in  death ! 

Most  happy  they,  whom  least  his  arts  deceive ! 
16 


One  eye  on  death,  and  one  full  fixed  on  heaven, 
Becomes  a  mortal  and  immortal  man. 
Long  on  his  wiles  a  piqued  and  jealous  spy, 
I've  seen,  or  dreamed  I  saw,  the  tyrant  dress, 
Lay  by  his  horrors,  and  put  on-his  smiles. 
Say,  Muse !  for  thou  remember'st,  call  it  back, 
And  show  Lorenzo  the  surprising  scene ; 
If  'twas  a  dream,  Tiis  genius  can  explain. 

'Twas  in  a  circle  of  the  gay  I  stood : 
Death  would  have  entered ;  Nature  pushed  him 

back: 

Supported  by  a  doctor  of  renown, 
His  point  he  gained ;  then  artfully  dismissed 
The  sage ;  for  Death  designed  to  be  concealed : 
He  gave  an  old  vivacious  usurer 
His  meagre  aspect,  and  His  naked  bones, 
In  gratitude  for  plumping  up  his  prey, 
A  pampered  spendthrift,  whose  fantastic  air, 
Well-fashioned  figure,  and  cockaded  brow, 
He  took  in  change,  and  underneath  the  pride 
Of  costly  linen  tucked  his  filthy  shroud. 
His  crooked  bow  he  straightened  to  a  cane, 
Arid  hid  his  deadly  shafts  in  Myra's  eye. 

The  dreadful  masquerader,  thus  equipped, 
Out-sallies  on  adventures.     Ask  you  where  1 
Where  is  he  not?  For  his  peculiar  haunts 
Let  this  suffice ;  sure  as  night  follows  day, 
Death  treads  in   Pleasure's  footsteps  round  the 

world 
When  Pleasure  treads  the  paths  which  Reason 

shuns. 

When  against  Reason,  Riot  shuts  the  door, 
And  gaiety  supplies  the  place  of  sense, 
Then  foremost  at  the  banquet  and  the  ball, 
Death  leads  the  dance,  or  stamps  the  deadly  dye, 
Nor  ever  fails  the  midnight  bowl  to  crown. 
Gaily  carousing  to  his  gay  compeers 
Inly  he  laughs  to  see  them  laugh  at  him, 
As  absent  far;  and  when  the  revel  burns, 
When  Fear  is  banished,  and  triumphant  Thought, 
Calling  for  all  the  joys  beneath  the  moon, 
Against  him  turns  the  key,  and  bids  him  sup 
With  their  progenitors — he  drops  his  mask, 
Frowns  out  at  full :  they  start,  despair,  expire. 

Scarce  with  more  sudden  terror  and  surprise, 
From  his  black  mask  of  nitre,  touched  by  fire, 
He  bursts,  expands,  roars,  blazes,  and  devours. 
And  is  not  this  triumphant  treachery, 
And  more  than  simple  conquest  hi  the  fiend  ? 

And  now,  Lorenzo,  dost  thou  wrap  thy  soul 
In  soft  security,  because  unknown 
Which  moment  is  commissioned  to  destroy  ? 
In  death's  uncertainty  thy  danger  lies. 
Is  death  uncertain  ?  therefore  thou  be  fixed. 
Fixed  as  a  sentinel,  all  eye,  all  ear, 
All  expectation  of  the  coming  foe. 
Rouse,  stand  in  arms,  nor  lean  against  thy  spear, 
Lest  slumber  steal  one  moment  o'er  thy  soul, 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


And   Fate  surprise   thee  nodding.     Watch,  be 

strong, 

Thus  give  each  day  the  merit  and  renown 
Of  dying  well,  though  doomed  but  once  to  die ; 
Nor  let  life's  period,  hidden,  (as  from  most) 
Hide,  too,  from  thee  the  precious  use  of  life. 
Early,  not  "sudden,  was  Narcissa's  fate  ; 
Soon,  not  surprising,  Death  his  visit  paid  : 
Her  thought  went  forth  to  meet  him  on  his  way, 
Nor  Gaiety  forgot  it  was  to  die. 
Though  Fortune,  too,  (our  third  and  final  theme,) 
As  an  accomplice,  played  her  gaudy  plumes, 
And  every  glittering  gewgaw,  on  her  sight, 
To  dazzle  and  debauch  it  from  its  mark. 
Death's  dreadful  advent  is  the  mark  of  man. 
And  every  thought  that  misses  it  is  blind. 
Fortune  with  Youth  and  Gaiety  conspired 
To  weave  a  triple  wreath  of  happiness, 
(If  happiness  on  earth)  to  crown  her  brow : 
And  could  Death  charge  through  such  a  shining 
shield? 

That  shining  shield  invites  the  tyrant's  spear. 
As  if  to  damp  our  elevated  aims, 
And  strongly  preach  humility  to  man. 
O  how  portentous  is  prosperity  T 
How,  comet-like,  it  threatens  while  it  shines ! 
Few  years  but  yield  us  proof  of  Death's  ambition, 
To  cull  his  victims  from  the  fairest  fold, 
And  sheathe  his  shafts  in  all  the  pride  of  life. 
When  flooded  with  abundance,  purpled  o'er 
With  recent  honours,  bloomed  with  every  bliss, 
Set  up  in  ostentation,  made  the  gaze, 
The  gaudy  centre  of  the  public  eye ; 
When  Fortune,  thus,  has  tossed  her  child  in  air 
Snatched  from  the  covert  of  an  humble  state, 
How  often  have  I  seen  him  dropt  at  once, 
Our  morning's  envy !  and  our  evening's  sigh ! 
As  if  her  bounties  were  the  signal  given, 
The  flowery  wreath,  to  mark  the  sacrifice, 
And  call  Death's  arrows  on  the  destined  prey. 

High  Fortune  seems  in  cruel  'league  with  Fate. 
Ask  you  for  what  1  to  give  his  war  on  man 
The  deeper  dread,  and  more  illustrious  spoil ; 
Thus  to  keep  daring  mortals  more  in  awe. 
And  burns  Lorenzo  still  for  the  sublime 
Of  life  1  to  hang  his  airy  nest  on  high, 
On  the  slight  timber  of  the  topmost  bough, 
Rocked  at  each  breeze,  and  menacing  a  fall  1 
Granting  grim  Death  at  equal  distance  there, 
Yet  peace  begins  just  where  ambition  ends. 
What  makes  man  wretched  1  happiness  denied  1 
Lorenzo !  no ;  'tis  happiness  disdained ! 
She  comes  too  meanly  dressed  to  win  our  smile, 
And  calls  herself  Content,  a  homely  name ! 
Our  flame  is  transport,  and  Content  our  scorn ! 
Ambition  turns,  and  shuts  the  door  against  her, 
And  weds  a  toil,  a  tempest,  in  her  stead ; 
A  tempest  to  warm  transport  near  of  kin. 
Unknowing  what  our  mortal  state  admits, 


Life's  modest  joys  we  ruin  while  we  raise, 
And  all  our  ecstasies  are  wounds  to  peace ; 
Peace,  the  full  portion  of  mankind  below. 

And  since  thy  peace  is  dear,  ambitious  youth  ! 
Of  fortune  fond  !  as  thoughtless  of  thy  fate  ! 
As  late  I  drew  Death's  picture,  to  stir  up 
Thy  wholesome  fears ;  now,  drawn  in  contrast,  see 
Gay  'Fortune's,  thy  vain  hopes  to  reprimand. 
See,  high  in  air  the  sportive  goddess  hangs, 
Unlocks  her  casket,  spreads  her  glittering  ware, 
And  calls  the  giddy  winds  to  puff  abroad 
Her  random  bounties  o'er  the  gaping  throng. 
All  rush  rapacious ;  friends  o'er  trodden  friends, 
Sons  o'er  their  fathers,  subjects  o'er  their  kings-, 
Priests  o'er  their  gods,  and  lovers  o'er  the  fair 
(Still  more  adored)  to  snatch  the  golden  shower. 

Gold  glitters  most  where  virtue  shines  no  more ; 
As  stars  from  absent  suns  have  leave  to  shine. 
O  what  a  precious  pack  of  votaries. 
Unkennelled  from  the  prisons  and  the  stews, 
Pour  in,  all  opening  in  their  idol's  praise ! 
All,  ardent,  eye  each  wafture  of  her  hand, 
And,  wide-expanding  their  voracious  jaws, 
Morsel  on  morsel  swallow  down  unchewed, 
Untasted,  through  mad  appetite  for  more 
Gorged  to  the  throat,  yet  lean  and  ravenous  still  : 
Sagacious  all  to  trace  the  smallest  game, 
And  bold  to  seize  the  greatest.     If  (blest  chance !) 
Court-zephyrs  sweetly  breathe ;  they  launch,  they 

fly, 

O'er  just,  o'er  sacred,  all-forbidden  ground, 
Drunk  with  the  burning  scent  of  place  or  power, 
Staunch  to  the  foot  of  Lucre — till  they  die. 

Or,  if  for  men  you  take  them,  as  I  mark 
Their  manners,  thou  their  various  fates  survey. 
With  aim  mismeasured  and  impetuous  speed, 
Some,  darting,  strike  their  ardent  wish  far  off, 
Through  fury  to  possess  it :  some  succeed, 
But  stumble,  and  let  fall  the  taken  prize. 
From  some,  by  sudden  blasts,  'tis  whirled  away, 
And  lodged  in  bosOms-that  ne'er  dreamed  of  gain. 
To  some  it  sticks  so  close,  that,  when  torn  off, 
Torn  is  the  man,  and  mortal  is  the  wound. 
Some,  o'er-enamoured  of  their  bags,  run  mad ; 
Groan  under  gold,  yet  weep  for  want  of  bread. 
Together  some  (unhappy  rivals  !)  seize, 
And  rend  abundance  into  poverty ; 
Loud  croaks  the  raven  of  the  law,  and  smiles : 
Smiles,  too,  the  goddess ;  but  smiles  most  at  those 
(Just  victims  of  exorbitant  desire !) 
Who  perish  at  their  own  request,  and,  whelmed 
Beneath  her  load  of  lavish  grants,  expire. 
Fortune  is  famous  for  her  numbers  slain ; 
The  number  small  which  happiness  can  bear. 
Though  various  for  awhile  their  fates,  at  last 
One  curse  involves  them  all :  at  Death's  approach 
All  read  their  riches  backward  into  loss, 
And  mourn  in  just  proportion  to  their  store. 

And  Death's  approach  (if  orthodox  my  song) 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


Is  hastened  by  the  lure  of  Fortune's  smiles. 
And  art  thou  still  a  glutton  of  bright  gold  1 
And  art  thou  still  rapacious  of  thy  ruin? 

i  loves  a  shining  mark,  a  signal  blow ; 
A  Mow  which,  while  it  executes,  alarms, 
A  nd  startles  thousands  with  a  signal  fall. 
As  when  some  stately  growth  of  oak,  or  pine, 
Which  nods  aloft  and  proudly  spreads  her  shade, 
The  sun's  defiance,  and  the  flock's  defence, 
By  the  strong  strokes  of  labouring  hinds  subdued, 
Loud  groans  her  last ;  and.  rushing  from  her  height, 
In  cumbrous  ruin  thunders  to  the  ground ; 
The  conscious  forest  trembles  at  the  shock, 
And  hill,  and  stream,  and  distant  dale,  resound. 

These  high-aimed  darts  of  Death,  and  these  alone, 
Should  I  collect,  my  quiver  would  be  full ; 
A  quiver  which.  susj>ended  in  mid  air, 
<  >r  mar  Heaven's  archer,  in  the  zodiac,  hung, 
(So  could  it  be)  should  draw  the  public  eye, 
The  gaze  and  contemplation  of  mankind ! 
A  constellation  awful,  yet  benign, 
To  guide  the  way  through  life's  tempestuous  wave, 
Nor  suffer  them  to  strike  the  common  rock ; 
'  From  greater  danger  to  grow  more  secure, 
And.  wrapt  in  happiness,  forget  their  fate.' 

aider,  happy  past  the  common  lot, 
Was  warned  of  danger,  but  too  gay  to  fear. 
He  wooed  the  fair  Aspasia;  she  was  kind. 
In  youth,  form,  fortune,  fame,  they  both  were  bless- 

'  cd: 

All  who  knew,  envied;  yet  in  envy  loved  : 
Can  Fancy  form  more  finished  happiness  ? 
Fixed  was  the  nuptial  hour.     Her  stately  dome 
Rose  on  the  sounding  beach.    The  glittering  spires 
Float  in  the  wave,  and  break  against  the  shore  ; 
So  break  those  glittering  shadows,  human  joys. 
The  faithless  morning  smiled  :  he  takes  his  leave 
To  re-embrace,  in  ecstacies,  at  eve  : 
The  rising  storm  forbids :  the  news  arrives ; 
Untold  she  saw  it  in  her  servant's  eye. 
She  felt  it  seen,  (her  heart  was  apt  to  feel) 
And  drowned,  without  the  furious  ocean's  aid, 
In  suffocating  sorrows  shares  his  tomb. 
Now  round  the  sumptuous  bridal  monument 
The  guilty  billows  innocently  roar, 
And  the  rough  sailor  passing,  drops  a  tear. 
A  tear  1 — can  tears  suffice? — but  not  for  me. 
How  vain  our  efforts  !  and  our  arts  how  vain ! 
The  distant  train  of  thought  I  took,  to  shun. 
Has  thrown  me  on  my  fate. — These  died  together; 
Happy  in  ruin !  undivorced  by  death  ! 
Or  ne'er  to  meet,  or  ne'er  to  part,  is  peace. — 

M  '   Pity  bleeds  at  thought  of  thee; 
Yet  thou  wast  only  near  me,  not  myself. 
Survive  myself? — that  cures  all  other  wo. 

a  lives:  Philander  is  forgot. 
O  the  soft  commerce ! — O  the  tender  ties, 
Close  twisted  with  the  fibres  of  the  heart! 
Which,  broken,  break  them,  and  drain  off  the  soul 


Of  human  joy.  and  make  it  pain  to  live. — 
And  is  it  then  to  live  ?  When  such  friends  part, 
'Tis  the  survivor  dies. — My  heart !  no  more. 


NIGHT  VI. 

THE  INFIDEL  RECLAIMED. 

In  Two  Parts. 

CONTAINING  THE  NATURE,  PROOF,  AND  IMPORT- 
ANCE, OF  IMMORTALITY. 

PART  I. 

WHERE,  AMONG  OTHER  THINGS, 

GLORY  AND  RICHES  ARE  PARTICULARLY  CON. 

SroERED. 

To  the  Right  Hon.  Henry  Pelham,  First  Lord  Commissioner 
of  the  Treasury,  and  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer. 

PREFACE. 

FEW  ages  have  been  deeper  in  dispute  about  re- 
ligion than  this.  The  dispute  about  religion,  and 
the  practice  of  it,  seldom  go  together.  The  short- 
er, therefore,  the  dispute,  the  better.  I  think  it 
may  be  reduced  to  this  single  question,  *  Is  man 
immortal,  or  is  he  not?  If  he  is  not;  all  our  dis- 
putes are  mere  amusements,  or  trials  of  skill.  In 
this  case,  truth,  reason,  religion,  which  give  our 
discourses  such  pomp  and  solemnity,  are  (as  will 
be  shown,)  mere  empty  sounds,  without  any  mean- 
ing in  them :  but  if  man  is  immortal,  it  will  behove 
him  to  be  very  serious  about  eternal  consequences; 
or,  in  other  words,  to  be  truly  religious.  And  this 
great  fundamental  truth,  unestablished,  or  una- 
wakened  in  the  minds  of  men,  is,  1  conceive,  the 
real  source  and  support  of  all  our  infidelity,  how 
remote  soever  the  particular  objections  advanced 
may  seem  to  be  from  it. 

Sensible  appearances  affect  most  men  much 
more  than  abstract  reasonings ;  and  we  daily  see 
bodies  drop  around  us,  but  the  soul  is  invisible. 
The  power  which  inclination  has  over  the  judg- 
ment, is  greater  than  can  be  well  conceived  by 
those  that  have  not  had  the  experience  of  it ;  and 
of  what  numbers  is  it  the  sad  interest  that  souls 
should  not  survive  1  The  Heathen  world  confess- 
ed that  they  rather  hoped,  than  firmly  believed, 
immortality !  and  how  many  Heathens  have  we 
still  amongst  us?  The  Sacred  page  assures  us.  that 
'life  and  immortality  is  brought  to  light  by  the 
Gospel :'  but  by  how  many  is  the  Gospel  rejected 
or  overlooked?  From  these  considerations,  and 
from  my  being,  accidentally,  privy  to  the  senti- 
ments of  some  particular  persons,  I  have  been  long 
persuaded  that  most,  if  not  all  our  infidels  (what- 
ever name  they  take,  and  whatever  scheme  for  ar- 
gument's sake,  and  to  keep  themselves  in  counte- 
nance, they  patronize,)  are  supported  in  their  de- 
plorable error  by  some  doubt  of  their  immortality 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


at  the  bottom :  and  I  am  satisfied,  that  men  once 
thoroughly  convinced  of  their  immortality,  are  not 
far  from  being  Christians:  for  it  is  hard  to  con- 
ceive that  a  man,  fully  conscious  eternal  pain  or 
happiness  will  certainly  be  his  lot,  should  not  ear- 
nestly and  impartially  inquire  after  the  surest 
means  of  escaping  one,  and  securing  the  other : 
and  of  such  an  earnest  and  impartial  inquiry  I 
well  know  the  consequence. 

Here,  therefore,  in  proof  of  this  most  funda-1 
mental  truth,  some  plain  arguments  are  offered ; 
arguments  derived  from  principles  which  infidels 
admit  in  common  with  believers;  arguments  which 
appear  to  me  altogether  irresistible ;  and  such  as, 
I  am  satisfied,  will  have  great  weight  with  all  who 
give  themselves  the  small  trouble  of  looking  se- 
riously into  their  own  bosoms,  and  of  observing, 
with  any  tolerable  degree  of  attention,  what  daily 
passes  round  about  them  in  the  world.  If  some 
arguments  shall  here  occur  which  others  have  de- 
clined, they  are  submitted,  with  all  deference,  to 
better  judgments,  in  this,  of  all  points,  the  most 
important!  for,  as  to  the  being  of  a  God,  that  is 
no  longer  disputed ;  but  it  is  undisputed  for  this 
reason  only,  viz.  because  where  the  least  pretence 
to  reason  is  admitted,  it  must  for  ever  be  indisput- 
able ;  and,  of  consequence,  no  man  can  be  betray- 
ed into  a  dispute  of  that  nature  by  vanity,  which 
has  a  principal  share  in  animating  our  modern 
combatants  against  other  articles  of  our  belief. 

SHE*  (for  I  know  not  yet  her  name  in  Heaven) 
Not  early,  like  Narcissa,  left  the  scene, 
Nor  sudden,  like  Philander.     What  avail  1 
This  seeming  mitigation  but  inflames ; 
This  fancied  medicine  heightens  the  disease. 
The  longer  known,  the  closer  still  she  grew, 
And  gradual  parting  is  a  gradual  death. 
'Tis  the  grim  tyrant's  engine  which  extorts, 
By  tardy  pressure's  still  increasing  weight, 
From  hardest  hearts  confession  of  distress. 

O  the  long  dark  approach,  through  years  of 

pain, 

Death's  gallery !  (might  I  dare  to  call  it  so) 
With  dismal  doubt  and  sable  terror  hung, 
Sick  Hope's  pale  lamp  its  only  glimmering  ray: 
There  Fate  my  melancholy  walk  ordained, 
Forbid  self-love  itself  to  flatter  there. 
How  oft  I  gazed,  prophetically  sad : 
How  oft  I  saw  her  dead,  while  yet  in  smiles: 
In  smiles  she  sunk  her  grief  to  lessen  mine: 
She  spoke  me  comfort,  and  increased  my  pain. 
Like  powerful  armies  trenching  at  a  town, 
By  slow  and  silent,  but  resistless  sap, 
In  his  pale  progress  gently  gaining  ground, 
Death  urged  his  deadly  siege ;  in  spite  of  art, 
Of  all  the  balmy  blessings  Nature  lends 


Referring  to  Night  the  Fifth. 


To  succour  frail  humanity.     Ye  stars ! 

(Not  now  first  made  familiar  to  my  sight) 

Andthou,  O  moon!  bear  witness;  many  anight 

He  tore  the  pillow  from  beneath  my  head, 

Tied  down  my  sore  attention  to  the  shock, 

By  ceaseless  depredations  on  a  life 

Dearer  than  that  he  left  me.     Dreadful  post 

Of  observation  I  darker  every  hour; 

Less  dread  the  day  that  drove  me  to  the  brink, 

And  pointed  at  eternity  below  ; 

When  my  soul  shuddered  at  futurity ; 

When,  on  a  moment's  point,  the  important  die 

Of  life  and  death  spun  doubtful,  ere  it  fell, 

And  turn'd  up  life ;  my  title  to  more  wo. 

But  why  more  wo  ?  more  comfort  let  it  be. 

Nothing  is  dead,  but  that  which  wished  to  die 

Nothing  is  dead,  but  wretchedness  and  pain; 

Nothing  is  dead,  but  what  incumbered,  galled, 

Blocked  up  the  pass,  and  barred  from  real  life. 

Where  dwells  that  wish  most  ardent  of  the  wise1? 

Too  dark  the  sun  to  see  it;  highest  stars 

Too  low  to  reach  it;  Death,  great  Death  alone, 

O'er  stars  and  sun  triumphant,  lands  us  there. 

Nor  dreadful  our  transition,  though  the  mind, 
An  artist  at  creating,  self-alarms, 
Rich  in  expedients  for  inquietude, 
Is  prone  to  paint  it  dreadful.     Who  can  take 
Death's  portrait  true'?  the  tyrant  never  sat. 
Our  sketch  all  random  strokes,  conjecture  all ; 
Close  shuts  the  grave,  nor  tells  one  single  tale. 
Death  and  his  image  rising  in  the  brain 
Bear  faint  resemblance;  never  are  alike: 
Fear  shakes  the  pencil:  Fancy  loves  excess; 
Dark  Ignorance  is  lavish  of  her  shades; 
And  these  the  formidable  picture  draw. 

But  grant  the  worst,  'tis  the  past;  new  pros- 
pects rise, 

And  drop  a  veil  eternal  o'er  her  tomb. 
Far  other  views  our  contemplation  claim, 
Views  that  o'erpay  the  rigours  of  our  life; 
Views  that  suspend  our  agonies  in  death. 
Wrapt  in  the  thought  of  immortality, 
Wrapt  in  the  single,  the  triumphant  thought : 
Long  life  might  lapse,  age  unperceived,  come  on, 
And  find  the  soul  unsated  with  her  theme. 
Its  nature,  proof,  importance,  fire  my  song. 
O  that  my  song  could  emulate  my  soul ! 
Like  her  immortal.     No: — the  soul  disdains 
A  mark  so  mean;  far  nobler  hope  inflames; 
If  endless  ages  can  outweigh  an  hour, 
Let  not  the  laurel,  but  the  palm  inspire. 

Thy  nature  Immortality !  who  knows  1 
And  yet  who  knows  it  not?  it  is  hut  life 
In  stronger  thread  of  brighter  colour  spun, 
And  spun  for  ever;  dipt  by  cruel  Fate 
In  Stygian  dye,  how  black,  how  brittle,  here; 
How  short  our  correspondence  with  the  sun ! 
And  while  it  lasts,  inglorious :  our  best  deeds 
How  wanting  in  their  weight :  our  highest  joy?, 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


35 


Small  cordials  to  support  us  in  our  pain, 

And  give  us  strength  to  suffer.     But  how  great 

To  mingle  interests,  converse,  amities, 

With  all  the  sons  of  Reason,  scattered  wide 

Through  habitable  space,  wherever  born, 

Howe'er  endowed :  to  live  free  citizens 

Of  universal  Nature:  to  lay  hold, 

By  more  that  feeble  faith,  on  the  Supreme : 

To  call  Heaven's  rich  unfathomable  mines 

(Mines  which  support  archangels  in  their  state) 

Our  own!  to  rise  in  science  as  in  bliss, 

Initiate  in  the  secrets  of  the  skies : 

To  read  creation ;  read  its  mighty  plan 

In  the  bare  bosom  of  the  Deity : 

The  plan  and  execution  to  collate: 

To  see  before  each  glance  of  piercing  thought, 

All  cloud,  all  shadow,  blown  remote;  and  leave 

.No  mystery — but  Hat  of  love  Divine, 

Which  lifts  us  on  the  seraph's  flaming  wing, 

From  earth's  aceldama,  this  field  of  blood, 

Of  inward  anguish,  and  of  outward  ill, 

From  darkness  and  from  dust,  to  such  a  scene : 

Love's  element :  true  joy's  illustrious  home : 

From  earth's  sad  contrast  (now  deplored)  more 

fair! 

What  exquisite  vicissitude  of  fate! 
Blessed  absolution  of  our  blackest  hour ! 

Lorenzo !  these  are  thoughts  that  make  man  man, 
The  wise  illumine,  aggrandize  the  great. 
How  great,  (while  yet  we  tread  the  kindred  clod, 
And  every  moment  fear  to  sink  be'neath 
The  clod  we  tread,  soon  trodden  by  our  sons) 
How  great,  in  the  wild  whirl  of  time's  pursuits, 
To  stop,  and  pause ;  involved  in  high  presage, 
Through  the  long  vista  of  a  thousand  years, 
To  stand  contemplating  our  distant  selves, 
As  in  a  magnifying  mirror  seen, 
Enlarged,  ennobled,  elevate,  divine: 
To  prophesy  our  own  futurities : 
To  gaze  in  thought  on  what  all  thought  trans- 
cends: 

To  talk,  with  fellow-candidates,  of  joys 
As  far  beyond  conception  as  desert, 
Ourselves  the  astonished  talkers  and  the  tale! 
Lorenzo,  swells  thy  bosom  at  the  thought  7 
The  swell  becomes  thee:  :tis  an  honest  pride: 
Revere  thyself ;— and  yet  thyself  despise. 
His  nature  no  man  can  o'er-rate,  and  none 
Can  under-rate  his  merit.     Take  good  heed, 
Nor  there   be  modest  where  thou  should'st   be 

proud; 

That  almost  universal  error  shun. 
How  just   our    pride,   when   we    behold    those 

heights : 

Not  those  ambition  paints  in  air,  but  those 
Reason  points  out,  and  ardent  Virtue  gains, 
And  angels  emulate.     Our  pride  how  just: 
When   mount  we]    when  these  shackles  cast? 
when  quit 


This  cell  of  the  creation?  this  small  nest 
Stuck  in  a  corner  of  the  universe, 
Wrapt  up  in  fleecy  cloud  and  fine-spun  airl 
Fine-spun  to  sense,  but  gross  and  feculent 
To  souls  celestial;  souls  ordained'to  breathe 
Ambrosial  gales,  and  drink  a  purer  sky; 
Greatly  triumphant  on  Time's  farther  shore, 
Where  Virtue  reigns,  enriched  with  full  arrears, 
While  Pomp  imperial,  begs  an  alms  of  Peace. 

In  empire  high,  or  in  proud  science  deep, 
Ye  born  of  earth,  on  what  can  you  confer, 
With  half  the  dignity,  with  half  the  gain, 
The  gust,  the  glow,  of  rational  delight, 
As  on  this  theme,  which  angels  praise  and  share? 
Man's  fates  and  favours  are  a  theme  in  Heaven. 

What  wretched  repetition  cloys  us  here: 
What  periodic  potions  for  the  sick : 
Distempered  bodies  and  distempered  minds : 
In  an  eternity  what  scenes  shall  strike ! 
Adventures  thicken;  novelties  surprise: 
What  webs  of  wonder  shall  unravel  there? 
What  full  day  pour  on  all  the  paths  of  Heaven, 
And  light  the  Almighty's  footsteps  in  the  deep : 
How  shall  the  blessed  day  of  our  discharge 
Unwind,  at  once,  the  labyrinths  of  fate, 
And  straighten  Its  inextricable  maze. 

If  inextinguishable  thirst  in  man 
To  know:  how  rich,  how  full,  our  banquet  there ! 
There,  not  the  moral  world  alone  unfolds ; 
The  world  material,  lately  seen  in  shades, 
And  in  those  shades  by  fragments  only  seen, 
And  seen  those  fragments  by  the  labouring  eye, 
Unbroken,  then,  illustrious  and  entire, 
Its  ample  sphere,  its  universal  frame, 
In  fulTdimensions,  swells  to  the  survey, 
And  enters,  at  one  glance,  the  ravished  sight. 
From  some  superior  point,  (where,  who  can  tell? 
Suffice  it  'tis  a  point  where  gods  reside) 
How  shall  the  stranger  man's  illumined  eye, 
In  the  vast  ocean  of  unbounded  space, 
Behold  an  infinite  of  floating  worlds 
Divide  the  crystal  waves  of  ether  pure, 
In  endless  voyage  without  port?  The  least 
Of  these  disseminated  orbs  how  great 
Great  as  they  are,  what  numbers  these  surpass, 
Huge  as  leviathan  to  that  small  race, 
Those  twinkling  multitudes  of  little  life, 
He  swallows  unperceived.     Stupendous  these. 
Yet  what  are  these  stupendous  to  the  whole? 
As  particles,  as  atoms,  ill  perceived; 
As  circulating  globules  in  our  veins; 
So  vast  the  plan.     Fecundity  divine ! 
Exuberant  Source!  perhaps  I  wrong  thee  still. 

If  admiration  is  a  source  of  joy, 
What   transport  hence!    yet  this  the   least    in 

'Heaven. 

What  this  to  that  illustrious  robe  He  wears, 
Who  tossed  this  mass  of  wonders  from  his  hand, 
A  specimen,  an  earnest  of  his  power] 


36 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


'Tis  to  that  glory,  whence  all  glory  flows, 
As  the  mead's  meanest  floweret  to  the  sun, 
Which  gave  it  birth.     But  what  this  sun   of 

Heaven  1 

This  bliss  supreme  of  the  supremely  blest  1 
Death,  only  death,  the  question  can  resolve. 
By  death  cheap  bought  the  ideas  of  our  joy; 
The  bare  ideas!  solid  happiness 
So  distant  from  its  shadow  chased  below. 

And  chase  we  still  the  phantom  through  the 

fire, 

O'er  bog,  and  brake,  and  precipice,  till  death? 
And  toil  we  still  for  sublunary  pay? 
Defy  the  dangers  of  the  field  and  flood, 
Or,  spider-like,  spin  out  our  precious  all, 
Our  more  than  vitals  spin,  (if  no  regard 
To  great  futurity)  in  curious  webs 
Of  subtle  thought  and  exquisite  design, 
(Fine  net- work  of  the  brain !)  to  catch  a  fly ! 
The  momentary  buzz  of  vain  renown ! 
A  name !  a  mortal  immortality ! 

Or  (meaner  still)  instead  of  grasping  air, 
For  sordid  lucre  plunge  we  in  the  mire? 
Drudge,  sweat,  through  every  shame,  for  every 

gain: 

For  vile  contaminating  trash !  throw  up 
Our  hope  in  Heaven,  our  dignity  with  man, 
And  deify  the  dirt  matured  to  gold? 
Ambition,  Avarice,  the  two  demons  these 
Which  goad  through  every  slough  our  human 

herd, 

Hard-travelled  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
How  low  the  wretches  stoop!    how  steep  they 

climb! 

These  demons  burn  mankind,  but  most  possess  • 
Lorenzo's  bosom,  and  turn  out  the  skies. 

Is  it  in  time  to  hide  eternity? 
And  why  not  in  an  atom  on  the  shore 
To  cover  ocean  ?  or  a  mote,  the  sun  ? 
Glory  and  wealth !  have  they  this  blinding  power? 
What  if  to  them  I  prove  Lorenzo  blind  ? 
Would  it  surprise  thee?  be  thou  then  surprised ; 
Thou  neither  know'st:  their  nature  learn  from  me. 

Mark  well,  as  foreign  as  these  subjects  seem, 
What  close  connexion  ties  them  to  my  theme. 
First,  what  is  true  ambition  ?     The  pursuit 
Of  glory  nothing  less  than  man  can  share. 
Were  they  as  vain  as  gaudy-minded  man, 
As  flatulent  with  fumes  of  self-applause, 
Their  arts  and  conquests  animals  might  boast, 
And  claim  their  laurel-crowns  as  well  as  we, 
But  not  celestial.     Here  we  stand  alone, 
As  in  our  form  distinct,  pre-eminent : 
If  prone  in  thought,  our  stature  is  our  shame : 
And  man  should  blush  his  forehead  meets  the 

skies. 

The  visible  and  present  are  for  brutes : 
A  slender  portion,  and  a  narrow  bound! 
These  Reasons,  with  an  energy  divine, 


O'erleaps,  and  claims  the  future  and  unseen, 
The  vast  unseen  !  the  future  fathomless ! 
When  the  great  soul  buoys  up  to  this  high  point, 
Leaving  gross  Nature's  sediments  below, 
Then,  and  then  only,  Adam's  offspring  quits 
The  sage  and  hero  of  the  fields  and  woods 
Asserts  his  rank,  and  rises  into  man. 
This  is  ambition;  this  is  human  fire! 

Can  parts  or  place  (two  bold  pretenders)  make 
Lorenzo  great,  and  pluck  him  from  the  throng? 

Genius  and  art,  ambition's  boasted  wings. 
Our  boast  but  ill  deserve :  a  feeble  aid ! 
Dedalian  enginery !     If  these  alone 
Assist  our  flight,  Fame's  flight  is  Glory's  fall. 
Heart-merit  wanting^  mount  we  ne'er  se  high, 
Our  height  is  but  the  gibbet  of  our  name. 
A  celebrated  wretch  when  I  behold, 
When  I  behold  a  genius  brighfcand  base, 
Of  towering  talents  and  terrestrial  aims, 
Methinks  I  see,  as  thrown  from  her  high  sphere, 
The  glorious  fragments  of  a  soul  immortal, 
With  rubbish  mixed,  and  glittering  in  the  dust: 
Struck  at  the  splendid  melancholy  sight, 

At  once  compassion  soft  and  envy  rise 

But  wherefore  envy?  talents  angel-bright, 
If  wanting  worth,  are  shining  instruments 
In  false  Ambition's  hand,  to  finish  faults 
Illustrious,  and  give  Infamy  renown. 

Great  ill  is  an  achievement  of  great  powers. 
Plain  sense  but  rarely  leads  us  far  astray. 
Reason  the  means,  Affections  choose  our  end. 
Means  have  no  merit,  if  our  end  amiss. 
If  wrong  our  hearts,  our  heads  are  right  in  vain. 
What  is  a  Pelham's  head  to  Pelham's  heart? 
Hearts  are  proprietors  of  all  applause. 
Right  ends  and  means  make  wisdom,  Worldly- 
wise 
Is  but  half-witted  at  its  highest  praise. 

Let  genius,  then,  despair  to  make  thee  great; 
Nor  flatter  station.     What  is  station  high? 
'Tis  a  proud  mendicant:  it  boasts  and  begs: 
It  begs  an  alms  of  homage  from  the  throng, 
And  oft  the  throng  denies  its  charity. 
Monarchs  and  ministers  are  awful  names ! 
Whoever  wear  them  challenge  our  devoir. 
Religion,  public  Order,  both  exact 
External  homage  and  a  supple  knee, 
To  beings  pompously  set  up,  to  serve 
The  meanest  slave:  all  more  is  Merit's  due, 
Her  sacred  and  inviolable  right ; 
Nor  ever  paid  the  monarch,  but  the  man. 
Our  hearts  never  bow  but  to  superior  worth ; 
Nor  ever  fail  of  their  allegiance  there. 
Fools,  indeed,  drop  the  man  in  their  account, 
And  vote  the  mantle  into  majesty. 
Let  the  small  savage  boast  his  silver  fur, 
His  royal  robe,  unborrowed  and  unboufrht, 
His  own,  descending  fairly  from  his  sires ; 
Shall  man  be  proud  to  wear  his  livery, 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


37 


And  souls  in  ermine  scorn  a  soul  without  1 
Can  place  or  lessen  us  or  aggrandize  1 

,ifs  are  pigmies  still,  though  perched  on  Alps 
And  pyramids  are  pyramids  in  vales. 

man  makes  his  own  stature,  builds  himself. 
Virtue  alone  outbuilds  the  pyram: 
Her  monuments  shall  last,  when  Egypt's  fall. 

Of  these  sure  truths  dost  thou  demand  the  cause' 
The  cause  H  Ujrrt-d  in  immortality. 
Hear,  and  assent.     Thy  bosom  burns  for  power; 
What  station  charms  thee?  I'll  install  thee  there 
'Tis  thine.     And  art  thou  greater  than  before? 
Then  thou  before  wast  something  less  than  man. 
Has  thy  new  post  betrayed  thee  into  pride? 
That  treacherous  pride  betrays  thy  dignity; 
That  pride  defames  humanity,  and  calls 
The  bein<i  mean  which  staffs  or  strings  can  raise: 
That  pride,  like  hooded  hawks,  in  darkness  soars. 
From  blindness  bold,  and  towering  to  the  skies. 
;Tis  bom  of  Ignorance,  which  knows  not  man : 
An  angel's  second,  nor  his  second  long. 
A  Nero,  quitting  his  imperial  throne, 
And  courting  glory  from  the  tinkling  string 
But  faintly  shadows  an  immortal  soul, 
With  empire's  self  to  pride  or  rapture  fired. 
If  nobler  motives  minister  no  cure, 
Even  vanity  forbids  thee  to  be  vain. 

High  worth  is  elevated  place :  'tis  more, 
It  makes  the  post  stand  candidate  for  thee; 
Makes  more  than  monarchs,  makes  an  honest  man. 
Though  no  exchequer  it  commands,  'tis  wealth; 
And,  though  it  wears  no  ribbon,  'tis  renown  : 
Renown  that  would  not  quit  thee,  though  dis- 
graced, 

Nor  leave  thee  pendent  on  a  master's  smile. 
Other  ambition  Nature  interdicts ; 
Nature  proclaims  it  most  alwurd  in  man, 
By  pointing  at  his  origin  and  end; 
Milk  and  a  swathe,  at  first,  his  whole  demand; 
His  whole  domain,  at  last,  a  turf  or  stone; 
To  whom,  between,  a  world  may  seem  too  small. 

Souls,  truly  great,  dart  forward  on  the  wing 
Of  just  Ambition,  to  the  grand  result, 
The  curtain's  fall;  there  see  the  buskined  chief 

'»d  behind  his  momentary  scene, 
Reduced  to  his  own  stature,  low  or  high, 
As  vice  or  virtue  sinks  him,  or  sublimes; 
And  laugh  at  this  fantastic  mummery, 
This  antic  prelude  of  grotesque  events, 
Where  dwarfs  are  often  stilted,  and  betray 
A  littleness  of  soul  by  worlds  o'er-run, 
And  nations  laid  in  blood.     Dread  sacrifice 
To  Christian  pride!  which  had  with  horror  shocked 
The  darkest  Pagans,  offered  to  their  gods. 
O  thou  most  Christian  enemy  to  peace ! 
Again  in  arms?  again  provoking  Fate? 
That  prince,  and  that  alone,  is  truly  great, 

raws  the  sword  reluctant,  gladly  sheathes; 


On  empire  builds  what  empire  far  outweighs, 
And  makes  his  throne  a  scaffold  to  the  skies! 
Why  this  so  rare  1—  because,  forgot  of  all 
The  day  of  death,  that  venerable  day 
Which  sits  as  judge ;  that  day  wliich  shall  pro- 
nounce 

On  all  our  days,,  absolve  them,  or  condemn. 
Lorenzo !  never  shut  thy  thought  against  it : 
Be  levees  ne'er  so  full,  afford  it  room ; 
And  give  it  audience  in  the  cabinet. 
That  friend  consulted,  flatteries  apart, 
Will  tell  thee  fair  if  thou  art  great  or  mean. 

To  dote  on  aught  may  leave  us,  or  be  left, 
Is  that  ambition?  then  let  flames  descend, 
Point  to  the  centre  their  inverted  spires, 
And  learn  humiliation  from  a  soul 
Wliich  boasts  her  lineage  from  celestial  fire. 
Yet  these  are  they  the  world  pronounces  wise : 
The  world,   which  cancels  Nature's  right   and 

wrong, 

And  casts  new  wisdom:  ev'n  the  grave  man  lends 
His  solemn  face  tq  countenance  the  coin. 
Wisdom  for  parts  is  madness  to  the  whole. 
This  stamps  the  paradox,  and  gives  us  leave 
To  call  the  wisest  weak,  the  richest  poor, 
The  most  ambitious  unambitious,  mean. 
[n  triumph  mean,  and  abject  on  a  throne. 
Nothing  can  make  it  less  than  mad  in  man 
To  put  forth  all  his  ardour,  all  his  art, 
And  give  his  soul  her  full  unbounded  flight, 
But  reaching  Him  w  ho  gave  her  wings  to  fly. 
When  blind  ambition  quite  mistakes  her  road, 
And  downward  pores  for  that  which  shines  above. 
Substantial  happiness  and  true  renown; 
Then,  like  an  idiot  gazing  on  the  brook, 
We  leap  at  stars,  and  fasten  in  the  mud ; 
At  glory  grasp,  and  sink  in  infamy. 

Ambition !  powerful  source  of  good  and  ill ! 
Thy  strength  in  man,  like  length  of  wing  in  birds, 
When  disengaged  from  earth  with  greater  ease, 
And  swifter  flight,  transports  us  to  the  skies : 
5y  toys  entangled,  in  guilt  bemired, 
t  turns  a  curse;  it  is  our  chain  and  scourge, 
n  this  dark  dungeon,  where,  confined  we  lie, 
>lose-grated  by  the  sordid  bars  of  sense, 
All  prospect  of  eternity  shut  out, 
And,  but  for  execution,  ne'er  set  free. 

With  error  in  ambition  justly  charged, 
ind  we  Lorenzo  wiser  in  his  wealth  ? 
Vhat  if  thy  rental  I  reform,  and  draw 
An  inventory  new  to  set  thee  right? 
Vhere  thy  true  treasure?  Gold  says,  '  Not  in  me; 
And,  '  Not  in  me,'  the  Diamond.     Gold  is  poor; 
ndia's  insolvent:  seek  it  in  thyself; 
Seek  in  thy  naked  self,  and  find  it  there; 
n  being  so  descended,  formed,  endowed ; 
Sky-born,  sky-guided,  sky-returning  race ! 
Srect,  immortal,  rational,  divine ! 
n  senses,  which  inherit  earth  and  Heavens ; 


38 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Enjoy  the  various  riches  Nature  yields : 
Far  nobler!  give  the  riches  they  enjoy; 
Give  taste  to  fruits,  and  harmony  to  groves ; 
Their  radiant  beams  to  gold,  and  gold's  bright  sire ; 
Take  in,  at  once,  the  landscape  of  the  world, 
At  a  small  inlet  which  a  grain  might  close, 
And  half  create  the  wondrous  world  they  see; 
Our  senses,  as  our  reason,  are  divine. 
But  for  the  magic  organ's  powerful  charm, 
Earth  were  a  rude  uncoloured  chaos  still. 
Objects  are  but  the''  occasion,  ours  the'  exploit ; 
Ours  is  the  cloth,  the  pencil,  and  the  paint, 
Which  Nature's  admirable  picture  draws, 
And  beautifies  Creation's  ample  dome. 
Like  Milton's  Eve,  when  gazing  on  the  lake, 
Man  makes  the  matchless  image  man  admires. 
Say  then,  shall  man,  his  thoughts  all  sent  abroad, 
Superior  wonders  in  himself  forgot, 
His  admiration  waste  on  objects  round, 
When  Heaven  makes  him  the  soul  of  all  he  sees  ? 
Absurd !  not  rare !  so  great,  so  mean,  is  man. 

What  wealth  in  senses  such  as  these !  what  wealth 
In  fancy,  fired  to  form  a  fairer  scene 
Than  sense  surveys!  in  Memory's  firm  record, 
Which,  should  it  perish,  could  this  world  recall 
From  the  dark  shadows  of  o'erwhelming  years ! 
In  colours  fresh,  originally  bright, 
Preserve  its  portrait,  and  report  its  fate ! 
What  wealth  in  intellect !  that  sovereign  power ! 
Which  sense  and  fancy  summons  to  the  bar ; 
Interrogates,  approves,  or  reprehends ; 
And  from  the  mass  those  underlings  import, 
From  their  materials  sifted  and  refined, 
And  in  Truth's  balance  accurately  weighed, 
Forms  art  and  science,  government  and  law, 
The  solid  basis,  and  the  beauteous  frame, 
The  vitals,  and  the  grace  of  civil  life ! 
And  manners  (sad  exception !)  set  asid«, 
Strikes  out,  with  master-hand,  a  copy  fair 
Of  his  idea,  whose  indulgent  thought 
Long,long  ere  Chaos  teemed,  planned  human  bliss. 

What  wealth  in  souls  that  soar,  dive,  range 

around, 

Disdaining  limit  or  from  place  or  time, 
And  hear,  at  once,  in  thought  extensive,  hear 
The'  Almighty  Fiat,  and  the  trumpet's  sound ! 
Bold,  on  Creation's  outside  walk,  and  view 
What  was,  and  is,  and  more  than  e'er  shall  be ; 
Commanding,  with  omnipotence  of  thought, 
Creations  new,  in  Fancy's  field  to  rise ! 
Souls  that  can  grasp  whate'er  the'  Almighty  made, 
And  wander  wild  through  things  impossible ! 
What  wealth  in  faculties  of  endless  growth, 
In  quenchless  passions  violent  to  crave, 
In  liberty  to  choose,  in  power  to  reach, 
And  in  duration  (how  thy  riches  rise !) 
Duration  to  perpetuate — boundless  bliss ! 

Ask  you  what  power  resides  in  feeble  man, 
That  bliss  to  gain'?    Is  Virtue's,  then,  unknown? 


Virtue !  our  present  peace,  our  future  prize. 
Man's  unprecarious,  natural  estate, 
Improveable  at  will,  in  virtue  lies ; 
Its  tenure  sure,  its  income  is  divine. 

High-built  abundance,  heap  on  heap !  for  what  1 
To  breed  new  wants,  and  beggar  us  the  more, 
Then  make  a  richer  scramble  for  the  throng  1 
Soon  as  this  feeble  pulse,  which  leaps  so  long, 
Almost  by  miracle,  is  tired  with  play, 
Like  rubbish,  from  disploding  engines  thrown, 
Our  magazines  of  hoarded  trifles  fly ; 
Fly  diverse ;  fly  to  foreigners,  to  foes ; 
New  masters  Court,  and  call  the  former  fool, 
(How  justly !)  for  dependence  on  their  stay. 
Wide  scatter,  first,  our  playthings ;  then  our  dust. 

Dost  court  abundance  for  the  sake  of  peace  1 
Learn,  and  lament  thy  self-defeated  scheme. 
Riches  enable  to  be  richer  still, 
And  richer  still  what  mortal  can  resist? 
Thus  Wealth  (a  cruel  task-master !)  enjoins 
New  toils,  succeeding  toils,  an  endless  train ! 
And  murders  Peace,  which  taught  it  first  to  shine. 
The  poor  are  half  as  wretched  as  the  rich, 
Whose  proud  and  painful  privilege  it  is 
At  once  to  bear  a  double  load  of  wo, 
To  feel  the  stings  of  envy  and  of  want, 
Outrageous  want !  both  Indies  can  not  cure. 

A  competence  is  vital  to  Content ; 
Much  wealth  is  corpulence,  if  not  disease : 
Sick,  or  incumbered,  is  our  happiness. 
A  competence  is  all  we  can  enjoy. 
O  be  content,  where  Heaven  can  give  no  more ! 
More,  like  a  flash  of  water  from  a  lock, 
duickens  our  spirit's  movement  for  an  hour, 
But  soon  its  force  is  spent ;  nor  rise  our  joys 
Above  our  native  temper's  common  stream. 
Hence  Disappointment  lurks  in  every  prize, 
As  bees  in  flowers,  and  stings  us  with  success. 

The  rich  man,  who  denies  it,  proudly  feigns, 
Nor  knows  the  wise  arc  privy  to  the  lie. 
Much  learning  shows  how  little  mortals  know ; 
Much  wealth,  how  little  worldlings  can  enjoy : 
At  best  it  babies  us  with  endless  toys, 
And  keeps  us  children  till  we  drop  to  dust. 
As  monkeys  at  a  mirror  stand  amazed, 
They  fail  to  find  what  they  so  plainly  see : 
Thus  men,  in  shining  riches,  see  the  face 
Of  happiness,  nor  know  it  is  a  shade ; 
But  gaze,  and  touch,  and  peep,  and  peep  again, 
And  wish,  and  wonder  it  is  absent  still. 

How  few  can  rescue  opulence  from  want ! 
Who  lives  to  nature  rarely  can  be  poor ; 
Who  lives  to  fancy  never  can  be  rich. 
Poor  is  the  man  in  debt ;  the  man  of  gold, 
In  debt  to  Fortune,  trembles  at  her  power : 
The  man  of  reason  smiles  at  her  and  death. 
O  what  a  patrimony  this !  a  being 
Of  such  inherent  strength  and  majesty, 
Not  worlds  j>ossest  can  raise  it ;  worlds  destroyed  t 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


39 


Can't  injure ;  which  holds  on  its  glorious  course 
When  tliine,  O  Nature !  ends :  too  blest  to  mourn 
Creation's  obsequies.     What  treasure  this ! 
The  monarch  is  a  beggar  to  the  man. 

Immortal!  ages  pa.st,  yet  nothing  gone! 
Mora  without  eve  !  a  race  without  a  goal ! 
Unshortened  by  progression  infinite ! 
Futurity  for  ever  future !  life 
Beginning  still  where  computation  ends ! 
'Tis  the  description  of  a  deity  ! 
;Tis  the  description  of  the  meanest  slave! 
The  meanest  slave  dares  then  Lorenzo  scorn  1 
The  n  .  •  t  h  Y.  si  >\  ereign  glory  shares. 

Proud  youth  !  fastidious  of  the  lower  world ! 
Alans  lawful  pride  includes  humility ; 
Stoops  to  the  lowest ;  is  too  great  to  find 
Inferiors!  all  immortal !  brothers  all ! 
Proprietors  eternal  of  thy  love ! 

Immortal !  what  can  strike  the  sense  so  strong, 
As  this  the  soul  I  it  thunders  to  the  thought, 
Reason  amazes,  gratitude  o'erwhelms : 
No  more  we  slumber  on  the  brink  of  Fate ; 
Roused  at  the  sound,  the'  exulting  soul  ascends, 
And  breathes  her  native  air,  an  air  that  feeds 
Ambitious  high,  and  fans  ethereal  fires ; 
Gluick- kindles  all  that  is  divine  within  us, 
Nor  leaves  one  loitering  thought  beneath  the  stars. 

Has  not  Lorenzo's  bosom  caught  the  flame  ? 
Immortal !  were  but  one  immortal,  how 
Would  others  envy !  how  would  thrones  adore ! 
Because  'tis  common,  is  the  blessing  lost  1 
How  this  ties  up  the  bounteous  hand  of  Heaven! 
O  vain,  vain,  vain,  all  else !  eternity! 
A  glorious  and  a  needful  refuge  that, 
From  vile  imprisonment  in  abject  views. 
'Tis  immortality,  'tis  that  alone, 
Amid  life's  pains,  abasements,  emptiness, 
The  soul  can  comfort,  elevate,  and  fill : 
That  only,  and  that  amply,  this  performs ; 
Lifts  us  altove  life's  pains,  her  joys  above ; 
Their  terror  those,  and  these  their  lustre  lose ; 
Eternity  depending  covers  all ; 
Eternity  depending  all  achieves ; 
Sets  earth  at  distance ;  casts  her  into  shades ; 
Blends  her  distinctions ;  abrogates  her  powers ; 
The  low,  the  lofty,  joyous,  and  severe, 
Fortune's  dread  frowns,  and  fascinating  smiles, 
Make  one  promiscuous  and  neglected  heap, 
The  man  beneath  ;  if  I  may  call  him  man, 
Whom  Immortality's  full  force  inspires. 
Nothing  terrestrial  touches  his  high  thought ; 
Suns  shine  unseen,  and  thunders  roll  unheard, 
By  minds  quite  conscious  of  their  descent, 
Their  present  province,  and  their  future  prize; 
Divinely  darting  upward  every  wish, 
Warm  on  the  wing,  in  glorious  absence  lost ! 

Doubt  you  thi* truth?  why  labours  your  belief? 
If  earth's  whole  orb,  by  some  due  distant  eye 
Were  seen  M  once,  her  towering  Alps  would  sink. 


And  levelled  Atlas  leave  an  even  sphere. 
Thus  earth,  and  all  that  earthly  minds  admire, 
Is  swallowed  in  Eternity's  vast  round. 
To.  that  stupendous  view,  when  souls  awake, 
So  large  of  late,  so  mountainous  to  man, 
Time's  toys  subside,  and  equal  all  below. 

Enthusiastic  this  ? — then  all  are  weak 
But  rank  enthusiasts.     To  this  godlike  height 
Some  souls  have  soar'd,  or  martyrs  ne'er  had  bled ; 
And  all  may  <lo  what  has  by  man  been  done. 
Who,  beaten  by  these  sublunary  storms, 
Boundless,  interminable  joys  can  weigh 
Unraptured,  unexalted,  uninflamed? 
What  slave  unblessed,  who  from  to-morrow's  dawn 
Expects  an  empire?  he  forgets  his  chain, 
And,  throned  in  thought,  his  absent  sceptre  waves. 

And  what  a  sceptre  waits  us !  what  a  throne ! 
Her  own  immense  appointments  to  compute, 
Or  comprehend  her  high  prerogatives, 
In  this  her  dark  minority,  how  toils, 
How  vainly  pants,  the  human  soul  divine ! 
Too  great  the  bounty  seems  for  earthly  joy; 
What  heart  but  trembles  at  so  strange  a  bliss  1 

In  spite  of  all  the  truths  the  Muse  has  sung, 
Ne'er  to  be  prized  enough !  enough  revolved ! 
Are  there  who  wrapt  the  world  so  close  about 

them, 

They  see  no  farther  than  the  clouds,  and  dance 
On  heedless  Vanity's  fantastic  toe, 
Till,  stumbling  at  a  straw,  in  their  career, 
Headlong  they-  plunge,  where  end  both  dance  and 

song? 

Are  there,  Lorenzo  ?  is  it  possible  ? 
Are  there  on  earth  (let  me  not  call  them  men) 
Who  lodge  a  soul  immortal  in  their  breasts, 
Unconscious  as  the  mountain  of  its  ore, 
Or  rock  of  its  inestimable  gem'? 
When  rocks  shall  melt,  and  mountains  vanish, 

these 
Shall  know  their  treasure  ;  treasure  then  no  more. 

Are  there  (still  more  amazing !)  who  resist 
The  rising  thought  ?  who  smother,  in  its  birth, 
The  glorious  truth  ?  who  struggle  to  be  brutes  1 
Who  through  this  bosom-barrier  burst  their  way, 
And,  with  reversed  ambition,  strive  to  sink ! 
Who  labour  downwards  through  the  opposing 

powers 

Of  instinct,  reason,  and  the  world  against  them, 
To  dismal  hopes,  and  shelter  irt  the  shock 
Of  endless  night  ?  night  darker  than  the  grave's  ? 
Who  fight  the  proofs  of  Immortality? 
With  horrid  zeal,  and  execrable  arts, 
Work  all  their  engines,  level  their  black  fires, 
To  blot  from  man  this  attribute  divine, 
(Than  vital  blood  far  dearer  to  the  wise) 
Blasphemers,  and  rank  atheists  to  themselves? 

To  contradict  them,  see  all  Nature  rise ! 
What  object,  what  event,  the  moon  beneath, 
But  argues,  or  endears,  an  after-scene  1 


40 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


To  reason  proves,  or  weds  it  to  desire  1 
All  things  proclaim  it  needful;  some  advance 
One  precious  step  beyond,  and  prove  it  sure. 
A  thousand  arguments  swarm  round  my  pen, 
From  Heaven,  and  earth,  and  man.     Indulge  a 

few, 

By  Nature,  as  her  common  habit,  worn ; 
So  pressing  Providence  a  truth  to  teach, 
Which  truth  untaught  all  other  truths  were  vain. 

Thou !  whose  all-providential  eye  surveys, 
Whose  hand  directs,  whose  spirit  fills  and  warms 
Creation,  and  holds  empire  far  beyond! 
Eternity's  Inhabitant  august ! 
Of  two  eternities  amazing  Lord ! 
One  past,  ese  man's  or  angel's  had  begun, 
Aid !  while  I  rescue  from  the  foe's  assault 
Thy  glorious  immortality  in  man ; 
A  theme  for  ever,  and  for  all,  of  weight, 
Of  moment  infinite  !  but  relished  most 
By  those  who  love  thee  most,  who  most  adore. 

Nature,  thy  daughter,  ever-changing  birth 
Of  thee  the  Great  Immutable,  to  man 
Speaks  wisdom ;  is  his  oracle  supreme ; 
And  he  who  most  consults  her  is  most  wise. 
Lorenzo  !  to  this  heavenly  Delphos  haste, 
And  come  back  all-immortal,  all-divine. 
Look  Nature  through,  'tis  revolution  all ; 
All  change,  no  death:  day  follows  night,  and  night 
The  dying  day :  stars  rise,  and  set,  and  rise : 
Earth  takes  the  example.     See,  the  Summer  gay, 
With  her  green  chaplet  and  ambrosial  flowers, 
Droops  into  pallid  Autumn :  Winter  gray, 
Horrid  with  frost,  and  turbulent  with  storm, 
Blows  Autumn  and  his  golden  fruits  away, 
Then  melts  into  the  Spring:  soft  Spring,  with 

breath 

Favonian,  from  warm  chambers  of  the  south, 
Recalls  the  first.     All,  to  reflourish,  fades : 
As  in  a  wheel,  all  sinks  to  reascend : 
Emblems  of  man,  who  passes,  not  expires. 
With  this  minute  distinction,  emblems  just, 
Nature  revolves,  but  man  advances  ;  both 
Eternal :  that  a  circle,  this  a  line : 
That  gravitates,  this  soars.     The  aspiring  soul, 
Ardent  and  tremulous,  like  flame,  ascends, 
Zeal  and  humility  her  wings,  to  Heaven. 
The  world  of  matter,  with  its  various  forms, 
AH  dies  into  new  life.    Life  born  from  Death 
Rolls  the  vast  mass,  and  shall  for  ever  roll. 
No  single  atom,  once  in  being,  lost, 
With  change  of  counsel  charges  the  Most  High. 

What  hence  infers  Lorenzo  ?  can  it  be  "? 
Matter  immortal  1  and  shall  spirit  die7? 
Above  the  nobler  shall  less  noble  rise? 
Shall  man  alone,  for  whom  all  else  revives, 
No  resurrection  know  1  shall  man  alone, 
Imperial  man  !  be  sown  in  barren  ground, 
Less  privileged  than  grain  on  which  he  feeds'? 
Is  man,  in  whom  alone  is  power  to  prize 


The  bliss  of  being,  or,  with  previous  pain, 
Deplore  its  period  by  the  spleen  of  Fate, 
Severely  doom'd  Death's  single  unredeemed  1 

If  Nature's  revolution  speaks  aloud 
In  her  gradation,  hear  her  louder  still. 
Look  Nature  through,  'tis  neat  gradation  all. 
By  what  minute  degrees  her  scale  ascends ! 
Each  middle  nature  joined  at  each  extreme ; 
To  that  above  it  joined,  to  that  beneath. 
Parts  into  parts  reciprocally  shot, 
Abhor  divorce.     What  love  of  union  reigns  ! 
Here  dormant  matter  waits  a  call  to  life ; 
Half-life,  half-death,  join  there:  here  life  and  sense, 
There  sense  from  reason  steals  a  glimmering  ray ; 
Reason  shines  out  in  man.     But  how  preserv'd 
The  chain  unbroken  upward,  to  the  realms 
Of  incorporeal  life?  those  realms  of  bliss 
Where  Death  hath  no  dominion"]  Grant  a  make 
Half  mortal,  half  immortal ;  earthy  part, 
And  part  ethereal :  grant  the  soul  of  man 
Eternal,  or  in  man  the  series  ends. 
Wide  yawns  the  gap ;  connection  is  no  more ; 
Check'd  reason  halts ;  her  next  step  wants  sup- 
port ; 

Striving  to  ch'mb,  she  tumbles  from  her  scheme, 
A  scheme  Analogy  pronounced  so  true ; 
Analogy — man's  surest  guide  below. 

Thus  far  all  Nature  calls  on  thy  belief; 
And  will  Lorenzo,  careless  of  the  call, 
False  attestation  on  all  Nature  charge, 
Rather  than  viqlate  his  league  with  Death  1 
Renounce  his  reason  rather  than  renounce 
The  dust  belov'd,  and  run  the  risk  of  Heaven  1 
O  what  indignity  to  deathless  souls  ! 
What  treason  to  the  majesty  of  man  ! 
Of  man  immortal!  hear  the  lofty  style  : 
'  If  so  decreed,  the  Almighty  Will  be  done. 
Let  earth  dissolve,  yon  ponderous  orbs  descend, 
And  grind  us  into  dust.     The  soul  is  safe ; 
The  man  emerges;  mounts  above  the  wreck, 
As  towering  flame  from  Nature's  funeral  pyre ; 
O'er  devastation,  as  a  gainer,  smiles ; 
His  charter,  his  inviolable  rights, 
Well  pleased  to  learn,  from  Thunder's  impotence, 
Death's  pointless  darts,  and  Hell's  defeated  storms.' 

But  these  chimeras  touch  not  thee,  Lorenzo  j 
The  glories  of  the  world  thy  sevenfold  shield. 
Other  ambition  than  of  crowns  in  air, 
And  superlunary  felicities, 
Thy  bosom  warms.     I'll  cool  it  if  I  can ; 
And  turn  those  glories  that  inchant  against  thee. 
What  ties  thee  to  this  life  proclaims  the  next. 
If  wise,  the  cause  that  wounds  thee  is  thy  cure. 

Come,  my  Ambitious!  let  us  mount  together, 
(To  mount  Lorenzo  never  can  refuse,) 
And  from  the  clouds,  where  Pride  delights  to  dwell, 
Look  down  on  earth.— What  seest  thou?  wondrous 

things ! 
Terrestrial  wonders,  that  eclipse  the  skies. 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


41 


What  lengths  of  labour'd  lands ;  what  loaded  seas ! 
Loaded  by  man  for  pleasure,  wealth,  or  war ! 
winds,  and  planets  into  service  brought, 
trt  acknowledge,  and  promote  his  ends. 

Nor  can  the  eternal  rocks  his  will  withstand : 
What  levelled  mountains!  and  what  lifted  vales! 
iles  and  mountains  sumptuous  cities  swell, 

And  gild  our  landscape  with  their  glittering  spires. 

Some  'mid  the  wonderin  jestic  rise, 

And  Neptune  holds  a  mirror  to  their  charms. 

Far  greater  still;  (what  can  not  mortal  might  ?) 
.If  dominions  ravished  from  the  deep: 

The  narrow'd  deep  with  indignation  foams. 

Or  southward  turn,  to  delicate  and  grand, 

The  finer  arts  there  ripen  in  the  sun. 

How  the  tall  temples,  as  to  meet  their  gods, 

Ascend  the  skies!  the  proud  triumphal  arch 

Shows  half  heaven  beneath  its  ample  bend. 

High  through  mid  air,  here  streams  are  taught  to 
flow; 

Whole  rivers  there,  laid  by  in  basins,  sleep. 

Here  plains  turn  oceans ;  there  vast  oceans  join 

Through  kingdoms  channeled  deep  from  shore  to 
shore, 

And  changed  Creation  takes  its. face  from  man. 

Beats  thy  brave  breast  for  formidable  scenes, 

Where  fame  and  empire  wait  upon  the  sword? 

See  fields  in  flood ;  hear  naval  thunders  rise ; 

Britannia's  voice !  that  awes  the  world  to  peace. 

How  yon  enormous  mole  projecting  breaks 

The  mid-sea,  furious  waves!  their  roar  amidst 

Out-speaks  the  Deity,  and  says,  '  O  Main ! 

Thus  far,  nor  farther;  new  restraints  obey.' 

Earth's  disemboweled  !  measured  are  the  skies ! 

Stars  are  detected  in  their  deep  re<- 

Creation  widens!  vanquished  Nature  yields! 

Her  secrets  are  extorted !  Art  prevails ! 

What  monument  of  genius,  spirit,  power ! 
And  now,  Lorenzo,  raptured  at  this  scene, 

Whose  glories  render  Heaven  superfluous!  say, 

Whose  footsteps  these? — Immortals  have  been 
here; 

Could  less  than  souls  immortal  this  have  done? 

Earth's  covered  o'er  with  proof  of  souls  immortal, 

And  proofs  of  Immortality  forgot. 
To  flatter  thy  grand  foible,  I  confess 

These  are  Ambition's  works :  and  these  are  great ; 

But  this,  the  least  immortal  souls  can  do, 

Transcends  them  all. — But  what  can  these  tran- 
scend? 

Dost  ask  me  what  ?— one  sigh  for  the  distressed. 

What  then  for  Infidels?  a  deeper  sigh. 

'Tis  moral  grandeur  makes  the  mighty  man  : 

How  little  they,  who  think  aught  great  below? 

All  our  ambitions  Death  defeats  but  one, 

And  that  it  crowns. — Here  cease  we;  but, ere  long, 

More  powerful  proof  shall  take  the  field  against 
thee, 

Stronger  than  death,,  and  smiling  at  the  tomb. 


NIGHT  VII. 

THE  INFIDEL  RECLAIMED. 

PA~RT1I. 

CONTAINING   THE  NATURE,   PROOF,    AND    IMPORT- 
ANCE   OF    IMMORTALITY. 

PREFACE. 

As  we  are  at  war  with  the  power,  it  were  well 
if  we  were  at  war  with  the  manners,  of  France.  A 
land  of  levity  is  a  land  of  guilt.  A  serious  mind 
is  the  native  soil  of  every  virtue,  and  the  single 
character  that  does  true  honour  to  mankind.  The 
soul's  immortality  has  been  the  favourite  theme 
with  the  serious  of  all  ages.  Nor  is  it  strange:  it 
is  a  subject  by  far  the  most  interesting  and  import- 
ant that  can  enter  the  mind  of  man.  Of  highest 
moment  this  subject  always  was,  and  always  will 
be :  yet  this  its  highest  moment  seems  to  admit  of 
increase  at  this  day;  a  sort  of  occasional  import- 
ance is  superadded  to  the  natural  weight  of  it,  if 
that  opinion  which  is  advanced  in  the  Preface  to 
the  preceding  Night  be  just.  It  is  therefore  sup- 
posed that  all  our  Infidels,  (whatever  scheme,  for 
argument's  sake,  and  to  keep  themselves  in  counte- 
nance, they  patronize)  are  betrayed  into  their  de- 
plorable error  by  some  doubt  of  their  immortality 
at  the  bottom:  and  the  more  I  consider  this 
point,  the  more  I  am  persuaded  of  the  truth  of  that 
opinion.  Though  the  distrust  of  a  futurity,  is  a 
strange  error,  yet  it  is  an  error  into  which  bad  men 
may  naturally  be  distressed ;  for  it  is  impossible  to 
bid  defiance  to  final  ruin,  without  some  refuge  in 
imagination,  some  presumption  of  escape.  And 
what  presumption  is  there  ?  there  are  but  two  in 
Nature ;  but  two  within  the  compass  of  human 
thought ;  and  these  are, — That  either  God  will  not 
or  can  not  punish.  Considering  the  divine  attri- 
butes, the  first  is  too  gross  to  be  digested  by  our 
strongest  wishes ;  and  since  omnipotence  is  as 
much  a  divine  attribute  as  holiness,  that  God  can 
not  punish,  is  as  absurd  a  supposition  as  the  former. 
God  certainly  can  punish,  as  long  as  wicked  men 
exist.  In  non-existence,  therefore,  is  their  only 
refuge;  and,  consequently,  non-existence  is  their 
strongest  wish :  and  strong  wishes  have  a  strange 
influence  on  our  opinions;  they  bias  the  judgment 
in  a  manner  almost  incredible.  And  since,  on  this 
member  of  their  alternative  there  are  some  very 
small  appearances  in  their  favour,  and  none  at  all 
on  the  other,  they  catch  at  this  reed,  they  lay  hold 
on  this  chimera,  to  save  themselves  from  the  shock 
and  horror  of  an  immediate  and  absolute  despair 
On  reviewing  my  subject  by  the  light  which 
this  argument,  and  others  of  like  tendency,  threw 
upon  it,  I  was  more  inclined  than  ever  to  pursue 
it,  as  it  appeared  to  me  to  strike  directly  at  the 


42 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


main  root  of  all  our  infidelity.  In  the  following 
pages  it  is,  accordingly,  pursued  at  large,  and  some 
arguments  for  immortality,  new  at  least  to  me,  are 
ventured  on  in  them.  There,  also,  the  writer  has 
made  an  attempt  to  set  the  gross  absurdities  and 
horrors  of  annihilation  in  a  fuller  and  more  affect-, 
ing  view,  than  is  (I  think)  to  be  met  with  else- 
where. 

The  gentleman  for  whose  sake  this  attempt  was 
chiefly  made,  profess  great  admiration  for  the  wis- 
dom of  Heathen  antiquity :  what  pity  it  is  they 
are  not  sincere !  If  they  were  sincere,  how  would 
it  mortify  them,  to  consider  with  what  contempt 
and  abhorrence  their  notions  would  have  been  re- 
ceived by  those  whom  they  so  much  admire. 
What  degree  of  contempt  and  abhorrence  would 
fall  to  their  share  may  be  conjectured  by  the  fol- 
lowing matter  of  fact,  (in  my  opinion)  extremely 
memorable.  Of  all  their  Heathen  worthies,  So- 
crates (it  is  well'  known)  was  the  most  guarded, 
dispassionate,  and  composed ;  yet  this  great  mas- 
ter of  temper  was  angry,  and  angry  at  his  last 
hour;  and  angry  with  his  friend;  and  angry  for 
what  deserved  acknowledgment ;  angry  for  a  right 
and  tender  instance  of  true  friendship  towards  him. 
Is  not  this  surprising?  what  could  be  the  cause? — 
The  cause  was  for  his  honour :  It  was  a  truly  no- 
ble, though,  perhaps,  a  too  punctilious  regard  for 
Immortality :  for  his  friend  asking  him,  with  such 
an  affectionate  concern  as  became  a  friend, '  Where 
he  should  deposit  his  remains  V  it  was  resented  by 
Socrates,  as  implying  a  dishonourable  supposition 
that  he  could  be  -so  mean  as  to  have  regard  for  any 
thing,  even  in  himself,  that  was  not  immortal. 

This  fact,  well  considered,  would  make  our  in- 
fidels withdraw  their  admiration  from  Socrates,  or 
make  them  endeavour,  by  their  imitation  of  his  il- 
lustrious example,  to  share  his  glory;  and  conse- 
quently, it  would  incline  them  to  peruse  the  fol- 
lowing pages  with  candour  and  impartiality,  which 
is  all  I  desire,  and  that  for  their  sakes ;  for  I  am 
persuaded  that  an  unprejudiced  infidel  must,  ne- 
cessarily, receive  some  advantageous  impressions 
from  them. 

July  7, 1744. 

CONTENTS. 

In  the  Sixth  Night,  arguments  were  drawn  from  Nature  in 
proof  of  Immortality :  here,  others  are  drawn  from  Man ;  from 
his  discontent ;  from  his  passions  and  powers ;  from  the  gra- 
dual growth  of  reason ;  from  his  fear  of  death ;  from  the  na- 
ture of  hope,  and  of  virtue ;  from  knowledge  and  love,  as  be- 
ing the  most  essential  properties  of  the  soul;  from  the  order 
of  creation;  from  the  nature  of  ambition ;  avarice ;  pleasure. 
— A  digression  on  the  grandeur  of  the  passions. — Immortality 
alone  renders  our  present  state  intelligible. — An  objection  from 
the  Stoic's  disbelief  of  Immortality  answered. — Endless  ques- 
tions unresolvable,  but  on  supposition  of  our  Immortality.— 
The  natural,  most  melancholy,  and  pathetic  complaint  of  a 
worthy  man,  under  the  persuasion  of  no  futurity. — The  gross 
absurdities  and  horrors  of  annihilation  ur^ed  home  on  Loren- 


zo.—The  soul's  vast  importance ;  from  whence  it  arises,  &c. 
— The  difficulty  of  being  an  Infidel;  the  infamy;  the  cause; 
and  the  character  of  an  infidel  state. — What  true  free-thinking 
is;  the  necessary  punishment  of  the  false. — Man's  ruin  is 
from  himself. — An  infidel  accuses  himself  of  guilt  and  hypo- 
crisy, and  that  of  the  worst  sort ;  his  obligation  to  Christians  ; 
what  danger  he  incurs  by  virtue ;  vice  recommended  to  him ; 
his  high  pretences  to  virtue  and  benevolence  exploded. — The 
conclusion,  on  the  nature  of  faith ;  reason ;  and  hope ;  with 
an  apology  for  this  attempt. 

HEAVEN  gives  the  needful,  but  neglected  call. 
What  day,  what  hour,  but  knocks  at  human  hearts, 
To  wake  the  soul  to  sense  of  future  scenes  ? 
Death  stands,  like  Mercury,  in  every  way, 
And  kindly  points  us  to  our  journey's  end. 
Pope,  whocouldst  make  immortals!  art  thou  dead? 
I  give  thee  joy ;  nor  will  I  take  my  leave, 
So  soon  to  follow.     Man  but  dives  in  death, 
Dives  from  the  sun,  in  fairer  day  to  rise ; 
The  grave,  his  subterranean  road  to  bliss. 
Yes,  infinite  indulgence  planned  it  so; 
Through  various  parts  our  glorious  story  runs 
Time  gives  the  preface,  endless  age  unrols 
The  volume  (ne'er  unrolled)  of  human  fate. 

This,  earth  and  skies*  already  have  proclaimed. 
The  world's  a  prophecy  of  worlds  to  come, 
And  who,  what  God  foretells,  (who  speaks  in  things 
Still  louder  than  in  words)  shall  dare  deny? 
If  Nature's  arguments  appear  too  weak, 
Turn  a  new  leaf,  and  stronger  read  in  man. 
If  man  sleeps  on,  untaught  by  what  he  sees, 
Can  he  prove  infidel  to  what  he  feels  ! 
He,  whose  blind  thought  futurity  denies, 
Unconscious  bears,  Bellerophon !  like  thee, 
His  own  indictment ;  he  condemns  himself ; 
Who  reads  his  bosom,  reads  immortal  life; 
Or  Nature  there,  imposing  on  her  sons, 
Has  written  fables :  man  was  made  a  lie. 

Why  discontent  for  ever  harboured  there  ? 
Incurable  consumption  of  our  peace! 
Resolve  me  why  the  cottager  and  king, 
He  whom  sea-severed  realms  obey,  and  he 
Who  steals  his  whole  dominion  from  the  waste, 
Repelling  winter-blasts  with  mud  and  straw, 
Disquieted  alike,  draw  sigh  for  sigh, 
In  fate  so  distant,  in  complaint  so  near  ? 

Is  it  that  things  terrestrial  can't  content? 
Deep  in  rich  pasture,  will  thy  flocks  complain  ? 
Not  so;  but  to  their  master  is  denied 
To  share  their  sweet  serene.    Man,  ill  at  ease 
In  this,  not  his  own  place,  this  foreign  field, 
Where  nature  fodders  him  with  other  food 
Than  was  ordained  his  cravings  to  suffice, 
Poor  in  abundance,  famished  at  a  feast, 
Sighs  on  for  something  more,  when  most  enjoyet 
Is  Heaven  then  kinder  to  thy  flocks  than  thee  ? 
Not  so;  thy  pasture  richer,  but  remote; 
In  part  remote ;  for  that  remoter  part 


'See  Night  the  Sixth. 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


43 


Man  bleats  from  instinct,  though,  perhaps,  de- 
bauched 

By  sense,  his  reason  sleeps,  nor  dreams  the  cause. 
The  cause  how  obvious,  when  his  reason  wakes: 
His  grief  is  but  his  grandeur  in  disguise, 
And  discontent  is  immortality. 

Shall  sons  of  Ether,  shall  the  blood  of  Heaven, 
Set  up  their  hopes  on  earth,  and  stable  here, 
With  brutal  acquiescence,  in  the  mire'? 
Lorenzo,  no!  they  shall  be  nobly  pained; 
The  glorious  foreigners,  distressed,  shall  sigh 
On  thrones,  and  thou  congratulate  the  sigh. 
Man's  misery  declares  him  born  for  bliss; 
His  anxious  heart  asserts  the  truth  I  sing, 
And  gives  the  sceptic  in  his  head — the  lie. 
Our   heads,  our  htarte,  our  passions,  and  our 

powers, 

Speak  the  same  language;  call  us  to  the  skies: 
Unripened  these,  in  this  inclement  clime, 
Scarce  rise  above  conjecture  and  mistake; 
And  for  this  land  of  trifles  those,  too  strong, 
Tumultuous  rise,  and  tempest  human  life. 
What  prize  on  earth  can  pay  us  for  the  storm'? 
Meet  objects  for  our  passions  Heaven  ordained, 
Objects  that  challenge  all  their  fire,  and  leave 
No  fault  but  in  defect.     Blessed  Heaven!  avert 
A  bounded  ardour  for  unbounded  bliss. 
O  for  a  bliss  unbounded !  far  beneath 
A  soul  immortal  is  a  mortal  joy. 
Nor  are  our  powers  to  perish  immature; 
But  after  feeble  effort  here,  beneath 
A  brighter  sun,  and  hi  a  nobler  soil, 
Transplanted  from  this  sublunary  bed, 
Shall  nourish  fair,  and  put  forth  all  their  bloom. 

Reason  progressive,  instinct  is  complete; 
Swift  instinct  leaps;  slow  Reason  feebly  climbs. 
Brutes  soon  their  zenith  reach;  their  little  all 
Flows  in  at  once;  in  ages  they  no  more 
Could  know,  or  do,  or  covet,  or  enjoy. 
Were  man  to  live  coeval  with  the  sun, 
The  patriarch-pupil  would  be  learning  still, 
Yet.  dying,  leave  his  lesson  half  unlearned. 
Men  perish  in  advance,  as  if  the  sun 
Should  set  ere  noon,  in  eastern  oceans  drowned ; 
If  fit  with  dim  illustrious  to  compare, 
The  sun's  meridian  with  the  soul  of  man. 
To  man,  why,  stepdame  Nature,  so  severe1? 
Why  thrown  aside  thy  masterpiece  half-wrought, 
While  meaner  efforts  thy  last  hands  enjoy  ? 
Or  if,  abortively,  poor  man  must  die, 
Nor  reach  what  reach  he  might,  why  die  in  dread  1 
Why  cursed  with  foresight?  wise  to  misery? 
Why  of  his  proud  prerogative  the  prey  1 
Why  less  pre-eminent  in  rank  than  pain? 
His  immortality  alone  can  tell ; 
Full  ample  fund  to  balance  all  amiss, 
And  turn  the  scale  in  favour  of  the  just ! 

His  immortality  alone  can  solve 
That  darkest  of  enigmas,  human  hope; 


Of  all  the  darkest,  if  at  death  we  die. 
Hope,  eager  Hope,  the  assassin  of  our  joy, 
All  present  blessings  treading  under  foot, 
Is  scarce  a  milder  tyrant  than  Despair. 
With  no  past  toils  content,  still  planning  new, 
Hope  turns  us  o'er  to  Death  alone  for  ease. 
Possession,  why  more  tasteless  than  pursuit? 
Why  is  a  wish  far  dearer  than  a  crown  1 
That  wish  accomplished,  why  the  grave  of  bliss  1 — 
Because  in  the  great  future  buried  deep, 
Beyond  our  plans  of  empire  and  renown, 
Lies  all  that  man  with  ardour  should  pursue ; 
And  he  who  made  him  bent  him  to  the  right. 

Man's  heart  the  Almighty  to  the  future  sets, 
By  secret  and  inviolable  springs, 
And  makes  his  hope  his  sublunary  joy. 
Man's  heart  eats  all  things,  and  is  hungry  still; 
'  More,  more!'  the  glutton  cries:   for  something 

new 

So  rages  appetite.     If  man  can't  mount, 
He  will  descend.     He  starves  on  the  possessed ; 
Hence,  the  world's  master,  from  Ambition's  spire, 
In  Caprea  plunged,  and  dived  beneath  the  brute. 
In  that  rank  sty  why  wallowed  Empire's  son 
Supreme? — Because  he  could  no  higher  fly: 
His  riot  was  Ambition  in  despair. 

Old  Rome  consulted  birds ;  Lorenzo,  thou 
With  more  success  the  flight  of  Hope  survey, 
Of  restless  Hope,  for  ever  on  the  wing. 
High-perched  o'er  every  thought  that  falcon  sits, 
To  fly  at  all  that  rises  in  her  sight: 
And  never  stooping,  but  to  mount  again 
Next  moment,  she  betrays  her  aim's  mistake, 
And  owns  her  quarry  lodged  beyond  the  grave. 

There  should  it  fail  us,  (it  must  fail  us  there, 
If  being  fails)  more  mournful  riddles  rise, 
And  virtue  vies  with  hope  in  mystery. 
Why  virtue?  where  its  praise,  its  being,  fled? 
Virtue  is  true  self-interest  pursued ; 
What  true  self-interest  of  quite  mortal  man  ? 
To  close  with  all  that  makes  him  happy  here. 
If  vice  (as  sometimes)  is  our  friend  on  earth, 
Then  vice  is  virtue;  'tis  our  sovereign  good. 
In  self-applause  is  virtue's  golden  prize? 
No  self-applause  attends  it  on  thy  scheme. 
Whence  self-applause?    from  conscience  of  the 

right; 

And  what  is  right,  but  means  of  happiness? 
No  means  of  happiness  when  virtue  yields; 
That  basis  failing,  falls  the  building  too, 
And  lays  in  ruin  every  virtuous  joy. 

The  rigid  guardian  of  a  blameless  heart, 
So  long  revered,  so  long  reputed  wise, 
Is  weak,  with  rank  knight-errantries  o'er-run. 
Why  beats  thy  bosom  with  illustrious  dreams 
Of  self-exposure,  laudable,  and  great  ? 
Of  gallant  enterprise,  and  glorious  death? 
Die  for  thy  county? — thou  romantic  fool! 
Seize,  seize  the  plank  thyself,  and  let  her  sink. 


44 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Thy  country  I  what  to  thee?— the  Godhead,  what? 
(I  speak  with  awe!)  though  he  should  bid  thee 

bleed, 

If,  with  thy  blood,  thy  final  hope  is  spilt? 
Nor  can  Omnipotence  reward  the  blow : 
Be  deaf ;  preserve  thy  being;  disobey. 

Nor  is  it  disobedience.     Know,  Lorenzo, 
Whate'er  the  Almighty's  subsequent  command, 
His  first  command  is  this : — '  Man,  love  thyself.' 
In  this  alone  free  agents  are  not  free. 
Existence  is  the  basis,  bliss  the  prize ; 
If  virtue  costs  existence,  'tis  a  crime; 
Bold  violation  of  our  law  supreme; 
Black  suicide ;  though  nations,  which  consult 
Their  gain  at  thy  expense,  resound  applause. 

Since  virtue's  recompense  is  doubtful  here, 
If  man  dies  wholly;  well  may  we  demand 
Why  is  man  suffered  to  be  good,  in  vain  ? 
Why  to  be  good  in  vain,  is  man  enjoined  1 
Why  to  be  good  in  vain,  is  man  betrayed  1 
Betrayed  by  traitors  lodged  in  his  own  breast, 
By  sweet  complacencies  from  virtue  felt? 
Why  whispers  Nature  lies  on  Virtue's  part? 
Or  if  blind  Instinct  (which  assumes  the  name     J 
Of  sacred  Conscience)  plays  the  fool  in.  man, 
Why  reason  made  accomplice  in  the  cheat  ? 
Why  are  the  wisest  loudest  in  her  praise  ? 
Can  man  by  reason's  beam  be  led  astray  ! 
Or,  at  his  peril,  imitate  his  God  ? 
Since  virtue  sometimes  ruins  us  on  earth, 
Or  both  are  true,  or  man  survives  the  grave. 

Or  man  survives  the  grave ;  our  own,  Lorenzo, 
Thy  boast  supreme  a  wild  absurdity. 
Dauntless  thy  spirit,  cowards  are  thy  scorn ; 
Grant  man  immortal,  and  thy  scorn  is  just. 
The  man  immortal,  rationally  brave, 
Dares  rush  on  death — because  he  can  not  die! 
But  if  man  loses  all  when  life  is  lost, 
He  lives  a  coward,  or  a  fool  expires. 
A  daring  infidel  (and  such  there  are, 
From  pride,  example,  lucre,  rage,  revenge, 
Or  pure  heroical  defect  of  thought) 
Of  all  earth's  madmen  most  deserves  a  chain. 

When  to  the  grave  we  follow  the  renowned 
For  valour,  virtue,  science,  all  we  love, 
And  all  we  praise;   for  worth  whose  noon-tide 

beam, 

Enabling  us  to  think  in  higher  style, 
Mends  our  ideas  of  ethereal  powers ; 
Dream  we,  that  lustre  of  the  moral  world 
Goes  out  in  stench,  and  rottenness  the  close? 
Why  was  he  wise  to  know,  and  warm  to  praise, 
And  strenuous  to  transcribe,  in  humah  life, 
The  mind  Almighty?    Could  it  be  that  Fate, 
Just  when  the  lineaments  began  to  shine, 
And  dawn  the  Deity,  should  snatch  the  draught, 
With  night  eternal  blot  it  out,  and  give 
The  skies  alarm,  lest  angels  too  might  die? 

If  human  souls,  why  not  angelic,  too, 


Extinguished;  and  a  solitary  God, 

O'er  ghastly  ruin  frowning  from  his  throne? 

Shall  we  this  moment  gaze  on  God  in  man, 

The  next  lose  man  for  ever  in  the  dust? 

From  dust  we  disengage,  or  man  mistakes, 

And  there,  where  least  his  judgment  fears  a  flaw. 

Wisdom  and  worth  how  boldly  he  commends ! 

Wisdom  and  worth  are  sacred  names ;  revered 

Where  not  embraced;  applauded,  denied; 

Why  not  compassioned  too  ?  if  spirits  die, 

Both  are  calamities,  inflicted  both 

To  make  us  but  more  wretched.     Wisdom's  eye 

Acute,  for  what?  to  spy  more  miseries; 

And  worth,   so  recompensed,   new-points   their 

stings. 

Or  man  surmounts  the  grave,  6r  gain  is  loss, 
And  worth  exalted  humbles  us  the  more. 
Thou  wilt  not  patronize  a  scheme  that  makes 
Weakness  and  vice  the  refuge  of  mankind. 

'  Has  virtue,  then,  no  joys?' — Yes,  joys  dear 

bought. 

Talk  ne'er  so  long,  in  this  imperfect  state 
Virtue  and  vice  are  at  eternal  war. 
Virtue's  a  combat;  and  who  ^fights  for  nought, 
Or  for  precarious,  or  for  small  reward  1 
.Who  virtue's  self-reward  so  loud  resound, 
Would  take  degrees  angelic  here  below, 
And  virtue,  while  they  compliment,  betray, 
By  feeble  motives  and  unfaithful  guards. 
The  crown,  the  unfading  crown,  her  soul  inspires ! 
'Tis  that,  and  that  alone,  can  countervail     , 
The  body's  treacheries  and  the  world's  assaults. 
On  earth's  poor  pay  our  famished  virtue  dies; 
Truth  incontestible !  in  spite  of  all 
A  Buyle  has  preached,  or  a  Voltaire  believed. 

In  man  the  more  we  dive,  the  more  we  see 
Heaven's  signet  stamping  an  immortal  make.  . 
Dive  to  the  bottom  of  his  soul,  the  base 
Sustaining  all,  what  find  we?  knowledge,  love! 
As  light  and  heat,  essential  to  the  sun, 
These  to  the  soul;  arid  why,  if  souls  expire  ? 
How  little  lovely  here  ?  how  little  known  ? 
Small  knowledge  we  dig  up  with  endless  toil, 
And  love  unfeigned  may  purchase  perfect  hate. 
Why  starved,  on  earth,  our  angel-appetites, 
While  brutal  are  indulged  their  fulsome  fill  ? 
Were  then  capacities  divine  conferred, 
As  a  mock  diadem,  in  savage  sport, 
Rank  insult  of  our  pompous  poverty, 
Which  reaps  but  pain  from  seeming  claims  so  fair? 
In  future  age  lies  no  redress  ?  and  shuts 
Eternity  the  door  on  our  complaint  1 
If  so,  for  what  strange  ends  were  mortals  made ! 
The  worst  to  wallow,  and  the  best  to  weep : 
The  man  who  merits  mostr  must  most  complain : 
Can  we  conceive  a  disregard  in  Heaven 
What  the  worst  perpetrate,  or  best  endure  ? 

This  can  not  be.     To  love  and  know,  in  man 
Is  boundless  appetite  and  boundless  power. 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


And  these  demonstrate  boundless  objects  too. 
Objects,  powers,  appetites,  Heaven  suits  in  all, 

nature  through,  e'er  violates  this  sweet 
Kternal  concord  on  her  tuneful  string. 
Is  man  the  solo  exception  from  her  laws! 
Eternity  struck  oil'  from  human  hope, 
(1  speak  with  truth,  but  veneration  too) 
Man  is  a  monster,  the  reproach  of  Heaven, 
A  stain,  a  dark,  impenetrable  cloud 
On  Nature's  beauteous  aspect,  and  deforms 
(Amazing  blot!)  deforms  her  with  her  lord. 
If  such  is  man's  allotment,  what  is  Heaven? 
Or  own  the  soul  immortal,  or  blaspheme. 

Or  own  the  soul  immortal,  or  invert 
AH  order.  Go,  mock-majesty !  go,  man ! 
And  bow  to  thy  superiors  of  the  stall, 
Through  every  scene  of  sense  superior  far 
They  graze  the  turf  untilled,  they  drink  the  stream 
Unbrewed,  and  ever  full,  and  unembittered 
With  doubts,  fears,  fruitless  hopes,  regrets,  de- 
spairs, 

Mankind's  peculiar!  Reason's  precious  dower! 
No  foreign  clime  they  ransack  for  their  robes, 
Nor  brothers  cite  to  the  litigious  bar ; 
Their  good  is  good  entire,  unmixed,  unmarred ; 
They  find  a  paradise  in  every  field, 
On  boughs  forbidden  where  no  curses  hang: 
Their  ill   no  more  than  strikes  the  sense,  un- 

stretched 

By  previous  dread,  or  murmur  in  the  rear: 
When  the  worst  comes,  it  comes  unfeared ;  one 

stroke 

Begins  and  ends  their  wo :  they  die,  but  once; 
Blessed,  incommunicable  privilege !  for  which 
Proud  man,  who  rules  the  globe  and  reads  the 

stars, 
Philosopher  or  hero,  sighs  in  vain. 

Account  for  this  prerogative  in  brutes. 
No  day,  no  glimpse  of  day,  to  solve  the  knot, 
But  what  beams  on  it  from  Eternity. 
O  sole  and  sweet  solution !  that  unties 
The  difficult,  and  softens  the  severe; 
The  cloud  on  Nature's  beauteous  face  dispels; 
Restofes  bright  order ;  casts  the  brute  beneath, 
And  reintlirones  us  in  supremacy 
Of  joy,  even  here.     Admit  immortal  life, 
And  virtue  is  knight-errantry  no  more ; 
Each  virtue  brings  in  hand  a  golden  dower, 
Far  richer  in  reversion:  hope  exults, 
And  though  much  bitter  in  our  cup  is  thrown, 
Predominates,  and  gives  the  taste  of  Heaven. 
O  wherefore  is  the  Deity  so  kind  ? 
Astonishing  beyond  astonishment ! 
Heaven  our  reward — for  heaven  enjoyed  below. 
Still  unsubdued  thy  stubborn  heart? — for  there 
The  traitor  lurks,  who  doubts  the  truth  I  sing : 
Reason  is  guiltless ;  Will  alone  rebels. — 
What,  in  that  stubborn  heart,  if  I  should  find 
New  unexpected  witnesses  against  thee  ? 


Ambition,  Pleasure,  and  the  Love  of  gain! 
Can'st  thou  suspect  that  these,  which  make  the  soul 
The  slave  of  earth,  should  own  her  heir  of  Heav- 
en? 

Can'st  thou  suspect  what  makes  us  disbelieve 
Our  immortality  should  prove  it  sure  ? 

First,  then,  Ambition  summon  to  the  bar. 
Ambition's  shame,  extravagance,  disgust, 
And  inextinguishable  nature,  speak : 
Each  much  deposes ;  hear  them  in  their  turn. 

Thy  soul  how  passionately  fond  of  fame! 
How  anxious  that  fond  passion  to  conceal ! 
We  blush,  detected  in  designs  on  praise, 
Though  for  best  deeds,  and  from  the  best  of  men ; 
And  why  ?  because  immortal.     Art  divine 
Has  made  the  body  tutor  to  the  soul ; 
Heaven  kindly  gives  our  blood  a  moral  flow, 
Bids  it  ascend  the  glowing  cheek,  and  there 
Upbraid  that  little  heart's  inglorious  aim 
Which  stoops  to  court  a  character  from  man ; 
While  o'er  us,  in  tremendous  judgment,  sit 
Far  more  than  man,  with  endless  praise  and  blame. 

Ambition's  boundless  appetite  outspeaks 
The  verdict  of  its  shame.     When  souls  take  fire 
At  high  presumptions  of  their  own  desert, 
One  age  is  poor  applause:  the  mighty  shout, 
The  thunder  by  the  living  few  begun, 
Late  time  must  echo,  worlds  unborn  resound. 
We  wish  our  names  eternally  to  live ; 
Wild  dream !  which  never  had  haunted  human 

thought, 

Had  not  our  natures  been  eternal  too. 
Instinct  points  out  an  interest  in  hereafter, 
But  our  blind  reason  sees  not  where  he  lies, 
Or,  seeing,  gives  the  substance  for  the  shade. 

Shame  is  the  shade  of  Immortality, 
And  in  itself  a  shadow ;  soon  as  caught 
Contemned,  it  shrinks  to  nothing  in  the  grasp. 
Consult  the  ambitious,  'tis  ambition's  cure. 
1  And  is  this  all  ?  cried  Cssar,  at  his  height, 
Disgusted.     This  third  proof  Ambitipn  brings 
Of  immortality.     The  first  in  fame, 
Observe  him  near,  your  envy  will  abate  : 
Shamed  at  the  disproportion  vast  between 
The  passion  and  the  purchase,  he  will  sigh 
At  such  success,  and  blush  at  his  renown. 
And  why  ?  because  far  richer  prize  invites 
His  heart ;  far  more  illustrious  glory  calls ; 
It  calls  in  whispers,  yet  the  deafest  hear. 

And  can  Ambition  a  fourth  proof  supply  ? 
It  can,  and  stronger  than  the  former  three, 
Yet  quite  o'erlooked  by  some  reputed  wise. 
Though  disappointments  in  ambition  pajn, 
And  though  success  disgusts,  yet  still,  Lorenzo ! 
In  vain  we  strive  to  pluck  it  from  our  hearts, 
By  Nature  planted  for  the  noblest  ends. 
Absurd  the  famed  advice  to  Pyrrhus  given, 
More  praised  than  pondered;   specious,  but  un- 
sound : 


4G 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Sooner  that  hero's  sword  the  world  had  quelled, 

Than  reason  his  ambition.     Man  must  soar ; 

An  obstinate  activity  within, 

An  insuppressive  spring,  will  toss  him  up 

In  spite  of  Fortune's  load.     Not  kings  alone, 

Each  villager  has  his  ambition  too : 

No  sukan  prouder  than  his  fettered  slave. 

Slaves  build  their  little  Babylons  of  straw, 

Echo  the  proud  Assyrian  in  their  hearts, 

And  cry, — '  Behold  the  wonders  of  my  might !' 

And  why  1  because  immortal  as  their  lord ; 

And  souls  immortal  must  for  ever  heave 

At  something  great ;  the  glitter  or  the  gold ; 

The- praise  of  mortals,  or  the  praise  of  Heaven! 

Nor  absolutely  vain  is  human  praise, 
When  human  is  supported  by  divine. 
I'll  introduce  Lorenzo  to  himself; 
Pleasure  and  Pride  (bad  masters !)  share  our  hearts. 
As  love  of  pleasure  is  ordained  to  guard 
And  feed  our  bodies,  and  extend  our  race ; 
The  love  of  praise  is  planted  to  protect 
And  propagate — the  glories  of  the  mind  ! 
What  is  it,  but  the  love  of  praise,  inspires, 
Matures,  refines,  embellishes,  exalts, 
Earth's  happiness  7  from  that  the  delicate, 
The  grand,  the  marvellous,  of  civil  life, 
Want  and  convenience,  under-workers,  lay 
The  basis  on  which  love  of  glory  builds. 
Nor  is  thy  life,  O  Virtue !  less  in  debt 
To  praise  thy  secret-stimulating  friend. 
Were  men  not  proud,  what  merit  should  we  miss ! 
Pride  made  the  virtues  of  the  Pagan  world. 
Praise  is  the  salt  that  seasons  right  to  man, 
And  whets  his  appetite  for  moral  good. 
Thirst  of  applause  is  Virtue's  second  guard, 
Reason  her  first ;  but  reason  wants  an  aid  ; 
Our  private  reason  is  a  flatterer ; 
Thirst  of  applause  calls  public  judgment  in 
To  poise  our  own,  to  keep  an  even  scale, 
And  give  endangered  Virtue  fairer  play. 

Here  a  fifth  proof  arises,  stronger  still. 
Why  this  so  nice  construction  of  our  hearts  1 
These  delicate  moralities  of  sense, 
This  constitutional  reserve  of  aid 
To  succour  Virtue  when  our  reason  fails, 
If  virtue,  kept  alive  by  care  and  toil, 
And  oft  the  mark  of  injuries  on  earth, 
When  laboured  to  maturity  (its  bill 
Of  disciplines  and  pains  unpaid)  must  die  1 
Why  freighted  rich  to  dash  against  a  rock  1 
Were  man  to  perish  when  most  fit  to  lire, 
O  how  misspent  were  all  these  stratagems, 
By  skill  divine  inwoven  in  our  frame  ? 
Where  are  Heaven's  holiness  and  mercy  fled  ? 
Laughs  Heaven,  at  once,  at  virtue  and  at  man  7 
If  not,  why  that  discouraged,  this  destroyed  ? — 

Thus  far  Ambition:  what  says  Avarice? 
This  her  chief  maxim,  which  has  long  been  thine : 
'  The  wise  and  wealthy  are  the  bamc.' — I  grant  it.  I 


To  store  up  treasure,  with,,  incessant  .toil, 
This  is  man's  province,  this  his  highest  praise: 
To  this  great  end  keen  Instinct  stings  him  on: 
To  guide  that  instinct,  Reason !  is  thy  charge ; 
'Tis  thine  to  tell  us  where  true  treasure  lios ; 
But  Reason,  failing  to  discharge  her  trust, 
Or  to  the  deaf  discharging  it  in  vain, 
A  blunder  follows,  and  blind  Industry, 
Galled  by  the  spur,  but  stranger  to  the  course, 
(The  course  where  stakes  of  more  than  gold  are  won) 
O'erloading  with  the  cares  of  distant  age 
The  jaded  spirits  of  the  present  hour, 
Provides  for  an  eternity  below. 

'  Thou  shall  not  covet,'  is  a  wise  command, 
But  bounded  to  the  wealth  the  sun  surveys. 
Look  farther,  the  command  stands  quite  reversal,. 
And  avarice  is  a  virtue  most  divine. 
Is  faith  a  refuge  for  our  happiness  ? 
Most  sure  ;r  and  is  it  not  for  reason  too  1 
Nothing  this  world  unriddles  but  the  next. 
Whence  inextinguishable  thirst  of  gain? 
From  inextinguishable  life  in  man : 
Man,  if  not  meant,  by  worth,  to  reach  the  skies, 
Had  wanted  wing  to  fly  so  far  in  guilt. 
Sour  grapes,  I  grant,  ambition,  avarice ; 
Yet  still  their  root  is  immortality : 
These,  its  wild  growths,  so  bitter  and  so  base, 
(Pain  and  reproach  !)  religion  can  reclaim, 
Refine,  exalt,  throw  down  their  poisonous  lee, 
And  make  them  sparkle  in  the  bowl  of  bliss. 

See,  the  third  witness  laughs  at  bliss  remote, 
And  falsely  promises  an  Eden  here : 
Truth  she  shall  speak  for  once,  though  prone  to  lie, 
A  common  cheat,  and  Pleasure  is  her  name. 
To  Pleasure  never  was  Lorenzo  deaf; 
Then  hear  her  now,  now  first  thy  real  friend. 

Since  Nature  made  us  not  more  fond  than  proud 
Of  happiness,  (whence  hypocrites  in  joy  ! 
Makers  of  mirth  !  artificers  of  smiles !) 
Why  should  the  joy  most  poignant  sense  affords 
Burn  us  with  blushes,  and  rebuke  our  pride  ? — 
Those  heaven-born  blushes  tell  us  man  descends, 
Even  in  the  zenith  of  his  earthly  bliss : 
Should  Reason  take  her  infidel  repose, 
This  honest  instinct  speaks  our  lineage  high  ; 
This  instinct  calls  on  darkness  to  conceal 
Our  rapturous  relation  to  the  stalls. 
Our  glory  covers  us  with  noble  shame, 
And  he  that's  unconfounded  is  unmanned. 
The  man  that  blushes  is  not  quite  a  brute. 
Thus  far  with  thee,  Lorenzo !  will  I  close,— 
Pleasure  is  good,  and  man  for  pleasure  made ; 
But  pleasure,  full  of  glory  as  of  joy ; 
Pleasure,  which  neither  blushes  nor  expires. 

The  witnesses  are  heard,  the  cause  is  o'er; 
Let  Conscience  file  the  sentence  in  her  court: 
Dearer  than  deeds  that  half  a  realm  convey, 
Thus,  sealed  by  Truth,  the'  authentic  record  runs. 

'  Know  all ;  know  Infidels, — unapt  to  know ! 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


47 


'Tis  immortality  your  nature  solves; 

'Tis  immortality  deciphers  man, 

And  opens  all  the  mysteries  of  his  make : 

Without  it,  halt"  his  instincts  are  a  riddle ; 

Without  it,  all  his  virtues  are  a  dream : 

1 I  is  very  crimes  attest  his  dignity  ; 

His  sateless  thirst  of  pleasure,  gold,  and  fame, 

Declares  him  born  for  blessings  infinite. 

What  less  than  infinite  makes  unabsurd 

•is,  which  all  on  earth  but  more  inflames'? 
Fierce  passions,  so  mismeasured  to  this  scene, 
Stretched  out,  like  eagles'  wings,  beyond  our  nest, 
Far,  far  beyond  the  worth  of  all  below, 
For  earth  too  large,  presage  a  nobler  flight, 
And  evidence  our  title  to  the  skies.' 

Ye  gentle  theologues  of  calmer  kind  ! 
Whose  constitution  dictates  to  your  pen, 
Who,  cold  yourselves,  think  ardour  comes  from  hell ! 
Think  not  our  passions  from  corruption  sprung, 
Though  to  corruption  now  they  lend  their  wings : 
That  is  their  mistress ;  not  their  mother.     All 
(And  justly)  Reason  deem  divine :  I  see, 
I  feel  a  grandeur  in  the  passions  too, 
Which  speaks  their  high  descent  and  glorious  end ; 
Which  speaks  them  rays  of  an  eternal  fire : 
In  Paradise  itself  they  burnt  as  strong 
Ere  Adam  fell,  though  wiser  in  their  aim. 
Like  the  proud  Eastern,  struck  by  Providence, 
What  though  our  passions  are  run  mad,  and  stoop, 
With  low  terrestrial  appetite,  to  graze 
On  trash,  on  toys,  dethroned  from  on  high  1 
Yet  still,  through  their  disgrace,  no  feeble  ray 
Of  greatness  shines,  and  tells  us  whence  they  fell : 
But  these  (like  that  fallen  monarch  when  reclaimed) 
When  Reason  moderates  the  reign  aright, 
Shall  re-ascend,  remount  their  former  sphere, 
Where  once  they  soared  illustrious,  ere  seduced, 
By  wanton  Eve's  debauch,  to  stroll  on  earth, 
And  set  the  sublunary  world  on  fire. 

But  grant  their  frenzy  lasts ;  their  frenzy  fails 
To  disappoint  one  providential  end 
For  which  Heaven  blew  up  ardour  in  our  hearts. 
Were  Reason  silent,  boundless  Passion  speaks 
A  future  scene  of  boundless  objects  too, 
And  brings  glad  tidings  of  eternal  day. 
Eternal  day !  'tis  that  enlightens  all, 
And  all,  by  that  enlightened,  proves  it  sure. 
Consider  man  as  an  immortal  being, 
Intelligible  all,  and  all  is  great ; 

talline  transparency  prevails, 
And  strikes  full  lustre  through  the  human  sphere : 
Consider  man  as  mortal,  all -is  dark 
And  wretched ;  Reason  weeps  at  the  survey. 

The  learned  Lorenzo  cries,  '  And  let  her  weep ; 
Weak  modern  Reason  :  ancient  times  were  wise. 
Authority,  that  venerable  guide, 
Stands  on  my  part ;  the  famed  Athenian  Porch 
(And  who  for  Wisdom  so  renowned  as  they  ?) 
Denied  this  immortality  to  man.' 
17 


I  grant  it ;  but  affirm,  they  proved  it  too. 

1 A  riddle  this !'— Have  patience ;  I'll  explain. 

What  noble  vanities,  what  moral  flights, 
Glittering  through  their  romantic  wisdom's  page, 
Make  us,  at  once,  despise  them  and  admire  1 
Fable  is  flat  to  these  high-seasoned  Sires ; 
They  leave  the'  extravagance  of  song  below. 
Flesh  shall  not  feel,  or,  feeling,  shall  enjoy 
The  dagger  or  the  rack ;  to  them  alike 
A  bed  of  roses,  or  the  burning  bull.' 
In  men  exploding  all  beyond  the  grave, 
Strange  doctrine  this !  as  doctrine  it  was  strange, 
But  not  as  prophecy;  for  such  it  proved, 
And,  to  their  own  amazement,  was  fulfilled : 
They  feigned  a  firmness  Christians  need  not  feign. 
The  Christian  truly  triumphed  in  the  flame ; 
The  Stoic  saw,  in  double  wonder  lost, 
Wonder  at  them,  and  wonder  at  himself, 
To  find  the  bold  adventures  of  his  thought 
Not  bold,  and  that  he  strove  to  lie  in  vain. 

Whence,  then,  those  thoughts — those  towering 

thoughts,  that  flew 
Such  monstrous  heights! — from  instinct  and  from 

pride. 

The  glorious  instinct  of  a  deathless  soul, 
Confusedly  conscious  of  her  dignity, 
Suggested  truths  they  could  not  understand. 
In  Lust's  dominion,  and  in  Passion's  storm, 
Truth's  system  broken,  scatter'd  fragments  lay, 
As  light  in  chaos,  glimmering  through  the  gloom : 
Smit  with  the  pomp  of  lofty  sentiments, 
Pleas'd  Pride  proclaimed  what  Reason  disbelieved. 
Pride,  like  the  Delphic  priestess,  with  a  swell 
Raved  nonsense,  destined  to  be  future  sense, 
When  life  immortal,  in  full  day,  should  shine, 
And  Death's  dark  shadows  fly  the  Gospel-sun. 
They  spoke  what  nothing  but  immortal  souls 
Could  speak ;  and  thus  the  truth  they  questioned 
proved. 

'  Can,  then,  absurdities,  as  well  as  crimes, 
Speak  man  immortal  1'    AH  things  speak  him  so. 
Much  has  been  urged ;  and  dost  thou  call  for  more"? 
Call,  and  with  endless  questions  be  distressed, 
All  unresolvable,  if  earth  is  all. 

'Why  life  a  moment?  infinite  desire? 
Our  wish  eternity,  our  home  the  grave? 
Heaven's  promise  dormant  lies  in  human  hope  : 
Who  wishes  life  immortal,  proves  it  too. 
Why  happiness  pursued,  though  never  found? 
Man's  thirst  of  happiness  declares  it  is, 
(For  Nature  never  gravitates  to  nought) 
That  thirst  unquenched,  declares  it  is  not  here. 
My  Lucia,  thy  Clarissa  call  to  thought ; 
Why  cordial  friendship  riveted  so  deep, 
As  hearts  to  pierce  at  first,  at  parting  rend, 
If  friend  and  friendship  vanish  in  an  hour  ? 
Is  not  this  torment  in  the  mask  of  joy  ? 
Why  by  reflection  marred  the  joys  of  sense  ? 
Why  past  and  future  preying  on  our  hearts, 


•48 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


And  putting  all  our  present  joys  to  death? 

Why  labours  reason 7  instinct  were  as  well; 

Instinct  far  better :  what  can  choose  can  err. 

O  how  infallible  the  thoughtless  brute ! 

5 T were  well  his  Holiness  were  half  as  sure, 

Reason  with  inclination  why  at  war  1 

Why  sense  of  guilt  1  why  conscience  up  in  arms! 

Conscience  of  guilt  is  prophecy  of  pain, 
And  bosom-counsel  to  decline  the  blow. 
Reason  with  inclination  ne'er  had  jarr'd, 
If  nothing  future  paid  forbearance  here. 
Thus  on — these,  and  a  thousand  pleas  uncall'd, 
All  promise,  some  insure,  a  second  scene ; 
Which,  were  it  doubtful,  would  be  dearer  far 
Than  all  things  else  most  certain:  were  it  false, 
What  truth  on  earth  so  precious  as  the  lie? 
This  world  it  gives  us,  let  what  will  ensue ; 
This  world  it  gives  in  that  high  cordial,  hope ; 
The  future  of  the  present  is  the  soul. 
How  this  life  groans  when  severed  from  the  next  V 
Poor  mutilated  wretch  that  disbelieves ! 
By  dark  distrust  his  being  cut  in  two, 
In  both  parts  perishes ;  life  void  of  joy, 
Sad  prelude  of  eternity  in  pain ! 

Couldst  thou  persuade  me  the  next  life  could  fail 
Our  ardent  wishes,  how  should  I  pour  out 
My  bleeding  heart  in  anguish,  new  as  deep ! 
Oh !  with  what  thoughts  thy  hope,  and  my  de- 
spair, 

Abhor'd  Annihilation !  blasts  the  soul, 
And  wide  extends  the  bounds  of  human  wo ! 
Could  I  believe  Lorenzo's  system  true, 
In  this  black  channel  would  my  ravings  run : — 

'  Grief  from  the  future  borrow'd  peace,  ere- while. 
The  future  vanished !  and  the  present  pained ! 
Strange  import  of  unprecedented  ill ! 
Fall  how  profound  !  like  Lucifer's  the  fall ! 
Unequal  fate !  his  fall,  without  his  guilt ! 
From  where  fond  Hope  built  her  pavilion  high, 
The  gods  among,  hurled  headlong,  hurled  at  once 
To  night !  to  nothing !  darker  still  than  night. 
If  'twas  a  dream,  why  wake  me,  my  worst  foe, 
Lorenzo !  boastful  of  the  name  of  friend  ! 
O  for  delusion !  O  for  error  still ! 
Could  vengeance  strike  much  stronger  than  to 

plant 

A  thinking  being  in  a  world  like  this, 
Not  over-rich  before,  now  beggar'd  quite, 
More  curs'd  than  at  the  fall ! — The  sun  goes  out ! 
The  thorns  shoot  up !  what  thorns  in  every  tho't ! 
Why  sense  of  better?  it  imbitters  worse. 
Why  sense?  why  life?  if  but  to  sigh,  then  sink 
To  what  I  was !  twice  nothing !  and  much  wo ! 
Wo  from  Heaven's  bounties !  wo  from  what  was 

wont 

To  flatter  most,  high  intellectual  powers. 
Thought,  virtue,  knowledge !  blessings,  by  thy 

scheme, 
All  poisoned  into  pains.     First,  knowledge,  once 


My  soul's  ambition,  now  her  greatest  dread. 
To  know  myself  true  wisdom? — No;  to  shun 
That  shocking  science,  parent  of  Despair ; 
Avert  thy  mirror ;  if  I  see,  I  die. 

'  Know  my  Creator?  climb  his  blessed  abode 
By  painful  speculation,  pierce  the  veil, 
Dive  in  his  nature,  read  his  attributes, 
And  gaze  in  admiration — on  a  foe, 
Obtruding  life,  withholding  happiness ! 
From  the  full  rivers  that  surround  his  throne, 
Not  letting  fall  one  drop  of  joy  on  man ; 
Man  gasping  for  one  drop,  that  he  might  cease 
To  curse  his  birth,  nor  envy  reptiles  more ; 
Ye  sable  clouds,  ye  darkest  shades  of  night ! 
Hide  him,  forever  hide  him  from  my  thought, 
Once  all  my  comfort,  source  and  soul  of  joy  I 
Now  leagued  with  furies,  and  with  thee,*  against 
me. 

'  Know  his  achievements  ?  study  his  renown  1 
'ontemplate  this  Amazing  Universe, 
Dropt  from  his  hand  with  miracles  replete  1 
For  what?  mid  miracles  of  nobler  name 
To  find  one  miracle  of  misery? 
To  find  the  being,  which  alone  can  know 
And  praise  his  works,  a  blemish  on  his  praise ! 
Through  Nature's  ample  range,  in  thought,  to 

stroll, 

And  start  at  man,  the  single  mourner  there, 
Breathing  high  hope !  chain'd  down  to  pangs  and 
death? 

1  Knowing  is  suffering :  and  shall  Virtue  share 
The  sigh  of  Knowledge  ? — Virtue  shares  the  sigh. 
By  straining  up  the  steep  of  excellent, 
By  battles  fought,  and  from  temptation  won, 
What  gains  she  but  the  pang  of  seeing  worth, 
Angelic  worth,  soon  shuffled  in  the  dark 
With  every  vice,  and  swept  to  brutal  dust  ? 
Merit  is  madness,  virtue  is  a  crime, 
A  crime  to  reason,  if  it  costs  us  pain 
Unpaid :  what  pain,  amidst  a  thousand  more, 
To  think  the  most  abandoned,  after  days 
Of  triumph  o'er  their  betters,  find  in  death 
As  soft  a  pillow,  nor  make  fouler  clay  ! 

'  Duty !  religion ! — these,  our  duty  done, 
Imply  reward,  Religion  is  mistake. 
Duty ! — there  's  none,  but  to  repel  the  cheat. 
Ye  Cheats!  away:  ye  daughters  of  my  pride, 
Who  feign  yourselves  the  favourites  of  the  skies, 
Ye  towering  Hopes  !  abortive  energies ! 
That  toss  and  struggle  in  my  lying  breast, 
To  scale  the  skies,  and  build  presumption  there, 
As  I  were  heir  of  an  eternity. 
Vain,  vain  ambitions !  trouble  me  no  more. 
Why  travel  far  in  quest  of  sure  defeat  ? 
As  bounded  as  my  being  be  my  wish. 
All  is  inverted,  wisdom  is  a  fool. 
Sense!  take  the  rein!  blind  Passion!  drive  us  on; 


Lorenzo! 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


And,  Ignorance !  befriend  us  on  our  way ; 
Ye  new,  but  truest  patrons  of  our  peace  ! 
Yes,  give  the  pulse  full  empire ;  live  the  brute 
Since  as  the  brute  we  die :  the  sum  of  man, 
Of  Godlike  man !  to  revel  and  to  rot. 

1  But  not  on  equal  terms  with  other  brutes; 
Their  revels  a  more  poignant  relish  yield, 
And  safer  too ;  they  never  poisons  choose. 
Instinct  than  reason  makes  more  wholesome  meals 
And  sends  all-marring  Murmur  far  away, 
For  sensual  life  they  best  philosophise, 
Theirs  that  serene  the  sages  sought  in  vain  : 
'Tis  man  alone  expostulates  with  Heaven : 
His  all  the  power  and  all  the  cause  to  mourn. 
Shall  human  eyes  alone  dissolve  in  tears'? 
And  bleed  in  anguish  none  but  human  hearts'? 
The  wide  stretched  realm  of  intellectual  wo, 
Surpassing  sensual  far,  is  all  our  own. 
In  life  so  fatally  distinguished,  why 
Cast  in  one  lot,  confounded,  lumped  in  death  7 

'  Ere  yet  in  being,  was  mankind  in  guilt  1 
Why  thundered  this  peculiar  clause  against  us, 
'  All-mortal,  and  all-wretched !' — Have  the  skies 
Reasons  of  state  their  subjects  may  not  scan, 
Nor  humbly  reason  when  they  sorely  sigh  1 — 
'  All-mortal,  and  all-wretched !' — 'Tis  too  much, 
Unparalleled  in  Nature :  'tis  too  much, 
On  being  unrequested  at  thy  hands, 
Omnipotent !  for  I  see  nought  but  power. 
'And  why  see  that?  why,  thought!    To  toi 

and  eat, 

Then  make  our  bed  in  darkness,  needs  no  thought 
What  superfluities  are  reasoning  souls ! 
Oh  !  give  eternity,  or  thought  destroy. 
But  without  thought  our  curse  were  half  unfelt; 
Its  blunted  edge  would  spare  the  throbbing  heart 
And  therefore  'tis  bestowed.  I  thank  thee,  Reason 
For  aiding  life's  too  small  calamities, 
And  giving  being  to  the  dread  of  death. 
Such  are  thy  bounties! — Was  it  then  too  much 
For  me  ,to  trespass  on  the  brutal  rights  1 
Too  much  for  Heaven  to  make  one  emmet  morel 
Too  much  for  Chaos  to  permit  my  mass 
A  longer  stay  with  essences  unwrought, 
Unfashioned,  untormented  into  man  1 
Wretched  preferment  to  this  round  of  pains! 
Wretched  captivity  of  frenzy,  thought! 
Wretched  captivity  of  dying,  life ! 
Life,  thought,  worth,  wisdom,  all  (O  foul  revolt!) 
Once  friends  to  peace,  gone  over  to  the  foe. 
'  Death,  then,  has  changed  its  nature  too.     O 

Death! 

Come  to  my  bosom,  thou  best  gift  of  Heaven ! 
Best  friend  of  man !  since  man  is  man  no  more. 
Why  in  this  thorny  wilderness  so  long, 
Since  there  's  no  promised  land's  ambrosial  bower 
To  pay  me  with  its  honey  for  my  stings  ? 
If  needful  to  the  selfish  schemes  of  Heaven 
To  sting  us  sore,  why  mocked  our  misery? 


Why  this  so  sumptuous  insult  o'er  our  heads  1 
Why  this  illustrious  canopy  displayed  7 
Why  so  magnificently Jodged,  Despair? 
At  stated  periods,  sure-returning,  roll 
These  glorious  orbs,  that  mortals  may  compute 
Their  length  of  labours  and  of  pains,  nor  lose 
Their  misery's  full  measure'? — Smiles  with  flowers 
And  fruits,  promiscuous,  ever-teeming  earth, 
That  man  may  languish  in  luxurious  scenes, 
And  in  an  Eden  mourn  his  withered  joys 7 
Claim  earth  and  skies  man's  admiration,  due 
For  such  delights  1  blessed  animals  !  too  wise 
To  wonder,  and  too  happy  to  complain ! 

1  Our  doom  decreed  demands  a  mournful  scene : 
Why  not  a  dungeon  dark  for  the  condemned  7 
Why  not  the  dragon's  subterranean  den 
For  man  to  howl  in  1  why  not  his  abode 
Of  the  same  dismal  colour  with  his  fate  1 
A  Thebes,  a  Babylon,  at  vast  expense 
Of  time,  toil,  treasure,  art,  for  owls  and  adders 
As  congruous,  as  for  man  this  lofty  dome, 
Which  prompts  proud  thought,  and  kindles  high 

desire; 

If  from  her  humble  chamber  in  the  dust. 
While  proud  thought  swells,  and  high  desire  in- 

flames, 

The  poor  worm  calls  us  for  her  inmates  there, 
And  round  us  Death's  inexorable  hand 
Draws  the  dark  curtain  close,  undrawn  no  more. 

'Undrawn  no  more! — Behind  the  cloud  of  death, 
Once,  I  beheld  a  sun,  a  sun  which  gilt 
That  sable  cloud,  and  turned  it  all  to  gold. 
How  the  grave's  altered !  fathomless  as  hell ! 
A  real  hell  to  those  who  dreamt  of  Heaven. 
Annihilation  !  how  it  yawns  before  me ! 
Next  moment  I  may  drop  from  thought,  from  sense, 
The  privilege,  of  angels  and  of  worms, 
An  outcast  from  existence !  and  this  spirit, 
This  all-pervading,  this  all-conscious  soul, 
This  particle  of  energy  divine, 
Which  travels  Nature,  flies  from  star  to  star, 
And  visits  gods,  and  emulates  their  powers, 
For  ever  is  extinguished.     Horror  !  death ! 
Death  of  that  death  I  fearless,  once,  surveyed ! — 
When  horror  universal  shall  descend, 
And  heaven's  dark  concave  urn  all  human  race, 
On  that  enormous,  unrefunding  tomb, 
rlow  just  this  verse ;  this  monumental  sigh !' — 
'  Beneath  the  lumber  of  demolished  worlds, 
Deep  in  the  rubbish  of  the  general  wreck, 
Swept  ignominious  to  the  common  mass 
Of  matter,  never  dignified  with  life, 
lere  lie  proud  rationale ;  the  sons  of  Heaven! 
The  lords  of  earth  !  the  property  of  worms ! 
icings  of  yesterday,  and  no  to-morrow  ! 
Who  lived  in  terror,  and  in  pangs  expired ! 
All  gone  to  rot  in  chaos,  or  to  make 
Their  happy  transit  into  blocks  or  brutes, 
Nor  longer  sully  their  Creator's  name." 


50 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Lorenzo !  hear,  pause,  ponder,  and  pronounce. 
Just  is  this  history'?  if  such  is  man, 
Mankind's  historian,  though  divine, might  weep: 
And  dares  Lorenzo  smile — I  know  thee  proud ! 
For  once  let  pride  befriend  thee :  Pride  looks  pale 
At  such  a  scene,  and  sighs  for  something  more. 
Amid  thy  boasts,  presumptions,  and  displays, 
And  art  thou  then  a  shadow?  less  than  shade 7 
A  nothing  1  less  than  nothing  1  To  have  been, 
And  not  to  be,  is  lower  than  unborn. 
Art  thou  ambitious  1  why  then  make  the  worm 
Thine  equal  1 — Runs  thy  taste  of  pleasure  high  1 
Why  patronise  sure  death  of  every  joy? — 
Charm  riches?  why  choose  beggary  in  the  grave, 
Of  every  hope  a  bankrupt !  and  for  ever  1 — 
Ambition,  Pleasure,  Avarice,  persuade  thee 
To  make  that  world  of  glory,  rapture,  wealth, 
They  lately  proved,*  thy  soul's  supreme  desire ! 

What  art  thou  made  of?  rather,  how  unmade? 
Great  Nature's  master-appetite  destroyed, 
Is  endless  life  and  happiness  despised : 
Or  both  wished  here,  where  neither  can  be  found. 
Such  man's  perverse,  eternal  war  with  Heaven! 
Dar'st  thou  persist  ?  and  is  there  nought  on  earth 
But  a  long  train  of  transitory  forms, 
Rising  and  breaking  millions  in  an  hour  ? 
Bubbles  of  a  fantastic  deity,  blown  up 
In  sport,  and  then  in  cruelty  destroyed  1 
Oh !  for  what  crime,  unmerciful  Lorenzo ! 
Destroys  thy  scheme  the  whole  of  human  race  ? 
Kind  is  fell  Lucifer  compared  to  thee. 
Oh !  spare  this  waste  of  being  half-divine, 
And  vindicate  the  economy  of  Heaven. 

Heaven  is  all  love,  all  joy  in  giving  joy ; 
It  never  had  created  but  to  bless ; 
And  shall  it  then  strike  off  the  list  of  life 
A  being  blessed,  or  worthy  so  .to  be  1 
Heaven  starts  at  an  annihilating  God. 

Is  that,  all  Nature  starts  at,  thy  desire  ? 
Art  such  a  clod  to  wish  thyself  all  clay? 
What  is  that  dreadful  wish  ? — the  dying  groan 
Of  Nature,  murdered  by  the  blackest  guilt. 
What  deadly  poison  has  thy  nature  drank  ? 
To  nature,  undebauched,  no  shock  so  great, 
Nature's  first  wish  is  endless  happiness ; 
Annihilation  is  an  after- thought, 
A  monstrous  wish,  unborn  till  Virtue  dies, 
And,  oh !  what  depth  of  horror  lies  inclosed ! 
For  non-existence  no  man  ever  wished, 
But  first  he  wished  the  Deity  destroyed. 

If  so ;  what  words  are  dark  enough  to  draw 
Thy  picture  true  ?  the  darkest  are  too  fair. 
Beneath  what  baleful  planet,  in  what  hour 
Of  desperation,  by  what  fury's  aid, 
In  what  infernal  posture  of  the  soul, 
All  hell  invited,  and  all  hell  in  joy 
At  such  a  birth,  so  near  of  kin, 

*  In  the  Sixth  Night 


Did  thy  foul  fancy  whelp  so  black  a  scheme 
Of  hopes  abortive,  faculties  half-blown, 
And  deities  begun,  reduced  to  dust. 

1  There's  nought  (thou  say'st)  but  one  eternal 

flux 

Of  feeble  essences,  tumultuous  driven 
Through  time's  rough  billows  into  night's  abyss.' 
Say,  in  this  rapid  tide  of  human  ruin, 
Is  there  no  rock  on  which  man's  tossing  thought 
Can  rest  from  terror,  dare  his  fate  survey, 
And  boldly  think  it  something  to  be  born  ? 
Amid  such  hourly  wrecks  of  being  fair, 
Is  there  no  central,  all-sustaining  base, 
All-realizing,  all-connecting  power, 
Which,  as  it  called  forth  all  things,  can  recall, 
And  force  Destruction  to  refund  her  spoil  ? 
Command  the  grave  restore  her  taken  prey 
Bid  death's  dark  vale  its  human  harvest  yield  ? 
And  earth  and  ocean  pay  their  debt  of  man, 
True  to  the  grand  deposit  trusted  there  ? 
Is  there  no  potentate,  whose  outstretched  arm, 
When  ripening  time  calls    forth   the   appointed 

hour, 

Plucked  from  foul  Devastation's  famished  maw, 
Binds  present,  past,  and  future,  to  his  throne  ? 
His  throne  how  glorious !  thus  divinely  graced 
By  germinating  beings  clustering  round ! 
A  garland  worthy  the  Divinity ! 
A  throne,  by  Heaven's  Omnipotence  in  smiles, 
Built  (like  a  Pharos  towering  in  the  waves) 
Amidst  immense  effusions  of  his  love ! 
An  ocean  of  communicated  bliss ! 

An  all-prolific,  all-preserving  God ! 
This  were  a  God  indeed. — And  such  is  man, 
As  here  presumed ;  he  rises  from  his  fall. 
Think'st  thou  Omnipotence  a  naked  root, 
Each  blossom  fair  of  Deity  destroyed  ? 
Nothing  is  dead;  nay,  nothing  sleeps;  each  soul, 
That  ever  animated  human  clay, 
Now  wakes,  is  on  the  wing :  and  where,  O  where, 
Will  the  swarm  settle  ? — When  the  trumpet's  call, 
As  sounding  brass,  collects  us,  round  Heaven's 

throne 

Conglobed,  we  bask  in  everlasting  day, 
(Paternal  splendour !)  and  adhere  for  ever. 
Had  not  the  soul  this  outlet  to  the  skies, 
In  this  vast  vessel  of  the  universe 
How  should  we  gasp,  as  in  an  empty  void ! 
How  in  the  pangs  of  famished  hope  expire  ! 

How  bright  my  prospect  shines !  how  gloomy 

thine ! 

A  trembling  world !  and  a  devouring  God ! 
Earth  but  the  shambles  of  Omnipotence ! 
Heaven's  face  all  stained  with  causeless  massacres 
Of  countless  millions,  born  to  feel  the  pang 
Of  being  lost.     Lorenzo !  can  it  be  ? 
This  bids  us  shudder  at  the  thoughts  of  life  ! 
Who  would  be  born  to  such  a  phantom  world, 
Where  nought  substantial,  but  our  misery? 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


51 


Where  joy  (if  joy)  but  heightens  our  distress, 
So  soon  to  perish,  and  revive  no  more? 
The  greater  such  a  joy,  the  more  it  pains. 
A  world  so  far  from  great,  (and  yet  how  great 
It  shines  to  thee !)  there's  nothing  real  in  it ; 
Being,  a  shadow  ;  consciousness,  a  dream : 
A  dream  how  dreadful !  universal  blank 
Before  it  and  behind ;  poor  man,  a  spark 
From  non-existence  struck  by  wrath  divine, 
Glittering  a  moment,  nor  that  moment  sure, 
Midst  upper,  nether,  and  surrounding  night, 
His  sad,  sure,  sudden,  and  eternal  tomb ! 

Lorenzo !  dost  thou  feel  these  arguments'? 
Or  is  there  nought  but  vengeance  can  be  felt1 
How  hast  thou  dared  the  Deity  dethrone  ? 
How  dared  indict  him  of  a  world  like  this  ? 
If  such  the  world,  Creation  was  a  crime; 
For  what  is  crime,  but  cause  of  misery? 
Retract,  blasphemer !  and  unriddle  this, 
Of  endless  argument  above,  below, 
Without  us,  and  within,  the  short  restdt— 
1  If  man's  immortal,  there's  a  God  in  Heaven!' 

But  wherefore  such  redundancy?  such  waste 
Of  argument  ?  one  sets  my  soul  at  rest ; 
One  obvious,  and  at  hand,  and  oh ! — at  heart. 
So  just  the  skies,  Philander's  life  so  pained, 
His  heart  so  pure,  that  or  succeeding  scenes 
Have  palms  to  give,  or  ne'er  had  he  been  bom! 

'  What  an  old  tale  is  this!  Lorenzo  cries. — 
I  grant  this  argument  is  old ;  but  truth 
No  years  impair ;  and  had  not  this  been  true, 
Thou  never  had*st  despised  it  for  its  age. 
Truth  is  immortal  as  thy  soul,  and  fable 
As  fleeting  as  thy  joys.     Be  wise,  nor  make 
Heaven's  highest  blessing  vengeance.    O  be  wise ! 
Nor  make  a  curse  of  immortality ! 

Say,  know'st  thou  what  it  is,  or  what  thou  art? 
Know'st  thou  the  importance  of  a  soul  immortal  ? 
Behold  this  mid-night  glory :  worlds  on  worlds ! 
Amazing  pomp;  redoubled  this  amaze ! 
Ten  thousand  add;  add  twice  ten  thousand  more; 
Then  weigh  the  whole;  one  soul  outweighs  them 

all, 

And  calls  the  astonishing  magnificence 
Of  unintelligent  creation  poor. 

For  this,  believe  not  me :  no  man  believe; 
Trust  not  in  words,  but  deeds;  and  deeds  no  less 
Than  those  of  the  Supreme,  nor  his  a  few : 
Consult  them  all ;  consulted,  all  proclaim 
Thy  soul's  importance.     Tremble  at  thyself, 
For  whom  Omnipotence  has  waked  so  long ; 
Has  waked,  and  worked  for  ages;  from  the  birth 
Of  Nature  to  this  unbelieving  hour. 

In  this  small  province  of  his  vast  domain 
(All  Nature  bow  while  I  pronounce  his  name!) 
What  has  God  done,  and  not  for  this  sole  end, 
To  rescue  souls  from  death  ?  The  soul's  high  price 
Is  writ  in  all  the  conduct  of  the  skies. 
The  soul's  high  price  is  the  Creation's  key, 


Unlocks  its  mysteries,  and  naked  lays 
The  genuine  cause  of  every  deed  divine : 
That  is  the  chain  of  ages  which  maintains 
Their  obvious  correspondence,  and  unites 
Most  distant  periods  in  one  blessed  design : 
That  is  the  mighty  hinge  on  which  have  turned 
All  revolutions,  whether  We  regard 
The  natural,  civil,  or  religious  world ; 
The  former  two,  but  servants  to  the  third  : 
To  that  their  duty  done,  they  both  expire, 
Their  mass  new-cast,  forgot  their  deeds  renowned, 
And  angels  ask,  '  Where  once  they  shone  so  fair? 

To  lift  us  from  this  abject,  to  sublime; 
This  flux,  to  permanent ;  this  dark,  to  day ; 
This  foul,  to  pure;  this  turbid,  to  serene; 
This  mean,  to  mighty ! — for  this  glorious  end 
The  Almighty,  rising,  his  long  sabbath  broke ! 
The  world  was  made,  was  ruined,  was  restored : 
Laws  from  the  skies  were  published,  were  re- 


On  earth  kings,  kingdoms,  rose ;  kings,  kingdoms, 

fell; 

Famed  sages  lighted  up  the  Pagan  world; 
Prophets  from  Sion  darted  a  keen  glance 
Through  distant  age;  saints  travelled,  martyrs 

bled; 

By  wonders  sacred  Nature  stood  controlled; 
The  living  were  translated  ;  dead  were  raised ; 
Angels,  and  more  than  angels,  came  from  Heaven ; 
And,  oh!  for  this  descended  lower  still: 
Guilt  was  hell's  gloom ;  astonished  at  his  guest, 
For  one  short  moment  Lucifer  adored. 
Lorenzo !  and  wilt  thou  do  less  ? — For  this 
That  hallowed  page,  fools  scoff  at,  was  inspired, 
Of  all  these  truths  thrice-venerable  code ! 
Deists;  perform  your  quarantine;  and  then 
Fall  prostrate,  ere  you  touch  it,  lest  you  die. 

Nor  less  intensely  bent  infernal  powers 
To  mar,  than  those  of  light,  this  end  to  gain. 
O  what  a  scene  is  here! — Lorenzo!  wake! 
Rise  to  the  thought;  exert,  expand  thy  soul 
To  take  the  vast  idea ;  it  denies 
All  else  the  name  of  great.    Two  warring  worlds, 
Not  Europe  against  Afric !  warring  worlds, 
Of  more  than  mortal!  mounted  on  the  wing! 
On  ardent  wings  of  energy  and  zeal, 
High-hovering  o'er  this  little  brand  of  strife, 
This  sublunary  ball.— But  strife,  for  what? 
In  their  own  cause  conflicting!  no:  in  thine, 
In  man's.     His  single  interest  blows  the  flame ; 
His  the  sole  stake ;  his  fate  the  trumpet  sounds 
Which  kindles  war  immortal.     How  it  burns ! 
Tumultuous  swarms  of  deities  in  arms ; 
Force  force  opposing,  till  the  waves  run  high, 
And  tempest  Nature's  universal  sphere. 
Such  opposites  eternal,  stedfast,  stern, 
Such  foes  implacable  are  good  and  ill ; 
Yet  man,  vain  man,  would  mediate  peace  between 

them. 


YOUNG'S  WORKS: 


Think  not  this  fiction:    'There  was  war  in 

Heaven.' 
From  Heaven's  high  crystal  mountain  where  it 

hung, 
The  Almighty's  outstretched  arm  took  down  his 

bow, 

And  shot  his  indignation  at  the  deep: 
Re-thundered  Hell,  and  darted  all  her  fires.— 
And 'seems  the  stake  of  little  moment  still? 
And  slumbers  man,  who  singly  caused  the  storm? 
He  sleeps. — And  art  thou  shocked  at  mysteries? 
The  greatest,  thou.     How  dreadful  to  reflect 
What  ardour,  care,  and  counsel,  mortals  cause 
In  breasts  divine !  how  little  in  their  own ! 

Where'er  I  turn,  how  new  proofs  pour  upon  me ! 
How  happily  this  wondrous  view  supports 
My  former  argument!  how  strongly  strikes 
Immortal  life's  full  demonstration  here  ! 
Why  this  exertion  ?  why  this  strange  regard 
From  Heaven's  Omnipotent  indulged  to  man? — 
Because  in  man  the  glorious,  dreadful  power, 
Extremely  to  be  pained,  or  blessed  for  ever. 
Duration  gives  importance,  swells  the  price. 
An  angel,  if  a  creature  of  a  day, 
What  would  he  be  1  a  trifle  of  no  weight ; 
Or  stand  or  fall,  no  matter  which,  he's  gone. 
Because  immortal,  therefore  is  indulged 
This  strange  regard  of  deities  to  dust. 
Hence  Heaven  looks  down  on  earth  with  all  her 

eyes; 

Hence,  the  soul's  mighty  moment  in  her  sight ; 
Hence,  every  soul  has  partizans  above, 
And  every  thought  a  critic  in  the  skies : 
Hence,  clay,  vile  clay!  has  angels  for  its  guard, 
And  every  guard  a  passion  for  his  charge : 
Hence,  from  all  age,  the  cabinet  divine 
Has  held  high  counsel  o'er  the  fate  man. 

Nor  have  the  clouds  those  gracious  counsels  hid; 
Angels  undrew  the  curtain  of  the  throne, 
And  Providence  came  forth  to  meet  mankind: 
In  various  modes  of  emphasis  and  awe 
He  spoke  his  will,  and  trembling  Nature  heard; 
He  spoke  it  loud,  in  thunder,  and  in  storm : 
Witness  thou,  Sinai!  whose  cloud-covered  height, 
And  shaken  basis,  owned  the  present  God : 
Witness,  ye  Billows;  whose  returning  tide, 
Breaking  the  chain  that  fastened  it  in  ah-, 
Swept  Egypt  and  her  menaces  to  hell : 
Witness,  ye  flames,  the  Assyrian  tyrant  blew 
To  sevenfold  rage,  as  impotent  as  strong : 
And  thou,  Earth,  witness,  whose  expanding  jaws 
Closed  o'er  Presumption's  sacrilegious  sons;* 
Has  not  each  element,  in  turn,  subscribed 
The  souPs  high  price,  and  sworn  it  to  the  wise? 
Has  not  flame,  ocean,  ether,  earthquake,  strove 
To  strike  the  truth  through  adamantine  man? 
If  not  all  adamant,  Lorenzo,  hear ; 


*  Korah,  &c. 


All  is  delusion ;  Nature  is  wrapt  up 

In  tenfold  night,  from  Reason's  keenest  eye: 

There's  no  consistence,  meaning,  plan,  or  end, 

In  all  beneath  the  sun,  in  all  above, 

(As  far  as  man  can  penetrate)  or  Heaven 

Is  an  immense,  inestimable  "prize ; 

Or  all  is  nothing,  or  that  prize  is  all. — 

And  shall  each  toy  be  still  a  match  for  Heaven, 

And  full  equivalent  for  groans  below  ? 

Who  would  not  give  a  trifle  to  prevent, 

What  he  would  give  a  thousand  worlds  to  cure  ? 

Lorenzo,  thou  hast  seen  (if  thine  to  see) 
All  Nature  and  her  God.  (by  Nature's  course, 
And  Nature's  course  controlled)  declare  for  me. 
The  skies  above  proclaim  '  immortal  man!' 
And  '  man  immortal !'  all  below  resounds. 
The  world's  a  system  of  theology, 
Read  by  the  greatest  strangers  to  the  schools; 
If  honest,  learned ;  and  sages  o'er  a  plough. 
Is  not,  Lorenzo,  then,  imposed  on  thee 
This  hard  alternative,  or  to  renounce 
Thy  reason  and  thy  sense,  or  to  believe? 
What  then  is  unbelief?  'tis  an  exploit, 
A  strenuous  enterprise ;  to  gain  it,  man 
Must  burst  through  every  bar  of  common  sense, 
Of  common  shame,  magnanimously  wrong; 
And  what  rewards  the  study  combatant  ? — 
His  prize,  repentance;  infamy,  his  crown. 

But  wherefore  infamy  ? — for  want  of  faith 
Down  the  steep  precipice  of  wrong  he  slides; 
There's  nothing  to  support  him  in  the  right. 
Faith  in  the  future  wanting  is,  at  least 
In  embryo,  every  weakness,  every  guilt, 
And  strong  temptation  ripens  it  to  birth. 

If  this  life's  gain  invites  him  to  the  deed, 
Why  not  his  country  sold,  his  father  slain? 
'Tis  virtue  to  pursue  our  good  supreme, 
And  his  supreme,  his  only  good,  is  here ! 
Ambition,  avarice,  by  the  wise  disdained, 
Is  perfect  wisdom  while  mankind  are  fools, 
And  think  a  turf  or  tombstone  covers  all : 
These  find  employment,  and  provide  for  sense 
A  richer  pasture  and  a  larger  range ; 
And  sense,  by  right  divine,  ascends  the  throne. 
When  virtue's  prize  and  prospect  are  no  more, 
Virtue  no  more  we  think  the  will  of  Heaven. 
Would  Heaven  quite  beggar  Virtue,  if  beloved  ? 

"  Has  Virtue  charms?" — I  grant  her  heavenly 

fair; 

But  if  unportioned,  all  will  Interest  wed, 
Though  that  our  admiration,  this  our  choice. 
The  virtues  grow  on  immortality; 
That  root  destroyed,  they  wither  and  expire. 
A  Deity' believed,  will  nought  avail; 
Rewards  and  punishments  make  God  adored, 
And  hopes  and  fears  give  Conscience  all  her 

power. 

As  in  the  dying  parent  dies  the  child, 
Virtue  with  Immortality  expires. 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


53 


Who  tells  me  he  denies  his  soul  immortal, 
WhuteVr  his  boast,  has  told  me  he's  a  knave. 
His  duty  'tis  to  love  himself  alone, 
Nor  care  though  mankind  perish  if  he  smiles. 
Who  thinks  ere  long  the  man  shall  wholly  die, 
Is  dead  already  ;  nought  but  brute  survives. 
And  are  there  such? — Such  candidates  there 

are 

For  more  than  death;  for  utter  loss  of  being; 
Being,  the  basis  of  the  Deity! 
Ask  you  the  cause  1 — the  cause  they  will  not  tell ; 
Nor  need  they.     Oh,  the  sorceries  of  sense! 
They  work  this  transformation  on  the  soul, 
Dismount  her  like  the  serpent  at  the  fall, 
Dismount  her  from  her  native  wing  (which  soared 
Erewhile  ethereal  heights)  and  throw  her  down 
To  lick  the  dust,  and  crawl  in  such  a  thought. 

Is  it  in  words  to  paint  you?  O  ye  fallen! 
Fallen  from  the  wings  of  reason  and  of  hope! 
Erect  in  stature,  prone  in  appetite ! 
Patrons  of  pleasure,  posting  into  pain! 
Lovers  of  argument,  averse  to  sense ! 
Boasters  of  liberty!  fast  bound  in  chains ! 
Lords  of  the  wide  creation,  and  the  shame ! 
More  senseless  than  the  irrationals  you  scorn ! 
More  base  than  those  you  rule!  than  those  you 

pity 

Far  more  undone!  O  ye  most  infamous 
Of  beings,  from  superior  dignity! 
Deepest  in  wo,  from  means  of  boundless  bliss ! 
Ye  cursed  by  blessings  infinite !  because 
Most  highly  favoured,  most  profoundly  lost. 
Ye  motley  mass  of  contradiction  strong ! 
And  are  you,  too,  convinced  your  souls  fly  off 
In  exhalation  soil,  and  die  in  air, 
From  the  full  flood  of  evidence  against  you? 
In  the  coarse  drudgeries  and  sinks  of  sense, 
Your  souls  have  quite  worn  out  the  make  of 

Heaven. 

By  vice  new-cast,  and  creatures  of  your  own ; 
But  though  you  can  deform,  you  can't  destroy : 
To  curse,  not  uncreate,  is  all  your  power. 

Lorenzo!  this  black  brotherhood  renounce; 
Renounce  St.  Evremond,  and  read  St.  Paul. 
Ere  rapt  by  miracle,  by  reason  winged, 
His  mounting  mind  made  long  abode  in  Heaven. 
This  is  free-thinking,  unconfined  to  parts, 
To  end  the  soul,  on  curious  travel  bent, 
Through  all  the  provinces  of  human  thought ; 
To  dart  her  flight  through  the  whole  sphere  of 

man; 

Of  this  vast  universe  to  make  the  tour; 
In  each  recess  of  space  and  time  at  home, 
Familiar  with  their  wonders;  diving  deep; 
And,  like  a  prince  of  boundless  interests  there, 
Still  most  ambitious  of  the  most  remote; 
To  look  on  truth  unbroken  and  entire; 
Truth  in  the  system,  the  full  orb;  where  truths 
By  trutlis  enlightened  and  sustained,  afford 


An  arch-like,  strong  foundation,  to  support 
The  incumbent  weight  of  absolute,  complete 
Conviction :  here,  the  more  we  press,  we  stand 
More  firm:  who  most  examine,  most  believe. 
Parts,  like  half  sentences,  confound ;  the  whole 
Conveys  the  sense,  and  God  is  understood ; 
Who  not  in  fragments  writes  to  human  race: 
Read  his  whole  volume,  sceptic !  then  reply. 

This,   this  is  thinking  free,   a  thought  that 

grasps 

Beyond  a  grain,  and  looks  beyond  an  hour. 
Turn  up  thine  eye,  survey  this  midnight  scene ; 
What  are  earth's  kingdoms  to  yon  boundless  orbs, 
Of  human  souls,  one  day,  the  destined  range  ? 
And  what  yon  boundless  orbs  to  godlike  man? 
Those  numerous  worlds  that  throng  the  firma- 
ment, 

And  ask  more  space  in  Heaven,  can  roll  at  large 
In  man's  capacious  thought,  and  still  leave  room 
For  ampler  orbs,  for  new  creations  there. 
Can  such  a  soul  contract  itself,  to  gripe 
A  point  of  no  dimension,  of  no  weight? 
It  can;  it  does:  the  world  is  such  a  point; 
And  of  that  point  how  small  a  part  enslaves! 

How  small  a  part— of  nothing,  shall  I  say? 
Why  not? — Friends,  our  chief  treasure,  how  they 

drop! 

Lucia,  Narcissa  fair,  Philander  gone ! 
The  grave,  like  fabled  Cerberas,  has  oped 
A  triple  mouth,  and  in  an  awful  voice 
Loud  calls  my  soul,  and  utters  all  I  sing. 
How  the  world  falls  to  pieces  round  about  us, 
And  leaves  us  in  a  ruin  of  our  joy ! 
What  says  this  transportation  of  my  friends  ? 
It  bids  me  love  the  place  where  now  they  dwell, 
And  scorn  this  wretched  spot  they  leave  so  poor. 
Eternity's  vast  ocean  lies  before  thee ; 
There,  there,  Lorenzo !  thy  Clarissa  sails. 
Give  thy  mind  sea-room;  keep  it  wide  of  earth, 
That  rock  of  souls  immortal ;  cut  thy  cord ; 
Weigh  anchor;  spread  thy  sails ;  call  every  wind ; 
Eye  thy  great  Pole-star ;  make  the  land  of  Life ! 

Two  kinds  of  life  has  double-natured  man, 
And  two  of  death;  the  last  far  more  severe. 
Life  animal  is  nurtured  by  the  sun, 
Thrives  on  his  bounties,  triumphs  in  his  beams: 
Life  rational  subsists  on  higher  food, 
Triumphant  in  His  beams  who  made  the  day: 
When  we  leave  that  sun,  and  are  left  by  this, 
(The  fate  of  all  who  die  in  stubborn  guilt) 
'Tis  utter  darkness,  strictly  double  death. 
We  sink  by  no  judicial  stroke  of  Heaven, 
But  Nature's  course,  as  sure  as  plummets  fall. 
Since  God  or  man  must  alter  ere  they  meet, 
(Since  light  and  darkness  blend  not  in  one  sphere) 
'Tis  manifest,  Lorenzo,  who  must  change. 

If,  then,  that  double  death  should  prove  thy  lot, 
Blame  not  the  bowels  of  the  Deity ; 
Man  shall  be  blessed,  as  far  as  man  permits. 


51 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Not  man  alone,  all  rationals  Heaven  arms 

With  an  illustrious,  but  tremendous  power, 

To  counteract  its  own  most  gracious  ends, 

And  this  of  strict  necessity,  not  choice ; 

That  power  denied,  men,  angels,  were  no  more 

But  passive  engines,  void  of  praise  or  blame. 

A  nature  rational  implies  the  power 

Of  being  blessed  or  wretched,  as  we  please; 

Else  idle  Reason  would  have  nought  to  do, 

And  he  that  would  be  barred  capacity 

Of  pain,  courts  incapacity  of  bliss. 

Heaven  wills  our  happiness,  allows  our  doom; 

Invites  us  ardently,  but  not  compels  : 

Heaven  but  persuades,  almighty  man  decrees. 

Man  is  the  maker  of  immortal  fates. 

Man  falls  by  man,  if  finally  he  falls ; 

And  fall  he  must,  who  learns  from  death  alone 

The  dreadful  secret, — that  he  lives  for  ever. 

Why  this  to  thee? — thee  yet,  perhaps  in  doubt 
Of  second  life?  but  wherefore  doubtful  still? 
Eternal  life  is  Nature's  ardent  wish : 
What  ardently  we  wish  we  soon  believe : 
Thy  tardy  faith  declares  that  wish  destroyed: 
What  has  destroyed  it?— shall  I  tell  thee  what? 
When  feared  the  future,  'tis  no  longer  wished ; 
And  when  unwished,  we  strive  to  disbelieve. 
'  Thus  infidelity  our  guilt  betrays.' 
Nor  that  the  sole  detection!  Blush,  Lorenzo! 
Blush  for  hypocrisy,  if  not  for  guilt. 
The  future  feared  ? — An  infidel,  and  fear  ? 
Fear  what?  a  dream?  a  fable? — How  thy  dread, 
Unwilling  evidence,  and  therefore  strong, 
Affords  my  cause  an  undesigned  support  ? 
How  Disbelief  affirms  what  it  denies ! 
'  It,  unawares,  asserts  immortal  life.' — 
Surprising !  Infidelity  turns  out 
A  creed  and  a  confession  of  our  sins : 
Apostates,  thus,  are  orthodox  divines. 

Lorenzo !  with  Lorenzo  clash  no  more, 
Nor  longer  a  transparent  vizor  wear. 
Think'st  thou  Religion  only  has  her  mask  1 
Our  infidels  are  Satan's  hypocrites, 
Pretend  the  worst,  and,  at  the  bottom,  fail. 
When  visited  by  thought,  (thought  will  intrude) 
Like  him  they  serve,  they  tremble  and  believe. 
Is  there  hypocrisy  so  foul  as  this  ? 
So  fatal  to  the  welfare  of  the  world  ? 
What  detestation,  what  contempt,  their  due ! 
And,  if  unpaid,  be  thanked  for  their  escape, 
That  Christian  candour  they  strive  hard  to  scorn. 
If  not  for  that  asylum,  they  might  find 
A  hell  on  earth,  nor  'scape  a  worse  below. 

With  insolence  and  impotence  of  thought, 
Instead  of  racking  fancy  to  refute, 
Reform  thy  manners,  and  the  truth  enjoy. — 
But  shall  I  dare  confess  the  dire  result  ? 
Can  thy  proud  reason  brook  so  black  a  brand  1 
From  purer  manners  to  sublimer  faith, 
Is  Nature's  unavoidable  ascent. 


An  honest  Deist,  where  the  gospel  shines, 

Matured  to  nobler,  in  the  Christian  ends. 

When  that  blessed  change  arrives,  e'en  cast  aside 

This  song  superfluous :  life  immortal  strikes 

Conviction  in  a  flood  of  light  divine. 

A  Christian  dwells,  like  Uriel,*  in  the  sun ; 

Meridian  evidence  puts  doubt  to  flight, 

And  ardent  hope  anticipates  the  skies. 

Of  that  bright  sun,  Lorenzo!  scale  the  sphere: 

'Tis  easy ;  it  invites  thee ;  it  descends 

From  Heaven,  to  woo  and  waft  thee  whence  it  came. 

Read  and  revere  the  sacred  page,  a  page 

Where  triumphs  immortality ;  a  page 

Which  not  the  whole  Creation  could  produce ; 

Which  not  the  Conflagration  shall  destroy  : 

'Tis  printed  in  the  rnind  of  gods  for  ever, 

In  Nature's  ruins  not  one  letter  lost. 

In  proud  disdain  of  what  e'en  gods  adore, 
Dost  smile? — Poor  wretch!   thy  guardian  angel 

weeps. 

Angels  and  men  assent  to  what  I  sing.; 
Wits  smile,  and  thank  me  for  my  midnight  dream. 
How  vicious  hearts  fume  frenzy  to  the  brain ! 
Parts  push  us  on  to  pride,  and  pride  to  shame : 
Pert  Infidelity  is  Wit's  cockade, 
To  grace  the  brazen  brow  that  braves  the  skies, 
By  loss  of  being  dreadfully  secure. 
Lorenzo  !  if  thy  doctrine  wins  the  day, 
And  drives  my  dreams,  defeated,  from  the  field  ; 
If  this  is  all,  if  earth  a  final  scene, 
Take  heed ;  stand  fast ;  be  sure  to  be  a  knave 
A  knave  in  grain !  ne'er  deviate  to  the  right. 
Shouldst  thou  be  good — how  infinite  thy  loss ! 
Guilt  only  makes  annihilation  gain. 
Blessed  scheme !  which  life  deprives  of  comfort, 

death 

Of  hope,  and  which  vice  only  recommends. 
If  so,  where,  Infidels !  your  bait  thrown  out 
To  catch  weak  converts  ?  where  your  lofty  boast 
Of  zeal  for  virtue,  and  of  love  to  man  ? 
Annihilation !  I  confess  in  these. 

What  can  reclaim  you  1  dare  I  hope  profound 
Philosophers  the  converts  of  a  song  ? 
Yet  know  its  titlet  flatters  you,  not  me ; 
Your's  be  the  praise  to  make  my  title  good  ; 
Mine  to  bless  Heaven,  and  triumph  in  your  praise. 
But  since  so  pestilential  your  disease, 
Though  sovereign  is  the  medicine  I  prescribe, 
As  yet  I'll  neither  triumph  nor  despair, 
But  hope,  ere  long,  my  midnight  dream  will  wake 
Your  hearts,  and  teach  your  wisdom — to  be  wise: 
For  why  should  souls  immortal,  made  for  bliss, 
E'er  wish  (and  wish  in  vain!)  that  souls  could  die? 
What  ne'er  can  die,  oh !  grant  to  live,  and  crown 
The  wish,  and  aim,  and  labour  of  the  skies ; 
Increase,  and  enter  on  the  joys  of  Heaven  : 


*  Milton's  Paradise  Lost 
t  The  Infidel  Reclaimed. 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


55 


Thus  shall  my  title  pass  a  sacred  seal, 
I!,  i  .ive  an  imprimatur  from  above, 
While  angels  shout— an  Infidel  Reclaimed ! 
To  close  Lorenzo !  spite  of  all  my  pains, 
Still  seems  it  strange  that  thou  shouldst  live  forever? 
Is  it  less  strange  that  thou  shouldst  live  at  all? 
This  is  a  miracle,  and  that  no  more. 
Who  gave  beginning  can  exclude  an  end. 
Deny  thou  art;  then  doubt  if  thou  shall  be. 
A  miracle  with  miracles  inclosed 
Is  man !  and  starts  his  faith  at  what  is  strange  ? 
What  less  than  wonders  from  the  wonderful  1 
What  less  than  miracles  from  God  can  flow  ? 
Admit  a  God — that  mystery  supreme ! 
That  cause  uncaused !  all  other  wonders  cease : 
Nothing  is  marvellous  for  him  to  do : 
Deny  him — all  is  mystery  besides ; 
Millions  of  mysteries !  each  darker  far 
Than  that  thy  wisdom  would,  unwisely,  shun. 
If  weak  thy  faith,  why  choose  the  harder  side  1 
We  nothing  know  but  what  is  marvellous ; 
Yet  what  is  marvellous  we  can't  believe. 
So  weak  our  reason,  and  so  great  our  God, 
What  most  surprises  in  the  sacred  page, 
Or  full  as  strange,  or  stranger,  must  be  true. 
Faith  is  not  reason's  labour,  but  repose. 

To  faith  and  virtue  why  so  backward,  man  1 
From  hence ; — the  present  strongly  strikes  us  all ; 
The  future,  faintly:  can  we,  then,  be  men? 
If  men,  Lorenzo !  the  reverse  is  right. 
Reason  is  man's  peculiar ;  sense  the  brute's. 
The  present  is  the  scanty  realm  of  Sense ; 
The  future,  Reason's  empire  unconfined : 
On  that  expending  all  her  godlike  power, 
She  plans,  provides,  expatiates,  triumphs,  there : 
There  builds  her  blessings!  there  expects   her 

praise; 

And  nothing  asks  of  Fortune  or  of  men. 
And  what  is  Reason?  be  she  thus  defined; 
Reason  is  upright  stature  in  the  soul. 
Oh !  be  a  man, — and  strive  to  be  a  god. 

'For  what?  (thou  say'st)  to  damp  the  joys  of 

life?— 

No ;  to  give  heart  and  substance  to  thy  joys. 
That  tyrant,  Hope,  mark  how  she  domineers; 
She  bids  us  quit  realities  for  dreams, 
Safety  and  peace  for  hazard  and  alarm. 
That  tyrant  o'er  the  tyrants  of  the  soul, 
She  bids  Ambition  quit  its  taken  prize, 
Spurn  the  luxuriant  branch  on  which  it  sits, 
Though  bearing  crowns,  to  spring  at  distant  game, 
And  plunge  in  toils  and  dangers — for  repose. 
If  hope  precarious,  and  of  things,  when  gained, 
Of  little  moment  and  as  little  stay, 
Can  sweeten  toils  and  dangers  into  joys, 
What  then  that  hope  which  nothing  can  defeat, 
Our  leave  unasked  ?  rich  hope  of  boundless  bliss! 
Bliss  past  man's  power  to  paint  it,  time's  to  close ! 
This  hope  is  earth's  most  estimable  prize ; 


This  is  man's  portion,  while  no  more  than  man : 

Hope,  of  all  passions,  most  befriends  us  here ; 

Passions  of  prouder  name  befriend  us  less. 

Joy  has  her  tears,  and  Transport  has  her  death : 

Hope,  like  a  cordial,  innocent,  though  strong, 

Man's  heart,  at  once,  inspirits  and  serenes, 

Nor  makes  him  pay  his  wisdom  for  his  joys : 

'Tis  all  our  present  state  can  safely  bear, 

Health  to  the  frame !  and  vigour  to  the  mind ! 

A  joy  attempered !  a  chastised  delight ! 

Like  the  fair  summer-evening,  mild  and  sweet ! 

'Tis  man's  full  cup,  his  paradise  below ! 

A  blessed  hereafter,  then,  or  hoped  or  gained, 

Is  all, — our  whole  of  happiness !  full  proof 

I  choose  no  trivial  or  inglorious  theme. 

And  know,  ye  foes  to  song!  (well-meaning  men, 

Though  quite  forgotten*  half  your  Bible's  praise!) 

Important  truths,  in  spite  of  verse,  may  please : 

Grave  minds  you  praise,  nor  can  you  praise  too 

much, 

If  there  is  weight  in  an  eternity, 
Let  the  grave  listen,  and  be  graver  still. 


NIGHT  VIII. 

VIRTUE'S  APOLOGY; 

OR> 

THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD  ANSWERED. 
IN   WHICH    ARE   CONSIDERED,   THE   LOVE   OP   THIS 
LIFE  ;  THE  AMBITION  AND  PLEASURE,  WITH  THE 
WIT  AND  WISDOM  OP  THE  WORLD. 

AND  has  all  Nature,  then,  espoused  my  part  ? 

Have  I  bribed  Heaven  and  Earth  to  plead  against 
thee? 

And  is  thy  soul  immortal? — What  remains? 

All,  all,  Lorenzo! — make  immortal  blessed. 

Unblessed  immortals ! — what  can  shock  us  more? 

And  yet  Lorenzo  still  affects  the  world  ; 

There  stows  his  treasure ;  thence  his  title  draws, 

Man  of  the  World !  (for  such  wouldst  thou  be 
called) 

And  art  thou  proud  of  that  inglorious  style  1 

Proud  of  reproach  ?  for  a  reproach  it  was, 

^n  ancient  days,  and  Christian, — in  an  age 

When  men  were  men,  and  not  ashamed  of  Hea- 
ven,— 

?ired  their  ambition,  as  it  crowned  their  joy! 

Sprinkled  with  dews,  from  the  Castilian  font, 

?ain  would  I  rebaptize  thee,  and  confer 

A  purer  spirit,  and  a  nobler  name. 
Thy  fond  attachments,  fatal  and  inflamed, 
oint  out  my  path,  and  dictate  to  my  song. 

To  thee  the  world  how  fair !  how  strongly  strikes 

Ambition !  and  gay  Pleasure  stronger  still ! 

Thy  triple  bane !  the  triple  bolt,  that  lays 

'  The  poetical  parts  of  it. 


56 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Thy  virtue  dead  ;  be  these  my  triple  theme; 
Nor  shall  thy  wit  or  wisdom  be  forgot. 

Common  the  theme  ;  not  so  the  song,  if  she 
My  song  invokes,  Urania!  deigns  to  smile. 
The  charm  that  chains  us  to  the  world,  her  foe, 
If  she  dissolves,  the  man  of  earth,  at  once, 
Starts  from  his  trance,  and  sighs  for  other  scenes ; 
Scenes,  where  these  sparks  of  night,  these  stars, 

shall  shine 

Unnumbered  suns,  .(for  all  things  as  they  are, 
The  blessed  behold,)  and,  in  one  glory,  pour 
Their  blended  blaze  on  man's  astonished  sight ; 
A  blaze — the  least  illustrious  object  there. 

Lorenzo !  since  Eternal  is  at  hand, 
To  swallow  Time's  ambitions ;  as  the  vast 
Leviathan  the  bubbles  vain  that  ride 
High  on  the  foaming  billow ;  what  avail 
High  titles,  high  descent,  attainments  high, 
If  unattained  our  highest  1  O  Lorenzo ! 
What  lofty  thoughts,  these  elements  above, 
What  towering  hopes,  what  sallies  from  the  sun, 
What  grand  surveys  of  destiny  divine, 
And  pompous  presage  of  unfathomed  fate, 
Should  roll  in  bosoms  where  a  spirit  burns, 
Bound  for  Eternity !  in  bosoms  read 
By  Him,  who  foibles  in  archangels  sees ! 
On  human  hearts  He  bends  a  jealous  eye, 
And  marks,  and  in  Heaven's  register  enrols, 
The  rise  and  progress  of  each  option  there ; 
Sacred  to  Doomsday  !  that  the  page  unfolds, 
And  spreads  us  to  the  gaze  of  gods  and  men. 

And  what  an  option,  O  Lorenzo !  thine  1 
This  world !  and  this,  unrivalled  by  the  skies ! 
A  world  where  lust  of  pleasure,  grandeur,  gold, 
Three  demons  that  divide  its  realms  between 

them, 

With  strokes  alternate  buffet  to  and  fro 
Man's  restless  heart,  their  sport,  their  flying  ball ; 
Till,  with  the  giddy  circle  sick  and  tired, 
It  pants  for  peace,  and  drops  into  despair. 
Such  is  the  world  Lorenzo  sets  above 
That  glorious  promise  angels  were  esteemed  ' 
Too  mean  to  bring ;  a  promise  their  Adored 
Descended  to  communicate,  and  press, 
By  counsel,  miracle,  life,  death,  on  man. 
Such  is  the  world  Lorenzo's  wisdom  wooes, 
And  on  its  thorny  pillow  seeks  repose ; 
A  pillow  which,  like  opiates  ill-prepared, 
Intoxicates,  but  not  composes ;  fills 
The  visionary  mind  with  gay  chimeras, 
All  the  wild  trash  of  sleep,  without  the  rest : 
What  unfeigned  trawl,  and  what  dreams  of  joy ! 
How  frail  men,  things!  how  momentary,  bothl 
Fantastic  chase,  of  shadows  hunting  shades  ' 
The  gay,  the  busy,  equal,  though  unlike  ; 
Equal  in  wisdom,  differently  wise  ! 
Through  flowery  meadows,  and  through  dreary 

wastes, 
One  bustling,  and  one  dancing,  into  death. 


There  's  not  a  day  but,  to  the  man  of  thought, 
Betrays  some  secret  that  throws  new  reproach 
On  life,  and  makes  him  sick  of  seeing  more. 
The  scenes  of  business  tell  us — '  What  are  men  j* 
The  scenes  of  pleasure—'  What  is  all  beside :' 
The  others  we  despise ;  and  here  ourselves. 
Amid  disgust  eternal  dwells  delight  1 — 
'Tis  approbation  strikes  the  string  of  joy. 

What  wondrous  prize  has  kindled  this  career, 
Stuns  with  the  din,  and  chokes  us  with  the  dust, 
On  life's  gay  stage,  one  inch  above  the  grave  ? 
The  proud  run  up  and  down  in  quest  of  eyes; 
The  sensual,  in  pursuit  of  something  worse ; 
The  grave,  of  gold ;  the  politic,  of  power ; 
And  all,  of  other  butterflies  as  vain ! 
As  eddies  draw  things  frivolous  and  light, 
How  is  man's  heart  by  vanity  drawn  in ! 
On  the  swift  circle  of  returning  toys 
Whirled;  straw-like,  round  and  round,  and  then 

ingulfed, 
Where  gay  delusion  darkens  to  despair ! 

c  This  is  a  beaten  track.' — Is  this  a  track 
Should  not  be  beaten?  never  beat  enough, 
Till  enough  learned  the  truths  it  would  inspire. 
Shall  Truth  be  silent  because  folly  frowns  7 
Turn  the  world's  history,  what  find  we  there 
But  Fortune's  sports,  or  Nature's  cruel  claims, 
Or  woman's  artifice,  or  man's  revenge,   f 
And  endless  inhumanities  on  man  1 
Fame's  trumpet  seldom  sounds,  but  like  the  knell, 
It  brings  bad  tidings:  how  it  hourly  blows 
Man's  misadventures  round  the  listening  world! 
Man  is  the  talc  of  narrative  old  Time; 
Sad  tale !  which  high  as  Paradise  begins ; 
As  if,  the  toil  of  travel  to  delude, 
From  stage  to  stage,  in  his  eternal  round, 
The  Days,  his  daughters,  as  they  spin  our  hours 
On  Fortune's  wheel,  where  accident  unthought 
Oft,  in  a  moment,  snaps  life's  strongest  thread, 
Each,  in  her  turn,  some  tragic  story  tells 
With  now  and  then,  a  wretched  farce  between, 
And  fills  his  chronicle  with  human  woes. 

Time's  daughters,  true  as  those  of  men,  deceive 

us; 

Not  one  but  puts  some  cheat  on  all  mankind. 
While  in  their  father's  bosom,  not  yet  ours, 
They  flatter  our  fond  hopes,  and  promise  much 
Of  amiable,  but  hold  him  not  o'erwise 
Who  dares  to  trust  them,  and  laugh  round  the 

year, 

At  still-confiding,  still-confounded  man, 
Confiding,  though  confounded ;  hoping  on, 
Untaught  by  trial,  unconvinced  by  proof, 
And  ever  looking  for  the  never-seen. 
Life  ta  the  last,  like  hardened  felons,  lies, 
Nor  owns  itself  a  cheat  till  it  expires: 
Its  little  joys  go  out  by  one  and  one, 
And  leave  poor  man  at  length,  in  perfect  night ; 
Night  darker  than  what  now  involves  the  pole. 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


O  Thou  who  dost  permit  these  ills  to  fall 
For  gracious  ends,  and  wouldst  that  man  should 

mourn ! 

O  Thou,  whose  hands  this  goodly  fabric  framed, 
Who  knovv'st  it  best,  and  wouldst  that  man  should 

know ! 

What  is  this  sublunar?  world  7  a  vapour; 
A  vapour  all  it  holds ;  itself,  a  vapour ; 
From  the  damp  bed  of  Chaos,  as  thy  beam 
Exhaled,  ordained  to  swim  its  destined  hour 
In  ambient  air,  then  melt  and  disappear. 
Earth's  days  are  numbered,  nor  remote  her  doom ; 
As  mortal,  though  less  transient  than  her  sons; 
Yet  they  dote  on  her,  as  the  world  and  they 
Were  both  eternal,  solid;  Thou  a  dream. 

They  dote,  on  what  1  immortal  views  apart, 
A  region  of  outsides!  a  land  of  shadows! 
A  fruitful  field  of  flowery  promises ! 
A  wilderness  of  joys!  perplexed  with  doubts, 
And  sharp  with  thorns!  a  troubled  ocean,  spread 
With  bold  adventurers,  their  all  on  board  ; 
No  second  hope,  if  here  their  fortune  frowns; 
Frown  soon  it  must.     Of  various  rates  they  sail, 
Of  ensigns  various ;  all  alike  in  this, 
All  restless,  anxious,  tossed  with  hopes  and  fears 
In  calmest  skies ;  obnoxious  all  to  storm, 
And  stormy  the  most  general  blast  of  life: 
All  bound  for  Happiness  ;  yet  few  provide 
The  chart  of  Knowledge,  pointing  where  it  lies, 
Or  Virtue's  helm,  to  shape  the  course  designed: 
All,  more  or  less,  capricious  Fate  lament, 
Now  lifted  by  the  tide,  and  now  resorbed, 
And  farther  from  their  wishes  than  before: 
All,  more  or  less,  against  each  other  dash, 
To  mutual  hurt,  by  gusts  of  passion  driven, 
And  suffering  more  from  folly  than  from  Fate. 

Ocean!  thou  dreadful  and  tumultuous  home 
Of  dangers,  at  eternal  war  with  man ! 
Death's  capital,  where  most  he  domineers, 
With  all  his  chosen  terrors  frowning  round. 
(Though  lately  feasted  high  at  Albion's  cost*) 
Wide-opening,  and  loud-roaring  still  for  more  ! 
Too  faithful  mirror!  how  dost  thou  reflect 
The  melancholy  face  of  human  life ! 
The  strong  resemblance  tempts  me  farther  still : 
And,  haply,  Britain  may  be  deeper  struck 
By  moral  truth,  in  such  a  mirror  seen, 
Which  Nature  holds  for  ever  at  her  eye. 

Self-flattered,  unexperienced,  high  in  hope 
When  young,  with  sanguine  cheer  and  streamers 

gay, 

We  cut  our  cable,  launch  into  the  world, 

And  fondly  dream  each  wind  and  star  our  friend ; 

All  in  some  darling  enterprise  embarked: 

But  where  is  he  can  fathom  its  event  1 

Amid  a  multitude  of  artless  hands, 

Ruin's  sure  perquisite !  her  lawful  prize ! 


*  Admiral  Balcben,  <fcc. 


Some  steer  aright,  but  the  black  blast  blows  hard, 
And  puffs  them  wide  of  Hope :  with  hearts  of  proof, 
Full  against  wind  and  tide,  some  win  their  way, 
And  when  strong  Effort  has  deserved  the  port, 
And  tugged  it  into  view,  'tis  won !  'tis  lost ! 
Though  strong  their  oar,  still  stronger  is  their  fate 
They  strike!  and  while  they  triumph,  they  expire. 
In  stress  of  weather  most,  some  sink  outright; 
O'er  them,  and  o'er  their  names,  the  billows  close ; 
To-morrow  knows  not  they  were  ever  born. 
Others  a  short  memorial  leave  behind, 
Like  a  flag  floating,  when  the  bark's  ingulfed, 
It  floats  a  moment,  and  is  seen  no  more. 
One  Caesar  Jives;  a  thousand  are  forgot. 
How  few,  beneath  auspicious  planets  born, 
(Darlings  of  providence  !  fond  Fate's  elect !) 
With  swelling  sails  make  good  the  promised  port, 
With  all  their  wishes  freighted !  yet  ev'n  these, 
Freighted  with  all  their  wishes,  soon  complain ; 
Free  from  misfortune,  not  from  Nature  free, 
They  still  are  men ;  and  when  is  man  secure? 
As  fatal  time  as  storm !  the  rush  of  years 
Beats  down  their  strength;  their  numberless  es- 
capes 

In  ruin  end.    And  now  their  proud  success 
But  plants  new  terrors  on  the  victor's  brow : 
What  pain  to  quit  the  world,  just  made  their  own, 
Their  nest  so  deeply  downed,  and  built  so  high! 
Too  low  they  build,  who  build  beneath  the  stars. 

Wo  then  apart  (if  wo  apart  can  be 
From  mortal  man,)  and  Fortune  at  our  nod, 
The  gay!  rich!  great!  triumphant!  and  august! 
What  are  they?— The  most  happy  (strange  to  say) 
Convince  me  most  of  human  misery. 
What  are  they  ?  smiling  wretches  of  to-morrow ! 
More  wretched,  then,  than  e'er  their  slave  can  be, 
Their  treacherous  blessings,  at  the  day  of  need, 
Like  other  faithless  friends,  unmask  and  sting : 
Then  what  provoking  indigence  in  wealth ! 
What  aggravated  impotence  in  power ! 
High  titles,  then,  what  insult  of  their  pain ! 
If  that  sole  anchor,  equal  to  the  waves, 
Immortal  Hope!  defies  not  the  rude  storm, 
Takes  comfort  from  the  foaming  billow's  rage 
And  makes  a  welcome  harbour  of  the  tomb. 

Is  this  a  sketch  of  what  thy  soul  admires? — 
'  But  here  (thou  say'st)  the  miseries  of  life 
Are  huddled  in  a  group :  a  more  distinct 
Survey,  perhaps,  might  bring  thee  better  news. 
Look  on  life's  stages ;  they  speak  plainer  still ; 
The  plainer  they,  the  deeper  wilt  thou  sigh. 
Look  on  thy  lovely  boy;  in  him  behold 
The  best  that  can  befal  the  best  on  earth ; 
The  boy  has  virtue  by  his  mother's  side : 
Yes,  on  Florello  look :  a  father's  heart 
Is  tender,  though  the  man's  Ls  made  of  stone : 
The  truth,  through  such  a  medium  seen,  may 

make 
Impression  deep,  and  fondness  prove  thy  friend. 


58 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Florello !  lately  cast  on  this  rude  coast 
A  helpless  infant,  now  a  heedless  child. 
To  poor  Clarissa's  throes  thy  care  succeeds ; 
Care  full  of  love,  and  yet  severe  as  hate ! 
O'er  thy  soul's  joy  how  oft  thy  fondness  frowns ! 
Needful  austerities  his  will  restrain, 
As  thorns  fence  in  the  tender  plant  from  harm. 
As  yet  his  Reason  can  not  go  alone. 
But  asks  a  sterner  nurse  to  lead  it  on. 
His  little  heart  is  often  terrified ; 
The  blush  of  morning,  in  his  cheek,  turns  pale ; 
Its  pearly  dew-drop  trembles  in  his  eye, 
His  harmless  eye !  and  drowns  an  angel  there. 
Ah !  what  avails  his  innocence  7  the  task 
Enjoined  must  discipline  his  early  powers : 
He  learns  to  sigh  ere  he  is  known  to  sin ; 
Guiltless  and  sad !  a  wretch  before  the  fall ! 
How  cruel  this !  more  cruel  to  forbear. 
Our  nature  such,  with  necessary  pains 
We  purchase  prospects  of  precarious  peace : 
Though  not  a  father,  this  might  steal  a  sigh. 

Suppose  him  disciplined  aright  (if  not, 
'Twill  sink  our  poor  account  to  poorer  still,) 
Ripe  from  the  tutor,  proud  of  liberty, 
He  leaps  inclosure,  bounds  into  the  world ; 
The  world  is  taken,  after  ten  years'  toil, 
Like  ancient  Troy,  and  all  its  joys  his  own. 
Alas!  the  world's  a  tutor  more  severe, 
Its  lessons  hard,  and  ill  deserves  his  pains ; 
Unteaching  all  his  virtuous  Nature  taught, 
Or  books,  (fair  Virtue's  advocates)  inspired. 

For  who  receives  him  into  public  life  1 
Men  of  the  world,  the  terras-filial  breed, 
Welcome  the  modest  stranger  to  their  sphere, 
(Which  glittered  long,  at  distance  in  his  sight) 
And  in  their  hospitable  arms  inclose ; 
Men  who  think  nought  so  strong  of  the  romance, 
So  rank  knight-errant,  as  a  real  friend ; 
Men  that  act  up  to  Reason's  golden  rule, 
All  weakness  of  affection  quite  subdued ; 
Men  that  would  blush  at  being  thought  sincere, 
And  feign,  for  glory,  the  few  faults  they  want ; 
That  love  a  lie,  where  truth  would  pay  as  well, 
As  if,  to  them,  Vice  shone  her  own  reward. 

Lorenzo  !  canst  thou  bear  a  shocking  sight? 
Such,  for  Florello's  sake,  'twill  now  appear. 
See  the  steeled  files  of  seasoned  veterans, 
Train 'd  to  the  world,  in  burnished  falsehood  bright; 
Deep  in  the  fatal  stratagems  of  peace, 
All  soft  sensation,  in  the  throng,  rubbed  off; 
All  their  keen  purpose  in  politeness  sheathed ; 
His  friends  eternal — during  interest ; 
His  foes  implacable,  when  worth  their  while ; 
At  war  with  every  welfare  but  their  own ; 
As  wise  as  Lucifer,  and  half  as  good ; 
And  by  whom  none,  but  Lucifer,  can  gain — 
Naked  through  these,  (so  common  Fate  ordains) 
Naked  of  heart,  his  cruel  course  he  runs, 
Stung  out  of  all  most  amiable  in  life, 


Prompt  truth,  and  open  thought,  and  smiles  un- 
feigned ; 

Affection,  as  his  species  wide  diffused, 
Noble  presumptions  to  mankind's  renown, 
Ingenuous  trust,  and  confidence  in  love. 

These  claims  to  joy  (if  mortals  joy  might  claim^ 
Will  cost  him  many  a  sigh,  till  time  and  pains, 
From  the  slow  mistress  of  this  school,  Experience, 
And  her  assistant,  pausing,  pale  Distrust, 
Purchase  a  dear-bought  clue  to  lead  his  youth 
Through  serpentine  obliquities  of  life, 
And  the  dark  labyrinth  of  human  hearts. 
And  happy,  if  the  clue  shall  come  so  cheap. 
For  while  we  learn  to  fence  with  public  guilt, 
Full  oft  we  feel  its  foul  contagion  too, 
If  less  than  heavenly  virtue  is  our  guard. 
Thus  a  strange  kind  of  cursed  necessity 
Brings  down  the  sterling  temper  of  his  soul, 
By  base  alloy,  to  bear  the  current  stamp, 
Below  called  Wisdom ;  sinks  him  into  safety, 
And  brands  him  into  credit  with  the  world, 
Where  specious  titles  dignify  disgrace, 
And  Nature's  injuries  are  arts  of  life ; 
Where  brighter  reason  prompts  to  bolder  crimes, 
And  heavenly  talents  make  infernal  hearts, 
That  unsurmountable  extreme  of  guilt ! 

Poor  Machiavel !  who  labour'd  hard  his  plan, 
Forgot  that  Genius  need  not  go  to  school ; 
Forgot  that  man,  without  a  tutor  wise, 
His  plan  had  practised  long  before  'twas  writ.  - 
The  world 's  all  title  page ;  there 's  no  contents. 
The  world 's  all  face :  the  man  who  shows  his  heart 
Is  hooted  for  his  nudities,  and  scorned. 
A  man  I  knew  who  lived  upon  a  smile, 
And  well  it  fed  him;  he  looked  plump  and  fair, 
While  rankest  venom  foamed  through  every  vein. 
Lorenzo !  what  I  tell  thee  take  not  ill ! 
Living,  he  fawned  on  every  fool  alive ; 
And,  dying,  cursed  the  friend  on  whom  he  lived. 
To  such  proficients  thou  art  half  a  saint ! 
In  foreign  realms  (for  thou  hast  travelled  far) 
How  curious  to  contemplate  two  state-rooks, 
Studious  their  nests  to  feather  in  a  trice, 
With  all  the  necromantics  of  their  art, 
Playing  the  game  of  faces  on  each  other, 
Making  court  sweet-meats  of  their  latent  gall, 
In  foolish  hope  to  steal  each  other's  trust ; 
Both  cheating,  both  exulting,  both  deceived, 
And,  sometimes,  both  (let  earth  rejoice)  undone ! 
Their  parts  we  doubt  not,  but  be  that  their  shame. 
Shall  men  of  talents,  fit  to  rule  mankind, 
Stoop  to  mean  wiles  that  would  disgrace  a  fool ; 
And  lose  the  thanks  of  these  few  friends  they 

serve  ? 

For  who  can  thank  the  man  he  can  not  see  ? 
Why  so  much  cover  ?  it  defeats  itself. 
Ye  that  know  all   things!  know  ye  not  men's 

hearts 
Are  therefore  known,  because  they  are  concealed  ? 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


59 


For  why  concealed  7 — the  cause  they  need  not  tell. 

I  ijivc  him  joy  that's  awkward  at  a  lie ; 
Whose  feeble  nature  Truth  keeps  still  in  awe ; 

I 1  is  incapacity  is  his  renown. 

'Tis  great,  'tis  manly,  to  disdain  disguise ; 
It  shows  our  spirit,  or  it  proves  our  strength. 
Thou  say'st  'tis  needful  I  is  it  therefore  right? — 
Howe'er,  I  grant  it  some  small  sign  of  grace 
To  strain  at  an  excuse :  and  wouldst  thou,  then, 
Escape  that  cnu-1  need?  thou  may'st  with  ease ; 
Think  no  post  needful  that  demands  a  knave. 
When  late  our  Civil  helm  was  shifting  hands, 
So  Pelham  thought :  think  better  if  you  can. 

But  this  how  rare !  the  public  path  of  life 
Is  dirty : — yet  allow  that  dirt  its  due, 
It  makes  the  noble  mind  more  noble  still. 
The  world's  no  neuter ;  it  will  wound  or  save ; 
Our  virtue  quench,  or  indignation  fire. 
You  say  the  world,  well-known,  will  make  a  man. — 
The  world,  well-known,  will  give  our  hearts  to 

Heaven, 
Or  make  us  demons,  long  before  we  die. 

To  show  how  fair  the  world,  thy  mistress,  shines, 
Take  either  part ;  sure  ills  attend  the  choice ; 
Sure,  though  not  equal,  detriment  ensues. 
Not  Virtue's  self  is  deified  on  earth ; 
Virtue  has  her  relapses,  conflicts,  foes ; 
Foes  that  ne'er  fail  to  make  her  feel  their  hate. 
Virtue  has  her  peculiar  set  of  pains. 
True  friends  to  virtue,  last  and  least  complain ; 
But  if  they  sigh,  can  others  hope  to  smile? 
If  Wisdom  has  her  miseries  to  mourn, 
How  can  poor  Folly  lead  a  happy  life  ? 
And  if  both  suffer,  what  has  earth  to  boast, 
Where  he  most  happy  who  the  least  laments  1 
Where   much,  much  patience,  the  most  envied 

state, 

And  some  forgiveness,  needs,  the  best  of  friends  ? 
For  friend  or  happy  life  who  looks  not  higher, 
Of  neither  shall  he  find  the  shadow  here. 

The  world's  sworn  advocate,  without  a  fee, 
Lorenzo  smartly,  with  a  smile,  replies ; 
'  Thus  far  thy  song  is  right,  and  all  must  own 
Virtue  has  her  peculiar  set  of  pains: — 
And  joys  peculiar  who  to  Vice  denies  ? 
If  vice  it  is  with  nature  to  comply: 
If  pride  and  sense  are  so  predominant, 
To  check,  not  overcome  them,  makes  a  saint, 
Can  Nature  in  a  plainer  voice  proclaim 
Pleasure  and  glory,  the  chief  good  of  man  ?' — 

Can  pride  and  sensuality  rejoice  ? 
From  purity  of  thought  all  pleasure  springs, 
And  from  an  humble  spirit  all  our  peace. 
Ambition,  Pleasure !  let  us  talk  of  these ; 
Of  these  the  Porch  and  Academy  talked  ; 
Of  these  each  following  age  had  much  to  say, 
Yet  unexhausted,  still,  the  needful  theme. 
Who  talks  of  these,  to  mankind  all  at  once 
He  talks ;  for  where  the  saint  from  either  free  ? 


Are  these  thy  refuge  1— No ;  these  rush  upon  thee, 
Thy  vitals  seize,  and,  vulture-like,  devour: 
riltry  if  I  can  pluck  thee  from  thy  rock, 
Prometheus !  from  this  barren  ball  of  earth, 
If  reason  can  unchain  thee,  thou  art  free. 

And  first,  thy  Caucasus,  Ambition,  calls ; 
Mountain  of  torments !  eminence  of  woes ! 
Of  courted  woes !  and  courted  through  mistake ! 
'Tis  not  ambition  charms  thee;  'tis  a  cheat 

Will  make  thee  start,  as  H at  his  Moor. 

Dost  grasp  at  greatness  ?  first  know  what  it  is. 
Think'st  thou  thy  greatness  in  distinction  lies? 
Not  in  the  feather,  wave  it  e'er  so  high, 
By  Fortune  stuck,  to  mark  us  from  the  throng, 
Is  glory  lodged :  'tis  lodged  in  the  reverse ; 
In  that  which  joins,  in  that  which  equals  all, 
The  monarch  and  his  slave — '  a  deathless  soul, 
Unbounded  prospect,  arid  immortal  kin, 
A  Father-God,  and  brothers  in  the  skies ;' 
Elder,  indeed,  in  time,  but  less  remote 
In  excellence,  perhaps,  than  thought  by  man. 
Why  greater  what  can  fall  than  what  can  rise  ? 

If  still  delirious,  now,  Lorenzo !  go, 
And,  with  thy  full-blown  brothers  of  the  world, 
Throw  scorn  around  thee ;  cast  it  on  thy  slaves, 
Thy  slaves  and  equals.     How  scorn  cast  on  them 
Rebounds  on  thee !  If  man  is  mean,  as  man, 
Art  thou  a  god  1  If  Fortune  makes  him  so, 
Beware  the  consequence :  a  maxim  that 
Which  draws  a  monstrous  picture  of  mankind, 
Where,  in  the  drapery,  the  man  is  lost ; 
Externals  fluttering,  and  the  soul  forgot. 
Thy  greatest  glory,  when  disposed  to  boast, 
Boast  that  aloud  in  which  thy  servants  share. 

We  wisely  strip  the  steed  we  mean  to  buy. 
Judge  we,  in  their  caparisons,  of  men, 
It  nought  avails  thee  where,  but  what,  thou  art. 
AH  the  distinctions  of  this  little  life 
Are  quite  cutaneous,  foreign  to  the  man. 
When   through   Death's  streights  earth's  subtle 

serpents  creep, 

Which  wriggle  into  wealth,  or  climb  renown, 
As  crooked  Satan  the  forbidden  tree, 
They  leave  their  party-coloured  robe  behind, 
All  that  now  glitters,  while  they  rear  aloft 
Their  brazen  crests,  and  hiss  at  us  below. 
Of  Fortune's  focus  strip  them,  yet  alive, 
Strip  them  of  body  too ;  nay,  closer  still, 
Away  with  all  but  moral  in  their  minds, 
And  let  what  then  remains  impose  their" name, 
Pronounce  them  weak  or  worthy,  great  or  mean. 
How  mean  that  snuff  of  glory  Fortune  lights, 
And  Death  puts  out !  Dost  thou  demand  a  test, 
A  test,  at  once,  infallible  and  short, 
Of  real  greatness?  that  man  greatly  lives, 
Whate'er  his  fate  or  fame,  who  greatly  dies ; 
High-flushed  with  hope  where  heroes  shall  despair. 
If  this  a  true  criterion,  many  courts, 
Illustrious,  might  afford  but  few  grandees. 


GO 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


i    The  Almighty,  from  his  throne,  on  earth  sur- 
veys 

Nought  greater  than  an  honest,  humble  heart  J 
An  humble  heart,  his  residence  !  pronounced 
His  second  seat,  and  rival  to  the  skies. 
The  private  path,  the  secret  acts  of  men, 
If  noble,  far  the  noblest  of  our  lives ! 
How  far  above  Lorenzo's  glory  sits 
The  illustrious  master  of  a  name  unknown  1 
Whose  worth  unrivalled,  and  unwitnessed,  loves 
Life's  sacred  shades  where  gods  converse  with 

men, 

And  peace,  beyond  the  world's  conceptions,  smiles; 
As  thou  (now  dark)  before  we  part  shalt  see. 
But  thy  great  soul  this  skulking  glory  scorns : 
Lorenzo's  sick,  but  when  Lorenzo's  seen, 
And  when  he  shrugs  at  public  business,  lies. 
Denied  the  public  eye,  the  public  voice, 
As  if  he  lived  on  others  breath,  he  dies. 
Fain  would  he  make  the  world  his  pedestal, 
Mankind  the  gazers,  the  sole  figure  he. 
Knows  he,  that  mankind  praise  against  their  will, 
And  mix  as  much  detraction  as  they  ca.nl 
Knows  he,  that  faithless  Fame  her  whispers  has. 
As  well  as  trumpet  1  that  his  vanity 
Is  so  much  tickled,  from  not  hearing  all? 
Knows  this  all-knower,  that  from  itch  of  praise, 
Or  from  an  itch  more  sordid,  when  he  shines, 
Taking  his  country  by  five  hundred  ears, 
Senates  at  once  admire  him  and  despise, 
With  modest  laughter  lining  loud  applause, 
Which  makes  the  smile  more  mortal  to  his  fame  1 
His  fame  which  (like  the  mighty  Csesar)  crowned 
With  laurels,  in  full  senate^  greatly  falls, 
By  seeming  friends,  that  honour  and  destroy. 
We  rise  in  glory  as  we  sink  in  pride ; 
Where  boasting  ends,  there  dignity  begins; 
And  yet,  mistaken  beyond  all  mistake, 
The  blind  Lorenzo's  proud — of  being  proud, 
And  dreams  himself  ascending,  in  his  fall. 

An  eminence,  though  fancied,  turns  the  brain ; 
All  vice  wants  hellebore;  but  of  all  vice 
Pride  loudest  calls,  and  for  the  largest  bowl; 
Because,  unlike  all  other  vice,  it  flies. 
In  fact,  the  point  in  fancy  most  pursued. 
Who  court  applause  oblige  the  world  in  this ; 
They  gratify  man's  passion  to  refuse. 
Superior  honour,  when  assumed,  is  lost: 
E'en  good  men  turn  banditti,  and  rejoice, 
Like  Kouli-Kan,  in  plunder  of  the  proud. 

Though  somewhat  disconcerted,  steady  still 
To  the  world's  cause ;  with  half  a  face  of  joy, 
Lorenzo  cries, — '  Be,  then,  Ambition  cast ; 
Ambition's  dearer  far  stands  unimpeached, 
Gay  Pleasure !  proud  Ambition  is  her  slave ; 
For  her  he  soars  at  great,  and  hazards  ill; 
For  her  he  fights,  and  bleeds,  or  overcomes, 
And  paves  his  way,  with  crowns,  to  reach  her  smile. 


Who  can  resist  her  charms'? — Or  should?  Loren- 
zo! 

What  mortal  shall  resist  where  angels  yield] 

Pleasure's  the  mistress  of  ethereal  powers ; 

For  her  contend  the  rival  gods  above ; 

Pleasure's  the  mistress  of  the  world  below, 

And  well  it  is  for  man  that  Pleasure  charms ; 

How  would  all  stagnate  but  for  Pleasure's  ray 

How  would  the  frozen  stream  of  action  cease ! 

What  is  the  pulse  of  this  so  busy  world  1 

The  love  of  pleasure:  that,  through  every  vein, 

Throws  motion,  warmth,  and  shuts  out  death  from 

life. 
Though  various  are  the  tempers  of  mankind, 

Pleasure's  gay  family  holds  all  in  chains. 

Some  most  aftect  the  black,  and  some  the  fair; 

Some  honest  pleasure  court,  and  some  obscene. 

Pleasures  obscene  are  various,  as  the  throng 

Of  passions  that  can  err  in  human  hearts, 

Mistake  their  objects,  or  transgress  their  bounds. 

Think  you  there's  but  one  whoredom  1  whoredom 
all, 

But  when  our  reason  licenses  delight. 

Dost  doubt,  Lorenzo  ?  thou  shalt  doubt  no  more. 

Thy  father  chides  thy  gallantries,  yet  hugs 

An  ugly,  common  harlot  in  the  dark, 

A  rank  adulterer  with  others'  gold ; 

And  that  hag,  Vengeance,  in  a  corner  charms. 

Hatred  her  brothel  has,  as  well  as  Love, 

Where  horrid  epicures  debauch  in  blood. 

Whate'er  the  motive,  Pleasure  is  the  mark : 

For  her  the  black  assassin  draws  his  sword  ; 

For  her  dark  statesmen  trim  their  midnight  lamp, 

To  which  no  single  sacrifice  may  fall ; 

For  her  the  saint  abstains,  the  miser  starves; 

The  stoic  proud,  for  Pleasure,  pleasure  scorned ; 

For  her  Affliction's  daughters  grief  indulge, 

And  find,  or  hope,  a  luxury  in  tears; 

For  her  guilt,  shame,  toil,  danger,  we  defy, 

And,  with  an  aim  voluptuous,  rush  on  death: 

Thus  universal  her  despotic  power! 
And  as  her  empire  wide,  her  praise  is  just. 

Patron  of  Pleasure !  Doter  on  delight ! 

I  am  thy  rival ;  pleasure  I  profess ; 

Pleasure  the  purpose  of  my  gloomy  song. 

Pleasure  is  nought  but  Virtue's  gayer  name ; 

I  wrong  her  still,.!  rate  her  worth  too  low: 

Virtue  the  root,  and  pleasure  is  the  flower ; 

And  honest  Epicurus'  foes  were  fools. 

But  this  sounds  harsn,  and  gives  the  wise  offence, 

If  o'erstrained  wisdom  still  retains  the  name. 

How  knits  Austerity  her  cloudy  brow, 

And  blames,  as  bold  and  hazardous,  the  praise 

Of  pleasure,  to  mankind  unpraised,  too  dear! 

Ye  modern  stoics !  hear  my  soft  reply ; 

Their  senses  men  will  trust :  we  can't  impose, 

Or,  if  we  would,  is  imposition  right? 

Own  honey  sweet ;  but,  owning,  add  this  sting, 
When  mixed  with  poison  it  is  deadly  too.' 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


Gl 


Truth  never  was  indebted  to  a  lie. 
Is  nought  but  virtue  to  be  praised  as  good? 
Why  then  is  health  preferred  before  disease! 
What  Nature  loves  is  good,  without  her  leave; 
And  where  no  future  drawback  cries,  '  Beware,' 
Pleasure,  though  not  from  virtue,  should  prevail : 
'Tis  balm  to  life,  and  gratitude  to  Heaven. 
How  cold  our  thanks  for  bounties  unenjoyed ! 
The  love  of  Pleasure  in  man's  eldest-born, 
Born  in  his  cradle,  living  to  his  tomb ; 
Wisdom,  her  younger  sister,  though  more  grave, 
Was  meant  to  minister,  and  not  to  mar, 
Imperial  Pleasure,  queen  of  human  hearts. 

Lorenzo !  thou,  her  majesty's  renowned, 
Though  uncoift  counsel,  learned  in  the  world! 
Who  think'st  thyself  a  Murray,  with  disdain 
May'st  look  on  me :  yet,  my  Demosthenes ! 
Can'st  thou  plead  Pleasure's  cause  as  well  as  1 7 
Know'sit  thou  her  nature,  purpose,  parentage  ? 
Attend  my  song,  and  thou  shall  know  them  all ; 
And  know  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be 
(Strange  truth!)  the  most  abstemious  man  alive. 
Tell  not  Calista,  she  will  laugh  thee  dead, 

Or  send  thee  to  her  hermitage  with  L . 

Absurd  presumption  1  thou  who  never  knew'st 
A  serious  thought!  shall  thou  dare  dream  of  joy? 
No  man  e'er  found  a  happy  life  by  chance, 
Or  yawned  it  into  being  with  a  wish : 
Or  with  the  snoul  of  grovelling  Appetite 
E'er  smelt  it  out,  and  grubbed  it  from  ihe  dirt. 
An  art  il  is,  and  musl  be  learned;  and  learned 
With  unremitting  effort,  or  be  lost, 
And  leaves  us  perfect  blockheads  in  our  bliss. 
The  clouds  may  drop  down  titles  and  estates; 
Wealth  may  seek  us,  but  Wisdom  must  be  sought; 
Sought  before  all ;  but  (how  unlike  all  else 
We  seek  on  earth !)  'tis  never  sought  in  vain. 

First,  Pleasure's  birth,  rise,  strength,  and  gran- 
deur see: 

Brought  forth  by  Wisdom,  nursed  -by  Discipline, 
By  Patience  taughl,  by  Perseverance  crowned. 
She  rears  her  head  majestic ;  round  her  throne, 
Erected  in  ihe  bosom  of  the  just, 
Each  virtue,  listed,  forms  her  manly  guard. 
For  what  are  virtues  1  (formidable  name !) 
What  but  the  fountain  or  defence  of  joy  1 
Why  then  commanded'?  need  mankind  commands, 
At  once  to  merit  and  to  make  their  bliss  !— 
Great  Legislator !  scarce  so  great  as  kind ! 
If  men  are  rational,  and  love  delight, 
Thy  gracious  law  but  flatters  human  choice : 
In  the  transgression  lies  the  penalty  ; 
And  they  the  most  indulge  who  mosl  obey. 

Of  Pleasure,  nexl,  the  final  cause  explore ; 
Its  mighty  purpose,  its  importanl  end. 
Nol  to  turn  human  brutal,  but  to  build 
Divine  on  human,  Pleasure  came  from  Heaven : 
In  aid  to  Reason  was  the  goddess  sent, 
To  call  up  all  its  strength  by  such  a  charm. 


Pleasure,  first,  succours  virtue  ;  in  return, 
Virtue  gives  Pleasure  an  eternal  reign. 
Whal  bul  the  pleasure  of  food,  friendship,  faith, 
Supports  life  natural,  civil,  and  divine'? 
'Tis  from  the  pleasure  of  repast  we  live ; 
'Tis  from  the  pleasure  of  applause  we  please; 
'Tis  from  the  pleasure  of  belief  we  pray ; 
(All  prayer  would  cease,  if  unbelieved  the  prize) 
It  serves  ourselves,  our  species,  and  our  God ; 
And  to  serve  more  is  past  the  sphere  of  man. 
Glide  then,  for  ever,  Pleasure's  sacred  stream ! 
Through  Eden,  as  Euphrates  ran,  it  runs, 
And  fosters  every  growth  of  happy  life ; 
Makes  a  new  Eden  where  it  flows,— but  such 
As  must  be  lost,  Lorenzo !  by  thy  fall. 

'  What  mean  I  by  thy  falH— Thou'lt  shortly  see. 
While  Pleasure's  nalure  is  at  large  displayed, 
Already  sung  her  origin  and  ends : 
Those  glorious  ends  by  kind,  or  by  degree, 
When  Pleasure  violates,  'tis  then  a  vice, 
And  vengeance  too ;  it  hastens  into  pain. 
From  due  refreshment  life,  health,  reason,  joy ; 
From  wild  excess  pain,  grief,  dislraction,  death ; 
Heaven's  justice  this  proclaims,  and  that  her  love. 
What  greater  evil  can  I  wish  my  foe, 
Than  his  full  draught  of  pleasure  from  a  cask 
Unbroached  by  just  authority,  ungaged 
By  temperance,  by  reason  unrefined  1 
A  thousand  demons  lurk  within  the  lee. 
Heaven,  others,  and  ourselves !  uninjured  these 
Drink  deep ;  the  deeper,  then,  the  more  divine : 
Angels  are  angels  from  indulgence  there. 
'Tis  unrepenting  pleasure  makes  a  god ! 

Dost  Ihink  ihyself  a  god  from  other  joys  1 
A  victim  rather !  shortly,  sure  to  bleed. 
The  wrong  must  mourn.    Can  Heaven's  appoint- 
ments fail  1 

Can  man  outwit  Omnipotence?  strike  out 
A  self-wrought  happiness,  unmeant  by  him 
Who  made  us,  and  the  world  we  would  enjoy  1 
Who  forms  an  instrument  ordains  from  whence 
Its  dissonance  or  harmony  shall  arise. 
Heaven  bid  the  soul  this  mortal  frame  inspire ; 
Bid  Virtue's  ray  divine  inspire  the  soul 
With  unprecarious  flows  of  vital  joy ; 
And  without  brealhing  man  as  well  might  hope 
For  life,  as,  without  piety,  for  peace. 

1  Is  virtue,  then,  and  piely  Ihe  same  T— 
No ;  piety  is  more :  rtis  virtue's  source, 
Mother  of  every  worth,  as  that  of  joy. 
Men  of  the  world  Ihis  doctrine  ill  digest ; 
They  smile  at  piety,  yet  boast  aloud 
Good-will  to  men,'  nor  know  they  strive  to  part 
What  Nature  joins,  and  thus  confute  themselves. 
With  piety  begins  all  good  on  earth; 
Tis  the  first  born  of  Rationality ! 
Conscience,  her  first  law  broken,  wounded  lies; 
Enfeebled,  lifeless,  impotent  lo  good. 
A  feigned  affection  bounds  her  utmost  power. 


62 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Some  we  can't  love,  but  for  th'  Almighty's  sake ; 
A  foe  to  God  was  ne'er  true  friend  to  man. 
Some  sinister  intent  taints  all  he  does, 
And  in  his  kindest  actions  he's  unkind. 

On  piety  humanity  is  built, 
And  on  humanity  much  happiness ; 
And  yet  still  more  on  piety  itself. 
A  soul  in  commerce  with  her  God  is  Heaven 
Feels  not  the  tumults  and  the  shocks  of  life, 
The  whirls  of  passions,  and  the  strokes  of  heart. 
A  Deity  believed,  is  joy  begun ; 
A  Deity  adored,  is  joy  advanced ; 
A  Deity  beloved,  is  joy  matured! 
Each  branch  of  piety  delight  inspires ; 
Faith  builds  a  bridge  from  this  world  to  the  next, 
O'er  Death's  dark  gulf,  and  all  its  horror  hides : 
Praise,  the  sweet  exhalation  of  our  joy, 
That  joy  exalts,  and  makes  it  sweeter  still : 
Prayer  ardent  opens  Heaven,  lets  down  a  stream 
Of  glory  on  the  consecrated  hour 
Of  man,  in  audience  with  the  Deity ; 
Who  worships  the  great  God,  that  instant  joins 
The  first  in  Heaven,  and  sets  his  foot  on  hell. 

Lorenzo !  when  wast  thou  at  church  before  1 
Thou  think'st  the  service  long :  but  is  it  just  1 — 
Though  just,  unwelcome.  Thou  hadst  rather  tread 
Unhallowed  ground :  the  Muse,  to  win  thine  ear, 
Must  take  an  air  less  solemn.     She  complies. 
Good  Conscience !  at  the  sound  the  world  retires ; 
Verse  disaffects  it,  and  Lorenzo  smiles ; 
Yet  has  she  her  seraglio  full  of  charms, 
And  such  as  age  shall  heighten,  not  impair. 
Art  thou  dejected  1  is  thy  mind  o'ercast  ? 
Amid  her  fair  ones  thou  the  fairest  choose 
To  chase  thy  gloom. — '  Go,  fix  some  weighty  truth ; 
Chain  down  some  passion ;  do  some  generous  good ; 
Teach  Ignorance  to  see,  or  Grief  to  smile ; 
Correct  thy  friend ;  befriend  thy  greatest  foe ; 
Or,  with  warm  heart  and  confidence  divine, 
Spring  up,  and  lay  strong  hold  on  Him  who  made 

thee, 

Thy  gloom  is  scattered,  sprightly  spirits  flow, 
Though  withered  is  thy  vine,  and  harp  unstrung. 

Dost  call  the  bowl,  the  viol,  and  the  dance, 
Loud  mirth,  mad  laughter  1  Wretched  comforters ! 
Physicians !  more  than  half  of  thy  disease. 
Laughter,  though  never  censured  yet  as  sin, 
(Pardon  a  thought  that  only  seems  severe) 
Is  half  immoral ;  is  it  much  indulged  1 
By  venting  spleen,  or  dissipating  thought, 
It  shows  a  scorner,  or  it  makes  a  fool, 
And  sins ;  as  hurting  others,  or  ourselves. 
'Tis  pride,  or  emptiness,  applies  the  straw 
That  tickjes  little  minds  to  mirth  effuse ; 
Of  grief  approaching  the  portentous  sign ! 
The  house  of  laughter  makes  a  house  of  wo. 
A  man  triumphant  is  a  monstrous  sight ; 
A  man  dejected  is  a  sight  as  mean. 
What  cause  for  triumoh  when  such  ills  abound  1 


What  for  dejection,  where  presides  a  Power 
Who  called  us  into  being — to  be  blessed  1 
So  grieve,  as  conscious  grief  may  rise  to  joy: 
So  joy,  as  conscious  joy  to  grief  may  fall. 
Most  true,  a  wise  man  never  will  be  sad ; 
But  neither  will  sonorous,  bubbling  mirth, 
A  shallow  stream  of  happiness  betray ; 
Too  happy  to  be  sportive,  he  's  serene. 

Yet  wouldst  thou  laugh  (but  at  thy  own  expense) 
This  counsel  strange  would  I  presume  to  give — 
'  Retire,  and  read  thy  Bible,  to  be  gay.' 
There  truths  abound  of  sovereign  aid  to  peace : 
Ah !  do  not  prize  them  less  because  inspired, 
As  thou  and  thine  are  apt  and  proud  to  do. 
If  not  inspired,  that  pregnant  page  had  stood, 
Time's  treasure !  and  the  wonder  of  the  wise ! 
Thou  think'st,  perhaps,  thy  soul  alone  at  stake 
Alas  ! — should  men  mistake  thee  for  a  fool ; — 
What  man  of  taste  for  genius,  wisdom,  truth, 
Though  tender  of  thy  fame,  could  interpose  1 
Believe  me,  sense,  here,  acts  a  double  part, 
And  the  true  critic  is  a  Christian  too. 

But  these,  thou  think'st,  are  gloomy  paths  to  joy. 
True  joy  and  sunshine  ne'er  was  found  at  first. 
They  first  themselves  offend  who  greatly  please, 
And  travel  only  gives  us  sound  repose. 
Heaven  sells  all  pleasure ;  effort  is  the  price. 
The  joys  of  conquest  are  the  joys  of  man ; 
And  Glory  the  victorious  laurels  spreads 
O'er  Pleasure's  pure,  perpetual,  placid  stream. 

There  is  a  time  when  toil  must  be  preferred, 
Or  joy,  by  mistimed  fondness,  is  undone. 
A  man  of  pleasure  is  a  man  of  pains. 
Thou  wilt  not  take  the  trouble  to  be  blessed. 
False  joys,  indeed,  are  born  from  want  of  thought: 
From  thought's  full  bent  and  energy  the  true  ; 
And  that  demands  a  mind  in  equal  poize, 
Remote  from  gloomy  grief  and  glaring  joy. 
Much  joy  not  only  speaks  small  happiness, 
But  happiness  that  shortly  must  expire. 
Can  joy,  unbottomed  in  reflection,  stand'? 
And,  in  a  tempest,  can  reflection  live  1 
Can  joy,  like  thine,  secure  itself  an  hour? 
Can  joy,  like  thine,  meet  accident  unshocked? 
Or  ope  the  door  to  honest  poverty? 
Or  talk  with  threatening  Death,  and  not  turn  pale? 
In  such  a  world,  and  such  a  nature,  these 
Are  needful  fundamentals  of  delight : 
These  fundamentals  give  delight  indeed ; 
Delight  pure,  delicate,  and  durable ; 
Delight  unshaken,  masculine,  divine ; 
A  constant  and  a  sound,  but  serious,  joy. 

Is  Joy  the  daughter  of  Severity  ? 
It  is : — yet  far  my  doctrine  from  severe. 
'  Rejoice  for  ever :'  it  becomes  a  man ; 
Exalts,  and  sets  him  nearer  to  the  gods. 
'Rejoice  for  ever,'  Nature  cries;  ' Rejoice !' 
And  drinks  to  man  in  her  nectarious  cup, 
Mixed  up  of  delicates  for  every  sense ; 


THE  COMPLAINT 


G3 


To  the  great  Founder  of  the  bounteous  feast 
Drinks  glory,  gratitude,  eternal  praise ; 
And  he  that  will  not  pledge  her  is  a  churl. 
Ill  firmly  to  support,  good  fully  taste, 
Is  the  whole  science  of  felk-i' 
Yet,  sparing,  pledge  ;  her  bowl  is  not  the  best 
Mankind  can  boast.—'  A  rational  repast, 
Exertion,  vigilance,  a  mind  in  arms, 
A  military  discipline  of  thought, 
To  foil  temptation  in  the  doubtful  field. 
And  ever-waking  ardour  for  the  right.' 
'Tis  these  first  give,  then  guard,  a  cheerful  heart. 
Nought,  that  is  right,  think  little ;  well  aware 
What  Reason  bids,  God  bids :  by  his  command 
How  aggrandized  the  smallest  thing  we  do ! 
Thus  nothing  is  insipid  to  the  wise ; 
To  thee  insipid  all  but  what  is  mad, 
Joys  seasoned  high,  and  tasting  strong  of  guilt. 
i !  (thou  reply 'st.  with  indignation  fired) 
Of  ancient  sages  proud  to  tread  the  steps, 
I  follow  Nature.'— Follow  Nature  still, 
But  look  it  be  thine  own.     Is  Conscience,  then, 
No  part  of  Nature?  is  she  not  supreme? 
Thou  regicide  !  O  raise  her  from  the  dead ! 
Then  follow  Nature,  and  resemble  God. 

When,  spite  of  conscience,  pleasure  is  pursued, 
Man's  nature  is  unnaturally  pleased ; 
And  what  ?s  unnatural  is  painful  too 
At  intervals,  and  must  disgust  e'en  thee ! 
The  fact  thou  know'st ;  but  not,  perhaps,  the  cause. 
Virtue's  foundations  with  the  world's  were  laid : 
Heaven  mixed  her  with  our  make,  and  twisted  close 
Her  sacred  interest  with  the  strings  of  life : 
Who  breaks  her  awful  mandate  shocks  himself, 
His  better  self:  and  is  it  greater  pain 
Our  soul  should  murmur,  or  our  dust  repine  1 
And  one,  in  their  eternal  war.  must  bleed. 

If  one  must  suffer,  which  should  least  be  spared  1 
The  pains  of  mind  surpass  the  pains  of  sense : 
Ask,  then,  the  Gout,  what  torment  is  in  guilt? — 
The  joys  of  sense  to  mental  joys  are  mean : 
Sense  on  the  present  only  feeds:  the  soul 
On  past  and  future  forages  for  joy : 
'Tis  hers,  by  retrospect,  through  time  to  range, 
And  forward  time's  great  sequel  to  survey. 
Could  human  courts  take  vengeance  on  the  mind, 
Axes  might  rust,  and  racks  and  gibbets  fall. 
Guard  then  thy  mind,  and  leave  the  rest  to  Fate? 
Lorenzo !  wilt  thou  never  be  a  man? 
The  man  is  dead  who  for  the  body  lives, 
Lured  by  the  beating  of  his  pulse,  to  list 
With  every  lust  that  wars  against  his  peace, 
And  sets  him  quite  at  variance  with  himself. 
Thyself  first  know,  then  love:  a  self  there  is, 
Of  virtue  fond,  that  kindles  at  her  charms: 
A  self  there  is,  as  fond  of  every  vice, 
While  every  virtue  wounds  it  to  the  heart; 
Humility  degrades  it,  Justice  robs, 
Blessed  Bounty  beggars  it,  fair  Truth  betrays. 
18 


And  godlike  Magnanimity  destroys. 
This  self,  when  rival  to  the  former,  scorn; 
When  not  in  competition,  kindly  treat, 
Defend  it,  feed  it: — but  when  Virtue  bids, 
Toss  it  or  to  the  fowls  or  to  the  flames. 
And  why?  'tis  love  of  pleasure  bids  thee  bleed: 
Comply,  or  own  self-love  extinct,  or  blind. 

For  what  is  vice? — Self-love  in  a  mistake: 
A  poor  blind  merchant  buying  joys  too  dear. 
And  virtu^rhat?  'tis  self-love  in  her  wita, 
duite  skilful  in  the  market  of  delight 
Self-love's  good  sense  is  love  of  that  dread  Power, 
From  whom  herself,  and  all  she  can  enjoy. 
Other  self-love  is  but  disguised  self-hate, 
More  mortal  than  the  malice  of  our  foes; 
A  self-hate  now  scarce  felt,  tl^m  felt  full  sore, 
When  being  cursed,  extinction  loud-implored, 
And  every  thing  preferred  to  what  we  are. 

Yet  this  self-love  Lorenzo  makes  his  choice, 
And,  in  this  choice  triumphant,  boasts  of  joy. 
How  is  his  want  of  happiness  betrayed 
By  disaffection  to  the  present  hour! 
Imagination  wanders  far  a-field ; 
The  future  pleases:  why?  the  present  pains. — 
"  But  that's  a  secret."— Yes,  which  all  men  know, 
And  know  from  thee,  discovered  unawares. 
Thy  ceaseless  agitation  restless  rolls 
From  cheat  to  cheat,  impatient  of  a  pause. 
What  is  it? — 'Tis  the  cradle  of  the  soul, 
From  Instinct  sent,  to  rock  her  in  disease, 
Which  her  physician,  Reason,  will  not  cure. 
A  poor  expedient!  yet  thy  best;  and  while 
It  mitigates  thy  pain,  it  owns  it  too. 

Such  are  Lorenzo's  wretched  remedies ! 
The  weak  have  remedies,  the  wise  have  joys. 
Superior  wisdom  is  superior  bliss. 
And  what  sure  mark  distinguishes  the  wise  ? 
Consistent  Wisdom  ever  wills  the  same; 
Thy  fickle  wish  is  ever  on  the  wing. 
Sick  of  herself  is  Folly's  character, 
As  Wisdom's  is  a  modest  self-applause. 
A  change  of  evils  is  thy  good  supreme, 
Nor  but  in  motion  canst  thou  find  thy  rest. 
Man's  greatest  strength  is  shown  in  standing  still. 
The  first  sure  symptom  of  a  mind  in  health 
Is  rest  of  heart,  and  pleasure  felt  at  home. 
False  pleasure  from  abroad  her  joys  imports ; 
Rich  from  within,  and  self-sustained,  the  true. 
The  true  is  fixed  and  solid  as  a  rock ; 
Slippery  the  false,  and  tossing,  as  the  wave. 
This  a  wild  wanderer  on  earth,  like  Cain; 
That  like  the  fabled,  self-enamoured  boy, 
Home-contemplation  her  supreme  delight: 
She  dreads  an  interruption  from  without, 
Smit  with  her  own  condition,  and  the  more 
Intense  she  gazes,  still  it  charms  the  more. 

No  man  is  happy  till  he  thinks  on  earth 
There  breathes  not  a  more  happy  tha»  himself; 
Then  envy  dies,  and  love  o'erflows  on  all; 


64 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


And  love  o'erflowing  makes  an  angel  here. 

Such  angels  all,  entitled  to  repose 

On   Him  who  governs  fate.     Though  tempest 

frowns, 
Though  Nature  shakes,   how   soft  to  lean  on 

Heaven ! 

To  lean  on  him  on  whom  archangels  lean ! 
With  inward  eyes,  and  silent  as  the  grave, 
They  stand  collecting  every  beam  of  thought, 
Till  their  hearts  kindle  with  divine  delight ; 
For  all  their  thoughts,  like  angels,  seen  of  old 
In  Israel's  dream,  come  from,  and  go  to  Heaven; 
Hence  are  they  studious  of  sequestered  scenes, 
While  noise  and  dissipation  comfort  thee. 

Were  all  men  happy,  revellings  would  cease, 
That  opiate  for  inquietude  within. 
Lorenzo !  never  man  was  truly  blessed, 
But  it  composed  and  gave  him  such  a  cast, 
As  Folly  might  mistake  for  want  of  joy: 
A  cast,  unlike  the  triumph  of  the  proud; 
A  modest  aspect,  and  a  smile  at  heart. 
O  for  a  joy  from  thy  Philandcr's  spring ! 
A  spring,  perennial,  rising  in  the  breast, 
And  permanent  as  pure !  no  turbid  stream 
Of  rapturous  exultation,  swelling  high, 
Which,  like  land-floods,  impetuous  pour  awhile, 
Then  sink  at  once,  and  leave  us  in  the  mire. 
What  does  the  man  who  transient  joy  prefers 7 
What,  but  prefer  the  bubbles  to  the  stream  1 

Vain  are  all  sudden  sallies  of  delight, 
Convulsions  of  a  weak  distempered  joy. 
Joy's  a  fixed  state;  a  tenour,  not  a  start. 
Bliss  there  is  none  but  unprecarious  bliss : 
That  is  the  gem:  sell  all,  and  purchase  that. 
Why  go  a-begging  to  contingencies, 
Not  gained  with  ease,  nor  safely  loved,  if  gained  1 
At  good  fortuitous  draw  back,  and  pause; 
Suspect  it;  what  thou  canst  ensure,  enjoy; 
And  nought,  but  what  thou  giv'st  thyself,  is  sure. 
Reason  perpetuates  joy  that  reason  gives, 
And  makes  it  as  immortal  as  herself: 
To  mortals,  nought  immortal,  but  their  worth. 
Worth,    conscious  Worth!   should   absolutely 

reign, 

And  other  joys  ask  leave  for  their  approach, 
Nor  unexamined,  ever  leave  obtain. 
Thou  art  all  anarchy;  a  mob  of  joys 
Wage  war,  and  perish  in  intestine  broils; 
Not  the  least  promise  of  internal  peace! 
No  bosom-comfort !  or  unborrowed  bliss ! 
Thy  thoughts  are  vagabonds :  all  outward  bound 
Mid  sands  and  rocks,  and  storms,  to  cruise  for 

pleasure; 
If  gained,  dear-bought;  and  better  missed  than 

gained. 

Much  pain  must  expiate  what  much  pain  pro- 
cured. 

Fancy  and  Sense,  from  an  infected  shore, 
Thy  cargo  bring,  and  pestilence  the  prize, 


Then  such  thy  thirst,  (insatiable  thirst, 
By  fond  indulgence  but  inflamed  the  more) 
Fancy  still  cruises,  when  poor  Sense  is  tired. 

Imagination  is  the  Paphian  shop 
Where  feeble  Happiness,  like  Vulcan,  lame. 
Bids  foul  ideas,  in  their  dark  recess, 
And  hot  as  hell  (which  kindled  the  black  fires) 
With  wanton  art  those  fatal  arrows  form, 
Which  murder  all  thy  time,  health,  wealth,  and 

fame. 
Would'st  thou  receive  them,  other  thoughts  there 

are 

On  angel  wing,  descending  from  above ; 
Which   these,  with   art   divine,,  would  counter- 
work, 
And  form  celestial  armour  for  thy  peace. 

In  this  is  seen  Imagination's  guilt ; 
But  who  can  count  her  follies'?  she  betrays  thee, 
To  think  in  grandeur  there  is  something  great. 
For  works  of  curious  art,  and  ancient  fame, 
Thy  genius  hungers,  elegantly  pained, 
And  foreign  climes  must  cater  for  thy  taste. 
Hence,  what  disaster! — Though  the  price  was 

paid, 

That  persecuting  priest,  the  Turk  of  Rome, 
Whose  foot,  (ye  gods!)  though  cloven,  must  be 


Detained  thy  dinner  on  the  Latian  shore; 
(Such  is  the  fate  of  honest  protestants !) 
And  poor  Magnificence  is  starved  to  death. 
Hence  just  resentment,  indignation,  ire! — 
Be  pacified;  if  outward  things  are  great, 
'Tis  magnanimity  great  things  to  scorn; 
Pompous  expenses,  arid  parades  august, 
And  courts  that  insalubrious  soil  to  peace. 
True  happiness  ne'er  entered  at  an  eye; 
True  happiness  resides  in  things  unseen. 
No  smiles  of  Fortune  ever  blessed  the  bad, 
Nor  can  her  frowns  rob  Innocence  of  joys ; 
That  jewel  wanting,  triple  crowns  are  poor: 
So  tell  his  Holiness,  and  be  revenged. 

Pleasure,  we  both  agree,  is  man's  chief  good; 
Our  only  contest,  what  deserves  the  name. 
Give  Pleasure's  name  to  nought  but  what  has 


The  authentic  seal  of  Reason  (which,  like  Yorke, 

Demurs  on  what  it  passes)  and  defies 

The  tooth  of  Time ;  when  past,  a  pleasure  still ; 

Dearer  on  trial,  lovelier  for  its  age, 

And  doubly  to  be  prized,  as  it  promotes 

Our  future,  while  it  forms  our  present  joy. 

Some  joys  the  future  overcast,  and  some 

Throw  all  their  beams  that  way,  and  gild  the 

tomb. 

Some  joys  endear  eternity:  some  give 
Abhorred  Annihilation  dreadful  charms. 
Are  rival  joys  contending  for  thy  choice? 
Consult  thy  whole  existence,  and  be  safe; 
That  oracle  will  put  all  doubt  to  flight. 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


65 


Short  is  the  lesson,  though  my  lecture  long; 
'  Be  good' — and  let  Heaven  answer  for  the  rest ! 

Yet,  with  a  sigh  o'er  all  mankind,  I  grant, 
In  this  our  day  of  proof,  our  land  of  hope, 
The  good  man  has  his  clouds  that  intervene ; 
Clouds  that  obscure  his  sublunary  day, 
But  never  conquer:  even  the  best  must  own, 
Patience  and  resignation  are  the  pillars 
Of  human  peace  on  earth :  the  pillars  these, 
But  those  of  Seth  not  more  remote  from  thee, 
Till  this  heroic  lesson  thou  hast  learned, 
To  frown  at  pleasure,  and  to  smile  in  pain. 
Fired  at  the  prospect  of  unclouded  bliss, 
Heaven  in  reversion,  like  the  sun,  as  yet  . 
IV-math  the  horizon,  cheers  us  in  this  world; 
Itshet!;-  iseeptible  of  light, 

The  glorious  dawn  of  our  eternal  day. 

'  This  (says  Lorenzo)  is  a  fair  harangue!' 
But  can  harangues  blow  back  strong    Nature's 

stream, 
Or  stem   the  tide  Heaven  pushes  through  our 

veins, 

Which  sweeps  away  man's  impotent  resolves, 
And  lays  his  labour  level  with  the  world  1 

Themselves  men  make  their  comment  on  man- 
kind, 

And  think  nought  is,  but  what  they  find  at  home 
Thus  weakness  to  chimera  turns  the  truth. 
Nothing  romantic  has  the  Muse  prescribed. 
Above,*  Lorenzo  saw  the  man  of  earth, 
The  mortal  man,  and  wretched  was  the  sight. 
To  balance  that,  to  comfort  and  exalt, 
Now  see  the  man  immortal:  him,  I  mean, 
Who  lives  as  such;   whose  heart,   full-bent  on 

Heaven, 

Leans  all  that  way,  his  bias  to  the  stars. 
The  world's  dark  shades,  in  contrast  set,  shall 

raise 

His  lustre  more;  though  bright,  without  a  foil: 
Observe  his  awful  portrait,  and  admire ; 
Nor  stop  at  wonder;  imitate,  and  live. 

Some  angel  guide  my  pencil,  while  I  draw, 
What  nothing  less  than  angel  can  exceed, 
A  man  on  earth  devoted  to  the  skies; 
Like  ships  in  seas,  while  in,  above  the  world. 

With  aspect  mild,  and  elevated  eye, 
Behold  him  seated  on  a  mount  serene, 
Above  the  fogs  of  sense,  and  passion's  storm; 
All  the  black  cares  and  tumults  of  this  life, 
Like  harmless  thunders,  breaking  at  his  feet, 
Excite  his  pity,  not  impair  his  peace. 
Earth's  genuine  sons,  the  sceptered  and  the  slave, 
A  mingled  mob!  a  wandering  herd!  he  sees, 
Bewildered  in  the  vale;  in  all  unlike! 
His  full  reverse  in  all!  what  higher  praisel 
What  stronger  demonstration  of  the  right  ? 
The  present  all  their  care,  the  future  his. 


'  In  a  former  Night. 


When  public  welfare  calls,  or  private  want, 
They  give  to  Fame ;  his  bounty  he  conceals. 
Their  virtues  varnish  Nature,.h»  exalt. 
Mankind's  esteem  they  court,  and  he  his  own. 
Theirs  the  wild  chase  of  false  felicities ; 
His,  the  composed  possession  of  the  true. 
Alike  throughout  is  his  consistent  peace, 
All  of  one  colour,  and  an  even  thread; 
While  party-coloured  shreds  of  happiness, 
With  hideous  gaps  between,  patch  up  for  them 
A  madman's  robe ;  each  puff  of  Fortune  blows 
The  tatters  by,  and  shows  their  nakedness. 

He  sees  with  other  eyes  than  theirs :  where  they 
Behold  a  sun,  he  spies  a  Deity. 
What  makes  them  only  smile,  makes  him  adore. 
Where  they  see  mountains,  he  but  atoms  sees. 
An  empire,  in  his  balance,  weighs  a  grain. 
They  things  terrestrial  worship  as  divine; 
His  hopes,  immortal,  blow  them  by  as  dust. 
That  dims  his  sight,  and  shortens  his  survey, 
Which  longs,  in  infirdte,  to  lose  all  bound. 
Titles  and  honours  (if  they  prove  his  fate) 
He  lays  aside  to  find  his  dignity ; 
No  dignity  they  find  in  aught  besides. 
They  triumph  in  externals,  (which  conceal 
Man's  real  glory)  proud  of  an  eclipse : 
Himself  too  much  he  prizes  to  be  proud, 
And  nothing  thinks  so  great  in  man,  as  man. 
Too  dear  he  holds  his  interest  to  neglect 
Another's  welfare,  or  his  right  invade : 
Their  interest,  like  a  lion,  lives  on  prey. 
They  kindle  at  the  shadow  of  a  wrong ; 
Wrong  he  sustains  with  temper,  looks  on  Heaven, 
Nor  stoops  to  think  his  injurer  his  foe : 
Nought  but  what  wounds  his  virtue  wounds  his 

peace. 

A  covered  heart  their  character  defends ; 
A  covered  heart  denies  him  half  his  praise. 
With  nakedness  his  innocence  agrees, 
While  their  broad  foliage  testifies  their  fall. 
Their  no  joys  end  where  his  full  feast  begins ; 
His  joys  create,  theirs  murder,  future  bliss. 
To  triumph  in  existence  his  alone; 
And  his  alone  triumphantly  to  think 
His  true  existence  is  not  yet  begun. 
His  glorious  course  was,  yesterday,  complete; 
Death  then  was  welcome;  yet  life  still  is  sweet. 

But  nothing  charms  Lorenzo  like  the  firm, 
Undaunted    breast.— And   whose   is   that    high 

praise? 

They  yield  to  pleasure,  though  they  danger  brave, 
And  show  no  fortitude  but  in  the  field; 
f  there  they  show  it,  'tis  for  glory  shown ; 
S"or  will  that  cordial  always  man  their  hearts. 
A  cordial  his  sustains,  that  can  not  fail  : 

pleasure  unsubdued,  unbroke  by  pain, 
3e  shares  in  that  Omnipotence  he  trusts; 
All-bearing,  all-attempting,  till  he  falls; 
And  when  he  falls,  writes  Vici  on  his  shield, 


66 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


From  magnanimity  all  fear  above; 
From  nobler  recompense  above  applause, 
Which  owes  to  man's  short  outlook  all  its  charms. 

Backward  to  credit  what  he  never  felt, 
Lorenzo  cries,— 'Where  shines  this  miracle? 
From  what  root  rises  this  immortal  man  V — 
A  root  that  grows  not  in  Lorenzo's  ground : 
The  root  dissect,  nor  wonder  at  the  flower. 

He  follows  Nature  (not  like  thee*)  and  shows  us 
An  uninverted  system  of  a  man. 
His  appetite  wears  Reason's  golden  chain, 
And  finds,  in  due  restraint,  its  luxury. 
His  passion,  like  an  eagle  well  reclaimed, 
Is  taught  to  fly  at  nought  but  infinite. 
Patient  his  hope,  unanxious  is  his  care, 
His  caution  fearless,  and  his  grief  (if  grief 
The  gods  ordain)  a  stranger  to  despair. 
And  why"? — because  affection,  more  than  meet, 
His  wisdom  leaves  not  disengaged  from  Heaven. 
Those  secondary  goods  that  smile  on  earth 
He,  loving  in  proportion,  loves  in  peace. 
They  most  the  world  enjoy  who  least  admire. 
His  understanding  'scapes  the  common  cloud 
Of  fumes  arising  from  a  boiling  breast. 
His  head  is  clear,  because  his  heart  is 'cool, 
By  worldly  competitions  uninflamed. 
The  moderate  movements  of  his  soul  admit 
Distinct  ideas,  and  matured  debate, 
An  eye  impartial,  and  an  even  scale; 
Whence  judgment  sound,  and  unrepenting  choice, 
Thus  in  a  double  sense  the  good  are  wise ; 
On  its  own  dunghill  wiser  than  the  world. 
What,  then,  the  world  ?  it  must  be  doubly  weak. 
Strange  truth !  as  soon  would  they  believe  their 
creed. 

Yet  thus  it  is,  nor  otherwise  can  be, 
So  far  from  aught  romantic  what  I  sing; 
Bliss  has  no  being,  Virtue  has  no  strength, 
But  from  the  prospect  of  immortal  life. 
Who  think  Earth  all,  or  (what  weighs  just  the 

same) 

Who  care  no  farther,  must  prize  what  it  yields, 
Fond  of  its  fancies,  proud  of  its  parades. 
Who  thinks  earth  nothing  can't  its  charms  admire ; 
He  can't  a  foe,  though  most  malignant,  hate, 
Because  that  hate  would  prove  his  greater  foe. 
'Tis  hard  for  them  (yet  who  so  loudly  boast 
Good- will  tb  men?)  to  love  their  dearest  friends? 
For  may  not  he  invade  their  good  supreme, 
Where  the  least  jealousy  turns  love  to  gall  1 
All  shines  to  them,  that  for  a  season  shines : 
Each  act,  each  thought,  he  questions;  '  What  its 
weight, 

Its  colour  what,  a  thousand  ages  hence?' 

And,  what  it  there  appears,  he  deems  it  now ; 
Hence  pure  are  the  recesses  of  his  soul. 
The  godlike  man  has  nothing  to  conceal; 


•  See  Night  the  Eighth,  p.  63. 


His  virtue,  constitutionally  deep, 

Has  Habit's  firmness,  and  Affection's  flame: 

Angels,  allied,  descend  to  feed  the  fire, 

And  death,  which  others  slay,  makes  him  a  god. 

And  now,  Lorenzo  !  bigot  of  this  world ! 
Wont  to  disdain  poor  bigots  caught  by  Heaven? 
Stand  by  thy  scorn,  and  be  reduced  to  nought! 
For  what  art  thou?— Thou  boaster!  while  thy 

glare, 

Thy  gaudy  grandeur,  and  mere  worldly  worth, 
Like  a  broad  mist,  at  distance,  strikes  us  most, 
And,  like  a  mist,  is  nothing  when  at  hand; 
His  merit,  like  a  mountain,  on  approach, 
Swells  more,  and  rises  nearer  to  the  skies ; 
By  promise  now,  and  by  possession,  soon 
(Too  soon,  too  much,  it  can  not  be)  his  own. 

From  this  thy  just  annihilation  rise, 
Lorenzo !  rise  to  something,  by  reply. 
The  world,  thy  client,  listens  and  expects, 
And  longs  to  crown  thee  with  immortal  praise. — • 
Can'st  thou  be  silent  ?  no ;  for  wit  is  thine, 
And  Wit  talks  most  when  least  she  has  to  say, 
And  Reason  interrupts  not  her  career. 
She'll  say — that  mists  above  the  mountains  rise, 
And  with  a  thousand  pleasantries  amuse ; 
She'll  sparkle,  puzzle,  flutter,  raise  a  dust, 
And  fly  conviction  in  the  dust  she  raised. 

Wit,  how  delicious  to  man's  dainty  taste ! 
'Tis  precious  as  the  vehicle  of  sense, 
But,  as  its  substitute,  a  dire  disease. 
Pernicious  talent !  flatter 'd  by  the  world, 
By  the  blind  world,  which  thinks  the  talent  rare. 
Wisdom  is  rare,  Lorenzo !  wit  abounds ; 
Passion  can  give  it ;  sometimes  wine  inspires 
The  lucky  flash;  and  madness  rarely  fails. 
Whatever  cause  the  spirit  strongly  stirs, 
Confers  the  bays,  and  rivals  thy  renown. 
For  thy  renown  'twere  well  this  was  the  worst ; 
Chance  often  hits  it ;  and,  to  pique  thee  more, 
See  Dulness,  blundering  on  vivacities, 
Shakes  her  sage  head  at  the  calamity 
Which  has  exposed,  and  let  her  down  to  thee. 
But  Wisdom,  awful  Wisdom !  which  inspects, 
Discerns,  compares,  weighs,  separates,  infers, 
Seizes  the  right,  and  holds  it  to  the  last, 
How  rare !  in  senates,  synods,  sought  in  vain : 
Or  if  there  found,  'tis  sacred  to  the  few ; 
While  a  lewd  prostitute  to  multitudes, 
Frequent,  as  fatal,  Wit.     In  civil  life 
Wit  makes  an  enterpriser,  sense  a  man. 
Wit  hates  authority,  commotion  loves, 
And  thinks  herself  the  lightning  of  the  storm. 
In  states  'tis  dangerous ;  in  religion  death. 
Shall  Wit  turn  Christian  when  the  dull  believe  ? 
Sense  is  our  helmet,  Wit  is  but  the  plume ; 
The  plume  exposes,  'tis  our  helmet  saves. 
Sense  is  the  diamond,  weighty,  solid,  sound; 
When  cut  by  Wit  it  casts  a  brighter  beam ; 
Yet  Wit  apart,  it  is  a  diamond  still. 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


67 


Wit,  widowed   of  good   sense,    is  worse   than 

nought; 

It  hoists  more  sail  to  run  against  a  rock. 
Thus  a  half  Chesterfield  is  quite  a  fool, 
Whom  dull  fools  scorn,  and  bless  their  want  of  wit 

How  ruinous  the  rock  I  warn  thee  shun, 
Where  Sirens  sit  to  sing  thee  to  thy  fate  ! 
A  joy  in  which  our  reason  bears  no  part, 
Is  but  a  sorrow  tickling  ere  it  stings. 
Let  not  the  cooings  of  the  world  allure  thee ; 
Which  of  her  lovers  ever  found  her  true  1 
Happy,  of  this  bad  world  who  little  know: — 
And  yet  we  much  must  know  her,  to  be  safe. 
To  know  the  world,  not  love  her,  is  thy  point ; 
She  gives  but  little,  nor  that  little  long. 
There  is,  I  grant,  a  triumph  of  the  pulse, 
A  dance  of  spirits,  a  mere  froth  of  joy, 
Our  thoughtless  agitation's  idle  child, 
That  mantles  hi^h,  that  sparkles  and  expires, 
Leaving  the  soul  more  vapid  than  before ; 
An  animal  ovation !  such  as  holds 
No  commerce  with  our  reason,  but  subsists 
On  juices,  through  the  well-toned  tubes  well 

strained ; 

A  nice  machine !  scarce  ever  tuned  aright ; 
And  when  it  jars — thy  sirens  sing  no  more; 
Thy  dance  is  done ;  the  demi-god  is  thrown 
(Short  apotheosis !)  beneath  the  man, 
In  coward  gloom  immersed,  or  fell  despair. 

Art  thou  yet  dull  enough  despair  to  dread, 
And  startle  at  destruction  1  if  thou  art, 
Accept  a  buckler ;  take  it  to  the  field ; 
(A  field  of  battle  is  this  mortal  life !) 
When  danger  threatens,  lay  it  on  thy  heart, 
A  single  sentence  proof  against  the  world. 
'  Soul,  body,  fortune ;  every  good  pertains 
To  one  of  these ;  but  prize  not  all  alike  : 
The  goods  of  fortune  to  thy  body's  health, 
Body  to  soul,  and  soul  submit  to  God.' 
Wouldst  thou  build  lasting  happiness  ?  do  this : 
The  inverted  pyramid  can  never  stand. 

Is  this  truth  doubtful  1  it  outshines  the  sun ; 
Nay,  the  sun  shines  not  but  to  show  us  this, 
The  single  lesson  of  mankind  on  earth : 
And  yet — yet  what  1  No  news!  mankind  is  mad; 
Such  mighty  numbers  list  against  the  right, 
(And  what    can't    numbers,   when    bewitched, 

achieve  ? 

They  talk  themselves  to  something  like  belief 
That  all  earth's  joys  are  theirs;  as  Athens'  fool 
Grinn'd  from  the  port  on  every  sail  his  own. 

They  grin,  but  wherefore  1  and  how  long  the 

laugh? 

Half  ignorance  their  mirth,  and  half  a  lie. 
To  cheat  the  world,  and  cheat  themselves,  they 

smile  : 

Hard  either  task !  the  most  abandoned  own 
That  others,  if  abandoned,  are  undone : 
Then  for  themselves,  the  moment  Reason  wakes, 


(And  Providence  denies  it  long  repose,) 
O  how  laborious  is  their  gaiety ! 
They  scarce  can  swallow  their  ebullient  spleen, 
Scarce  muster  patience  to  support  the  force, 
And  pump  sad  laughter  till  the  curtain  falls. 
Scarce  did  I  say  7  some  can  not  sit  it  out ; 
Oft  their  own  daring  hands  the  curtain  draw, 
And  show  us  what  their  joy  by  their  despair. 

The  clotted  hair!  gored  breast!  blaspheming 

eye! 

Its  impious  fury  still  alive  in  death ! 
Shut,  shut  the  shocking  scene.  But  Heaven  denies 
A  cover  to  such  guilt,  and  so  should  man. 
Look  round,  Lorenzo !  see  the  reeking  blade, 
The  envenomed  phial,  and  the  fatal  ball ; 
The  strangling  cord,  and  suffocating  stream; 
The  loathsome  rottenness,  and  foul  decays, 
From  raging  riot,  (slower  suicides !) 
And  pride  in  these,  jnore  execrable  still ; 
How  horrid  all  to  thought ! — but  horrors  these, 
That  vouch  the  truth,  and  aid  my  feeble  song. 

From  vice,  sense,  fancy,  no  man  can  be  bless'd: 
Bliss  is  too  great  to  lodge  within  an  hour : 
When  an  immortal  being  aims  at  bliss, 
Duration  is  essential  to  the  name. 
O  for  a  joy  from  reason ;  joy  from  that 
Which  makes  man  man,  and,  exercised  aright, 
Will  make  him  more :  a  bounteous  joy,  that  gives 
And  promises — that  weaves,  with  art  divine, 
The  richest  prospect  into  present  peace : 
A  joy  ambitious !  joy  in  common  held 
With  thrones  ethereal,  and  their  greater  far : 
A  joy  high-privileged  from  chance,  time,  death ! 
A  joy  which  death  shall  double,  judgment  crown ! 

rowned  higher,  and  still  higher,  at  each  stage, 
Through  blessed  eternity's  long  day,  yet  still 
Not  more  remote  from  sorrow  than  from  him. 
Whose  lavish  hand,  whose  love  stupendous  pours 
So  much  of  Deity  on  guilty  dust. 
There,  O  my  Lucia !  may  I  meet  thee  there, 
Where  not  thy  presence  can  improve  my  bliss. 

Affects  not  this  the  sages  of  the  world? 
an  nought  affect  them  but  what  fools  them  too? 
Eternity,  depending  on  an  hour, 
Makes  serious  thought,  man's  wisdom,  joy,  and 

praise. 

Nor  need  you  blush  (though  sometimes  your  de- 
signs 

May  shun  the  light)  at  your  designs  on  Heaven; 
Sole  point !  where  overbashful  is  your  blame. 
Are  you  not  wise  ?— you  know  you  are :  yet  hear 
One  truth,  amid  your  numerous  schemes  mislaid, 
Or  overlooked,  or  thrown  aside,  if  seen ; 
Our  schemes  to  plan  by  this  world  or  the  next, 
s  the  sole  difference  between  wise,  and  fool.' 
All  worthy  men  will  weigh  you  in  this  scale : 
What  wonder,  then,  if  they  pronounce  you  light? 
s  their  esteem  alone  not  worth  your  care  ? 
Accept  my  simple  scheme  of  common  sense, 


68 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Thus  save  your  fame,  and  make  two  worlds  your 

own. 

The  world  replies  not ; — but  the  world  persists, 
And  puts  the  cause  off  to  the  longest  day, 
Planning  evasions  for  the  day  of  doom : 
So  far,  at  that  re-hearing,  from  redress, 
They  then  turn  witnesses  against  themselves. 
Hear  that,  Lorenzo !  nor  be  wise  to-morrow. 
Haste,  haste !  a  man,  by  nature,  is  in  haste ! 
For  who  shall  answer  for  another  hour  1 
Tis  highly  prudent  to  make  one  sure  friend, 
And  that  thou  can'st  not  do,  this  side  the  skies. 

Ye  sons  of  Earth !  (nor  willing  to  be  more !) 
Since  verse  you  think  from  priestcraft  somewhat 

free, 

Thus,  in  an  age  so  gay,  the  Muse  plain  truths 
(Truths  which,  at  church,  you  might  have  heard 

in  prose) 

Has  ventured  into  light,  well  pleased  the  verse 
Should  be  forgot,  if  you  the  truths  retain, 
And  crown  her  with  your  welfare,  not  your  praise. 
But  praise  she  need  not  fear;  I  see  my  fate, 
And  headlong,  leap,  like  Gurtius,  down  the  gulf. 
Since  many  an  ample  volume,  mighty  tome, 


Must  die,  and  die  unwept ;  O  thou  minute, 
Devoted  page ;  go  forth  among  thy  foes ; 
Go,  nobly  proud  of  martyrdom  for  truth, 
And  die  a  double  death :  mankind  incensed, 
Denies  thee  long  to  live ;  nor  shall  thou  rest 
When  thou  art  dead,  in  Stygian  shades  arraigned 
By  Lucifer,  as  traitor  to  his  throne, 
And  bold  blasphemer  of  his  friend, — the  World ! 
The  world,  whose  legions  cost  him  slender  pay, 
And  volunteers  around  his  banner  swarm; 
Prudent,  as  Prussia,  in  her  zeal  for  Gaul. 

'  Are  all,  then,  fools  ?'  Lorenzo  cries. — Yes,  all 
But  such  as  hold  this  doctrine,  (new  to  thee) 
'  The  mother  of  true  wisdom  is  the  will ;' 
The  noblest  intellect,  a  fool  without  it. 
World- wisdom  much  has  done,  and  more  may  do, 
In  arts  and  sciences,  in' wars  and  peace; 
But  art  and  science,  like  thy  wealth.will  leave  thee, 
And  make  thee  twice  a  beggar  at  thy  death. 
This  is  the  most  indulgence  can  afford, — 
Thy  wisdom  all  can  do — but  make  thee  wise.' 
Nor  think  this  censure  is  severe  on  thee ; 
Satan,  thy  master,  I  dare  call  a  dunce. 


— Fatis  contraria  fata  rependens.     Virg. 


NIGHT  IX,  AND  LAST. 

CONTAINING,  AMONG  OTHER  THINGS, — I.  A  MORAL 
SDRVEY  OF  THE  NOCTURNAL.  HEAVEN'S.  II.  A 
NIGHT-ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEITY. 

Humbly  inscribed  to  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Newcastle. 

As  when  a  traveller,  a  long  day  past 

In  painful  search  of  what  he  can  not  find, 

At  night's  approach,  content  with  the  next  cot; 

There  ruminates  awhile  his  labour  lost ; 

Then,  cheers  his  heart  with  what  his  fate  affords, 

And  chants  his  sonnet  to  deceive  the  time, 

Till  the  due  season  calls  him  to  repose ; 

Thus  I,  long-travelled  in  the  ways  of  men, 

And  dancing  with  the  rest  the  giddy  maze, 

Where  Disappointment  smiles  at  Hope's  career, 

Warned  by  the  languor  of  life's  evening  ray, 

At  length  have  housed  me  in  an  humble  shed, 

Where,   future  wandering    banished    from  my 

thought, 

And  waiting,  patient,  the  sweet  hour  of  rest, 
I  chase  the  moments  with  a  serious  song. 
Song  soothes  our  pains,  and  age  has  pains  to  soothe. 
When  age,  care,  crime,  and  friends  embraced  at 
heart. 


Torn  from  my  bleeding  breast,  and  death's  dark 

shade, 

Which  hover's  o'er  me,  quench  the  etherial  fire, 
Canst  thou,  O  Night !  indulge  one  labour  more  1 
One  labour  more  indulge !  then  sleep,  my  strain  ! 
Till,  haply,  waked  by  Raphael's  golden  lyre, 
Where  night,  death,  age,  crime,  care,  and  sorrow 

cease, 

To  bear  a  part  in  everlasting  lays; 
Though  far,  far  higher  set;  in  aim,  I  trust, 
Symphonious  to  this  humble  prelude  here. 

Has  not  the  muse  asserted  pleasures  pure, 
Like  those  above,  exploding  other  joys  1 
Weigh  what  was  urged  Lorenzo ;  fairly  weigh, 
And  tell  me,  hast  thou  cause  to  triumph  still  1 
I  think  thou  wilt  forbear  a  boast  so  bold ; 
But  if,  beneath  the  favour  of  mistake, 
Thy  smile's  sincere ;  not  more  sincere  can  be 
Lorenzo's  smile,  than  my  compassion  for  him. 
The  sick  in  body  call  for  aid;  the  sick 
In  mind  are  covetous  of  more  disease ; 
And,  when  at  worst,  they  dream  themselves  quite 

well. 

To  know  ourselves  diseased,  is  half  our  cure. 
When  Nature's  blush  by  custom  is  wiped  off, 
And  conscience  deadened  by  repeated  strokes. 


THE  CONSOLATION. 


,10  manners  naturalized  our  crimes, 
The  curse  of  curses  is,  our  curse  to  love; 
To  triumph  in  the  blackness  of  our  guilt, 
(As  Indians  glory  in  the  deepest  jet) 
And  throw  aside  our  senses  with  our  peace. 

But,  grant  no  guilt,  no  shame,  no  least  alloy; 
Grant  joy  and  glory  quite  unsullied  shone ; 
Yet,  still,  it  ill  deserves  Lorenzo's  heart. 
No  joy,  no  glory,  glitters  in  thy  sight, 
But,  through  the  thin  partition  of  an  hour, 
I  see  its  sables  wove  by  Destiny ; 
And  that  in  sorrow  buried,  this  in  shame, 
While  howling  furies  wring  the  doleful  knell, 
And  Conscience,  now  so  soft  thou  scarce  canst  hear 
Her  whisper,  echoes  her  eternal  peal. 

Where  the  prime  actors  of  the  last  year's  scene 
Their  port  so  proud,  their  buskin,  and  their  plume"? 
How  many  sleep,  who  kept  the  world  awake 
With  lustre  and  with  noise !  Has  Death  proclaimed 
A  truce,  and  hung  his  sated  lance  on  high  7 
'Tis  brandished  still,  nor  shall  the  present  year 
Be  more  tenacious  of  her  human  leaf, 
Or  spread,  of  feeble  life,  a  thinner  fall. 

But  needless  monuments  to  wake  the  thought : 
Life's  gayest  scenes  speak  man's  mortality, 
Though  in  a  style  more  florid,  full  as  plain 
As  mausoleums,  pyramids,  and  tombs. 
What  are  our  noblest  ornaments,  but  Deaths 
Turned  flatterers  of  Life,  in  paint  or  marble, 
The  well-stained  canvass,  or  the  featured  stone  1 
Our  fathers  grace,  or  rather  haunt,  the  scene : 
Joy  peoples  her  pavilion  from  the  dead. 

'  Professed  diversions !  can  not  these  escape  ?— 
Far  from  it :  these  present  us  with  a  shroud, 
And  talk  of  death,  like  garlands  o'er  a  grave. 
As  some  bold  plunderers  for  buried  wealth, 
We  ransack  tombs  for  pastime ;  from  the  dust 
Call  up  the  sleeping  hero ;  bid  him  tread 
The  scene  for  our  amusement.     How  like  gods 
We  sit,  and,  wrapt  in  immortality, 
Shed  generous  tears  on  wretches  born  to  die ; 
Their  fate  deploring,  to  forget  our  own ! 

What  all  the  pomps  and  triumphs  of  our  lives 
Cut  legacies  in  blossom'?     Our  lean  soil, 
Luxuriant  grown,  and  rank  in  vanities, 
From  friends  interred  beneath,  a  rich  manure ! 
Like  other  worms,  we  banquet  on  the  dead  ; 
Like  other  worms,  shall  we  crawl  on,  nor  know 
Our  present  frailties,  or  approaching  fate  1 

Lorenzo !  such  the  glories  of  the  world ! 
What  is  the  world  itself  1  thy  world— a  grave. 
Where  is  the  dust  that  has  not  been  alive  1 
The  spade,  the  plough,  disturb  our  ancestors. 
From  human  mould  we  reap  our  daily  bread. 
The  globe  around  earth's  hollow  surface  shakes, 
And  is  the  ceiling  of  her  sleeping  sons. 
O'er  devastation  we  blind  revels  keep : 
Whole  buried  towns  support  the  dancer's  heel. 
The  moist  of  human  frame  the  sun  exhales ; 


Winds  scatter,  through  the  mighty  void,  the  dry  : 
Earth  repossesses  part  of  what  she  gave, 
And  the  freed  spirit  mounts  on  wings  of  fire : 
Each  element  partakes  our  scattered  spoils, 
As  Nature  wide  our  ruins'  spread.     Man's  death 
Inhabits  all  things,  but  the  thought  of  man. 
Nor  man  alone ;  his  breathing  bust  expires ; 
His  tomb  is  mortal ;  empires  die :  where,  now, 
The  Roman  1  Greek  7  they  stalk,  an  empty  name ! 
Yet  few  regard  them  in  this  useful  light, 
Though  half  our  learning  is  their  epitaph. 
When  down  thy   vale,  unlocked   by   midnight 

thought, 
That  loves  to  wander  in  thy  sunless  realms, 

0  Death !  I  stretch  my  view,  what  visions  rise 
What  triumphs !  toils  imperial !  arts  divine ! 
In  withered  laurels  glide  before  my  sight ! 
What  lengths  of  far-famed  ages,  billowed  high 
With  human  agitation,  roll  along 

In  unsubstantial  images  of  air  ! 

The  melancholy  ghosts  of  dead  Renown, 

Whispering  faint  echoes  of  the  world's  applause, 

With  penitential  aspect,  as  they  pass, 

All  point  at  earth,  and  hiss  at  human  pride ; 

The  wisdom  of  the  wise,  and  prancings  of  the  great. 

But,  O  Lorenzo !  far  the  rest  above, 
Of  ghastly  nature,  and  enormous  size, 
One  form  assaults  my  sight,  and  chills  my  blood, 
And  shakes  my  frame.     Of  one  departed  World 

1  see  the  mighty  shadow :  oozy  wreath 

And  dismal  sea- weed  crown  her :  o'er  her  urn 
Reclined,  she  weeps  her  desolated  realms, 
And  bloated  sons;  and,  weeping,  prophesies 
Another's  dissolution,  soon,  in  flames : 
But,  like  Cassandra,  prophesies  in  vain : 
In  vain  to  many ;  not,  I  trust,  to  thee. 

For,  know'st  thou  not,  or  art  thou  loth  to  know, 
The  great  decree,  the  counsel  of  the  Skies  ? 
Deluge  and  Conflagration,  dreadful  powers ! 
Prime  ministers  of  vengeance !  chained  in  caves 
Distinct,  apart,  the  giant  furies  roar ; 
Apart,  or  such  their  horrid  rage  for  ruin, 
In  mutual  conflict  would  they  rise,  and  wage 
Eternal  war,  till  one  was  quite  devoured. 
But  not  for  this  ordained  their  boundless  rage. 
When  Heaven's  inferior  instruments  of  wrath, 
War,  famine,  pestilence,  are  found  too  weak 
To  scourge  a  world  for  her  enormous  crimes, 
These  are  let  loose  alternate :  down  they  rush, 
Swift  and  tempestuous,  from  the  eternal  throne, 
With  irresistible  commission  armed, 
The  world,  in  vain  corrected,  to  destroy ; 
And  ease  Creation  of  the  shocking  scene. 

Seest  thou,  Lorenzo !  what  depends  on  man  ? 
The  fate  of  Nature,  as  for  man  her  birth. 
Sarth's  actors  change  earth's  transitory  scenes, 
And  make  Creation  groan  with  human  guilt, 
[low  must  it  groan,  in  a  new  deluge  whelmed, 
But  not  of  waters !     At  the  destined  hour, 


70 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


By  the  loud  trumpet  summoned  to  the  charge, 
See  all  the  formidable  sons  of  fire, 
Eruptions,  earthquakes,  comets,  lightnings,  play 
Their  various  engines ;  all  at  once  disgorge 
Their  blazing  magazines,  and  take,  by  storm, 
This  poor  terrestrial  citadel  of  man. 

Amazing  period !  when  each  mountain-height 
Outburns  Vesuvius ;  rocks  eternal  pour 
Their  melted  mass,  as  rivers  once  they  poured ; 
Stars  rush,  and  final  Ruin  fiercely  drives 
Her  ploughshare  o'er  Creation ! — while  aloft, 
More  than  astonishment !  if  more  can  be ! 
Far  other  firmament  than  e'er  was  seen, 
Than  e'er  was  thought  by  man !  far  other  stars ! 
Stars  animate,  that  govern  these  of  fire ; 
Far  other  sun ! — a  Sun,  O  how  unlike 
The  Babe  at  Bethlehem !  how  unlike  the  Man 
That  groaned  on  Calvary ! — yet  He  it  is ; 
That  Man  of  sorrows !  O  how  changed !  what  pomp ! 
In  grandeur  terrible  all  Heaven  descends  ! 
And  gods,  ambitious,  triumph  in  his  train. 
A  swift  archangel,  with  his  golden  wing, 
As  blots  and  clouds  that  darken  and  disgrace 
The  scene  divine,  sweeps  stars  and  suns  aside. 
And  now,  all  dross  removed,  Heaven's  own  pure 

day, 

Full  on  the  confines  of  our  ether  flames, 
"While  (dreadful  contrast !)  far,  how  far  beneath ! 
Hell,  bursting,  belches  forth  her  blazing  seas 
And  storms  sulphureous ;  her  voracious  jaws 
Expanding  wide,  and  roaring  for  her  prey. 
Lorenzo !  welcome  to  this  scene :  the  last 
In  Nature's  course,  the  first  in  Wisdom's  thought. 
This  strikes ;  if  aught  can  strike  theer;  this  awakes 
The  most  supine ;  this  snatches  man  from  death. 
Rouse,  rouse,  Loren/o !  then,  and  follow  me, 
Where  truth,  the  most  momentous  man  can  hear, 
Loud  calls  my  soul,  and  ardour  wings  her  flight. 
I  find  my  inspiration  in  my  theme  : 
The  grandeur  Of  my  subject  is  my  Muse. 

At  midnight,  when  mankind  is  wrapt  in  peace, 
And  worldly  Fancy  feeds  on  golden  dreams, 
To  give  more  dread  to  man's  most  dreadful  hour ; 
At  midnight,  'tis  presumed,  this  pomp  will  burst 
From  tenfold  darkness,  sudden  as  the  spark 
From  smitten  steel ;  from  nitrous  grain  the  blaze. 
Man,  starting  from  his  couch,  shall  sleep  no  more! 
The  day  is  broke,  which  never  more  shall  close! 
Above,  around,  beneath,  amazement  all! 
Terror  and  glory  joined  in  their  extremes! 
Our  God  in  grandeur,  and  our  world  on  fire ! 
All  Nature  struggling  in  the  pangs  of  death ! 
Dost  thou  not  hear  her  ?  dost  thou  not  deplore 
Her  strong  convulsions,  and  her  final  groan? 
Where  are  we  now!  Ah  me!  the  ground  is  gone 
On  which  we  stood.     Lorenzo !  while  thou  may'st, 
Provide  more  firm  support,  or  sink  for  ever ! 
Where?  how?  from  whence?  Vain  hope!  it  is 
too  late! 


Where,  where,  for  shelter,  shall  the  guilty  fly, 
When  consternation  turns  the  good  man  pale  ? 

Great  day!  for  which  all  other  days  were  made; 
For  which  earth  rose  from  chaos,  man  from  earth, 
And  an  eternity,  the  date  of  gods, 
Descended  on  poor  earth-created  man ! 
Great  day  of  dread,  decision,  and  despair ! 
At  thought  of  thee  each  sublunary  wish 
Lets  go  its  eager  grasp,  and  drops  the  world, 
And  catches  at  each  reed  of  hope  in  Heaven. 
At  thought  of  thee  1  and  art  thou  absent  then? 
Lorenzo !  no ;  'tis  here ; — it  is  begun  : — 
Already  is  begun  the  grand  assize, 
In  thee,  in  all :  deputed  Conscience  scales 
The  dread  tribunal,  and  forestalls  our  doom ; 
Forestalls,  and,  by  forestalling,  proves  it  sure. 
Why  on  himself  should  man  void  judgment  pass  1 
Is  idle  Nature  laughing  at  her  sons  ? 
Who  Conscience  sent,  her  sentence  will  support, 
And  God  above  assert  that  God  in  man. 

Thrice  happy  they !  that  enter  now  the  court 
Heaven  opens  in  their  bosoms :  but  how  rare, 
Ah  me !  that  magnanimity,  how  rare ! 
What  hero,  like  the  man  who  stands  himself; 
Who  dares  to  meet  his  naked  heart  alone ; 
Who  hears,  intrepid,  the  full  charge  it  brings, 
Resolved  to  silence  future  murmurs  there  ?  • 
The  coward  flies,  and,  flying,  is  undone. 
(Art  thou  a  coward?  no: )  the  coward  flies ; 
Thinks,  but   thinks  slightly;    asks,  but  fears  to 

know: 

Asks  '  What  is  truth  ?'  with  Pilate,  and  retires 
Dissolves  the  court,  and  mingles  with  the  throng: 
Asylum  sad  from  reason,  hope,  and  Heaven ! 

Shall  all  but  man  look  out  with  ardent  eye 
For  that  great  day  which  was  ordained  for  man? 

0  day  of  consummation !  mark  supreme 

(If  men  are  wise)  of  human  thought !  nor  least 

Or  in  the  sight  of  angels,  or  their  King ! 

Angels,  whose  radiant  circles,  height  o'er  height, 

Order  o'er  order,  rising,  blaze  o'er  blaze, 

As  in  a  theatre,  surround  this  scene, 

Intent  on  man,  and  anxious  for  his  fate. 

Angels  look  out  for  thee ;  for  thee,  their  Lord, 

To  vindicate  his  glory;  and  for  thee 

Creation  universal  calls  aloud 

To  disinvolve  the  moral  world,  and  give 

To  Nature's  renovation  brighter  charms. 

Shall  man  alone,  whose  fate,  whose  final  fate, 
Hangs  on  that  hour,  exclude  it  from  his  thought? 

1  think  of  nothing  else ;  I  see  !  I  feel  it ! 

All  Nature,  like  an  earthquake,  trembling  round ! 

All  deities,  like  summer's  swarms,  on  wing ! 

All  basking  in  the  full  meridian  blaze  ! 

I  see  the  judge  enthroned !  the  flaming  guard ! 

The  volume  opened  !  opened  every  heart ! 

A  sun-beam  pointing  out  each  secret  thought ! 

No  patron !  intercessor  none !  now  past 

The  sweet,  the  clement,  mediatorial  hour ! 


THE  CONSOLATION. 


71 


For  guilt  no  plea !  to  pain  no  pause !  no  bound ! 
Inexorable  all!  and  all  extreme  ! 

Nor  man  alone ;  the  foe  of  God  and  man, 
From  his  dark  den,  blaspheming,  drags  his  chain 
And  rears  his  brazen  front,  with  thunder  scared, 

rs  his  sentence,  and  begins  his  hell. 
All  vengeance  past,  now,  seems  abundant  grace. 
Like  meteors  in  a  stormy  sky,  how  roll 
His  baleful  eyes  !  he  curses  whom  he  dreads, 
And  deems  it  the  first  moment  of  his  fall. 

'Tis  present  to  my  thought ! — and  yet  where  is  it  1 
Angels  can't  tell  me ;  angels  can  not  guess 
The  period,  from  created  beings  locked 
In  darkness ;  but  the  process  and  the  place 
Are  less  obscure  ;  for  these  may  man  inquire. 
Say.  thou  great  close  of  human  hopes  and  fears  ! 
Great  key  of  hearts  !  great  finisher  of  fates ! 
Great  end !  and  great  beginning !  say,  where  art 

thou? 

Art  thou  in  time,  or  in  eternity  1 
Nor  in  eternity  nor  time  I  find  thee : 
These,  as  two  monarchs,  on  their  borders  meet, 
(Monarchs  of  all  elapsed  or  unarmed !) 
As  in  debate,  how  best  their  powers  allied 
May  swell  the  grandeur,  or  discharge  the  wrath 
Of  him,  whom  both  their  monarchies  obey. 

Time,  this  vast  fabric  for  him  built  (and  doomed 
With  him  to  fall)  now  bursting  o'er  his  head, 
His  lamp,  the  sun,  extinguished,  from  beneath 
The  frown  of  hideous  darkness  calls  his  sons 
From  their  long  slumber,  from  earth's  heaving 

womb 

To  second  birth !  contemporary  throng ! 
Roused  at  one  call,  upstarted  from  one  bed, 
Pressed  in  one  crowd,  appalled  with  one  amaze, 
He  turns  them  o'er,  Eternity !  to  thee : 
Then  (as  a  king  deposed  disdains  to  live) 
He  falls  on  his  own  scythe,  nor  falls  alone ; 
His  greatest  foe  falls  with  him ;  Time,  and  he 
Who  murdered  all  Time's  offspring,  Death,  ex- 
pire. 

Time  was  !  Eternity  now  reigns  alone! 
Awful  Eternity!  offended  queen  ! 
And  her  resentment  to  mankind  how  just! 
With  kind  intent,  soliciting  access, 
How  often  has  she  knocked  at  human  hearts ! 
Rich  to  repay  their  hospitality , 
How  often  called !  and  with  the  voice  of  GOD  ! 
Yet  bore  repulse,  excluded  as  a  cheat! 
A  dream!  while  foulest  foes  found  welcome  there! 
A  dream,  a  cheat,  now  all  things  but  her  smile. 
For,  lo!  her  twice  ten  thousand  gates  thrown 

wide, 

As  thrice  from  Indus  to  the  frozen  pole, 
With  banners  streaming  as  the  comet's  blaze, 
And  clarions  louder  than  the  deep  in  storms, 
Sonorous  as  immortal  breath  can  blow, 
Pour  forth  their  myriads,  potentates,  and  powers, 
Of  light,  of  darkness,  in  a  middle  field. 


Wide  as  creation !  populous  as  wide ! 
A  neutral  region !  there  to  mark  the  event 
Of  that  great  drama,  whose  preceding  scenes 
Detained  them  close  spectators,  through  a  length 
Of  ages,  ripening  to  this  grand  result ; 
Ages  as  yet  unnumbered  but  by  GOD, 
Who  now,  pronouncing  sentence,  vindicates 
The  rights  of  virtue,  and  his  own  renown. 

Eternity,  the  various  sentence  past, 
Assigns  the  severed  throng  distinct  abodes, 
Sulphureous  or  ambrosial.     What  ensues? 
The  deed  predominant !  the  deed  of  deeds ! 
Which  makes  a  hell  of  hell,  a  heaven  of  Heaven. 
The  goddess,  with  determined  aspect,  turns 
Her  adamantine  key's  enormous  size 
Through  Destiny's  inextricable  wards, 
Deep  driving  every  bolt  on  both  their  fates; 
Then  from  the  crystal  battlements  of  Heaven, 
Down,  down  she  hurls  it  through  the  dark  pro- 
found, 

Ten  thousand  thousand  fathom,  there  to  rust, 
And  never  unlock  her  resolution  more. 
The  deep  resounds,  and    Hell,  through   all  her 

glooms, 
Returns,  in  groans,  the  melancholy  roar. 

O  how  unlike  the  chorus  of  the  skies ! 
O  how  unlike  those  shouts  of  joy,  that  shake 
The  whole  ethereal !  how  the  concave  rings ! 
Nor  strange!  when  deities  their  voice  exalt; 
And  louder  far  than  when  Creation  rose, 
To  see  Creation's  godlike  aim  and  end, 
So  well  accomplished !  so  divinely  closed ! 
To  see  the  mighty  Dramatist's  last  act 
(As  meet)  in  glory  rising  o'er  the  rest. 
No  fancied  God;  a  God,  indeed,  descends, 
To  solve  all  knots;  to  strike  the  moral  home ; 
To  throw  full  day  on  darkest  scenes  of  time ; 
To  clear,  commend,  exalt,  and  crown  the  whole. 
Hence,  in  one  peal  of  loud,  eternal  praise, 
The  charmed  spectators  thunder  their  applause, 
And  the  vast  void  beyond  applause  resounds. 

What  then  ami'?— 

Amidst  applauding  worlds, 
And  worlds  celestial,  is  there  found  on  earth 
A  peevish,  dissonant,  rebellious  string, 
Which  jars  in  the  grand  chorus,  and  complains  ? 
Censure  on  thee,  Lorenzo !  I  suspend, 
And  turn  it  on  myself;  how  greatly  due ! 
All,  all  is  right,  by  God  ordained  or  done ; 
And  who,  but  God,  resumed  the  friends  He  gave  1 
And  have  I  been  complaining,  then,  so  long  ? 
Complaining  of  his  favours,  pain  and  death  ? 
Who,  without  Pain's  advice,  would  e'er  be  good  ? 
Who,  without  Death,  but  would  be  good  in  vain  ? 
?ain  is  to  save  from  pain;  all  punishment 
To  make  for  peace ;  and  death  to  save  from  death ; 
And  second  death  to  guard  immortal  life ; 
To  rouse  the  careless,  the  presumptuous  awe, 
And  turn  the  tide  of  souls  another  way ; 


72 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


By  the  same  tenderness  divine  ordained 
That  planted  Eden,  and  high-bloomed  for  man 
A  fairer  Eden,  endless.,  in  the  skies. 

Heaven  gives  us  friends  to  bless  the  present 

scene ; 

Resumes  them,  to  prepare  us  for  the  next. 
All  evils  natural  are  moral  goods ; 
All  discipline  indulgence,  on  the  whole. 
None  are  unhappy ;  all  have  cause  to  smile, 
But  such  as  to  themselves  that  cause  deny. 
Our  faults  are  at  the  bottom  of  our  pains: 
Error  in  act,  or  judgment,  is  the  source 
Of  endless  sighs.     We  sin,  or  we  mistake; 
And  Nature  tax,  when  false  opinion  stings. 
Let  impious  grief  be  banished,  joy  indulged ; 
But  chiefly  then,  when  Grief  puts  in  her  claim. 
Joy  from  the  joyous, frequently  betrays, 
Oft  lives  in  vanity,  and  dies  in  wo. 
Joy  amidst  ills,  corroborates,  exalts ; 
'Tis  joy  and  conquest;  joy  and  virtue  too. 
A  noble  fortitude  in  ills  delights 
Heaven,  earth,  ourselves;  'tis  duty,  glory,  peace ! 
Affliction  is  the  good  man's  shining  scene, 
Prosperity  conceals  his  brightest  ray. 
As  night  to  stars,  wo  lustre  gives  to  man. 
Heroes  in  battle,  pilots  in  the  storm, 
And  virtue  in  calamities,  admire; 
The  crown  of  manhood  is  a  winter-joy ; 
An  ever-green  that  stands  the  northern  blast, 
And  blossoms  in  the  rigour  of  our  fate. 

'Tis  a  prime  part  of  happiness  to  know 
How  much  unhappiness  must  prove  our  lot ; 
A  part  which  few  possess!  I'll  pay  life's  tax, 
Without  one  rebel  murmur,  from  this  hour, 
Nor  think  it  misery  to  be  a  man ; 
Who  thinks  it  is,  shall  never  be  a  god. 
Some  ills  we  wish  for,  when  we  wish  to  live. 

What  spoke  proud  Passion  1 — '  Wish  my  being 

lostl'* 

Presumptuous !  blasphemous !  absurd !  and  false ! 
The  triumph  of  my  soul  is,— that, 1  am; 
And  therefore  that  I  may  be — what  1  Lorenzo ! 
Look  inward,  and  look  deep;  and  deeper  still; 
Unfathomably  deep  our  treasure  runs, 
In  golden  veins,  through  all  eternity ! 
Ages,  and  ages,  and  succeeding  still 
New  agesr  where  this  phantom  of  an  hour, 
Which  courts,  each  night,  dull  slumber  for  repair, 
Shall  wake,  and  wonder,  and  exult,  and  praise, 
And  fly  through  infinite,  and  all  unlock ; 
And  (if  deserved)  by  Heaven's  redundant  love, 
Made  half-adorable  itself,  adore; 
And  find,  in  adoration,  endless  joy! 
Where  thou,  not  master  of  a  moment  here, 
Frail  as  the  flower,  and  fleeting  as  the  gale, 
May'st  boast  a  whole  eternity,  enriched 
With  all  a  kind  Omnipotence  can  pour. 


Referring  to  the  First  Night. 


Since  Adam  fell,  no  mortal  uninspired, 

Has  ever  yet  conceived,  or  ever  shall, 

How  kind  is  God,  how  great  (if  good)  is  man. 

No  man  too  largely  from  Heaven's  love  can  hope, 

If  what  is  hoped  he  labours  to  secure. 

Ills ! — there  are  none :  All-gracious !  none  from 

Thee; 

From  man  full  many !  Numerous  is  the  race 
Of  blackest  ills,  and  those  immortal  too, 
Begot  by  Madness  on  fair  Liberty, 
Heaven's  daughter,  hell-debauched !  her  hand  alone 
Unlocks  destruction  to  the  sons  of  men, 
Fast  barred  by  thine :  high-walled  with  adamant, 
Guarded  with  terrors  reaching  to  this  world 
And  covered  with  the  thunders  of  thy  law, 
Whose  threats  are  mercies,  whose  injunctions 

guides, 

Assisting,,  not  restraining,  Reason's  choice ; 
Whose  sanctions,  unavoidable  results 
From  Nature's  course,  indulgently  revealed  ; 
If  unrevealed,  more  dangerous,  nor  less  sure. 
Thus  an  indulgent  father  warns  his  sons, 
Do  this,  fly  that ;' — nor  always  tells  the  cause ; 
Pleased  to  reward,  as  duty  to  his  will, 
A  conduct  needful  to  their  own  repose. 

Great.  God  of  wonders !  (if,  thy  love  surveyed, 
Aught  else  the  name  of  wonderful  retains) 
What  rocks  are  these  on  which  to  build  our  trust  1 
Thy  ways  admit  no  blemish ;  none  I  find ; 
Or  this  alone, — '  That  none  is  to  be  found : 
Not  one,  to  soften  Censure's  hardy  crime ; 
Not  one,  to  palliate  peevish  Grief's  complaint, 
Who,  like  a  demon,  murmuring  from. the  dust, 
Dares  into  judgment  call  her  judge. — Supreme ! 
For  all  I  bless  Thee ;  most  for  the  severe ; 
Her  death* — my  own  at  hand — the  fiery  gulf, 
That  flaming  bound  of  wrath  omnipotent ! 
It  thunders ; — but  it  thunders  to  preserve ; 
It  strengthens  what  it  strikes ;  its  wholesome  dread 
Averts  the  dreaded  pain :  its  hideous  groans 
Join  heaven's  sweet  hallelujahs  in  thy  praise. 
Great  Source  of  good  alone !  how  kind  in  all ! 
In  vengeance  kind  !  pain,  death,  gehenna,  save ! 

Thus,  in  thy  world  material,  mighty  Mind ! 
Not  that  alone  which  solaces  and  shines, 
The  rough  and  gloomy,  challenges  our  praise. 
The  winter  is  as  needful  as  the  spring ; 
The  thunder  as  the  sun.     A  stagnate  mass 
Of  vapours  breeds  a  pestilential  air :  • 
Nor  more  propitious  the  Favonian  breeze 
To  Nature's  health,  than  purifying  storms. 
The  dread  volcano  ministers  to  good ; 
Its  smothered  flames  might  undermine  the  world. 
Loud  JEtnas  fulminate  in  love  to  man : 
Comets  good  omens  are,  when  duly  scanned ; 
And,  in  their  use,  eclipses  learn  to  shine. 

Man  is  responsible  for  ills  received ; 


Lucia. 


THE  CONSOLATION. 


73 


Those  we  call  wretched  are  a  chosen  band, 
npelled  to  refuge  in  the  right,  for  peace. 
Amid  my  list  of  blessings  inlinitr 
Stand  this  the  foremost,  '  That  my  heart  has  bled.' 
'Tis  Heaven's  last  eflbrt  of  good-will  to  man, 
"When  pain  can't  bless,  Heaven  quits  us  in  despair ! 
Who  fails  to  grieve,  when  just  occasion  calls, 
Or  grieves  too  much,  deserves  not  to  be  blessed ; 
Inhuman,  or  effeminate,  his  heart. 
Reason  absolves  the  grief  which  reason  ends. 
May  Heaven  ne'er  trust  my  friend  with  happiness, 
Till  it  has  taught  him  how  to  bear  it  well 
By  previous  pain,  and  made  it  safe  to  smile  ! 
Such  smiles  are  mine,  and  such  may  they  remain, 
Nor  hazard  their  extinction  from  excess. 
My  change  of  heart  a  change  of  styJe  demands ; 
The  Consolation  cancels  the  Complaint, 
And  makes  a  convert  of  my  guilty  song. 

As  when  o'er-laboured,  and  inclined  to  breathe, 
A  panting  traveller  some  rising  ground, 
Some  small  ascent,  has  gained,  he  turns  him  round, 
And  measures  with  his  eye  the  various  vale, 
The  fields,  woods,  meads,  and  rivers,  he  has  past, 
And,  satiate  of  his  journey,  thinks  of  home, 
Endeared  by  distance,  nor  affects  more  toil ; 
Thus  I,  though  small,  indeed,  is  that  ascent 
The  muse  has  gained,  review  the  .paths  she  trod, 
Various,  extensive,  beaten  but  by  few ; 
And,  conscious  of  her  prudence  in  repose, 
Pause,  and  with  pleasure  meditate  an  end, 
Though  still  remote ;  so  fruitful  is  ,my  theme. 
Through  many  a  field  of  moral  and  divine 
The  Muse  has  strayed,  and  much  of  sorrow  seen 
In  human  ways,  and  much  of  false  and  vain, 
Which  none  who  travel  this  bad  road  can  miss. 
O'er  friends  deceased  full  heartily  she  wept ; 
Of  love  divine  the  wonders  she  displayed ; 
Proved  man  immortal ;  showed  the  source  of  joy ; 
The  grand  tribunal  raised ;  assigned  the  bounds 
Of  human  grief.     In  few,  to  close- the  whole, 
The  moral  Muse  has  shadowed  out  a  sketch, 
Though  not  in  form,  nor  with  a  Raphael  stroke, 
Of  most  our  weakness  needs  believe  or  do, 
In  this  our  land  of  travail  and  of  hope, 
For  peace  on  earth,  or  prospect  of  the  skies. 

What  then  remains  1  much !  much !  a  mighty  debt 
To  be  discharged.  These  thoughts,  O  Night !  are 

thine ; 

From  thee  they  came,  like  lovers'  secret  sighs, 
While  others  slept.     So  Cynthia,  (poets  feign) 
In  shadows  veiled,  soft-sliding  from  her  sphere, 
Her  shepherd  cheered ;  of  her  enamoured  less 
Than  I  of  thee. — And  art  thou  still  unsung, 
Beneath  whose  brow,  and  by  whose  aid,  I  singl 
Immortal  Silence  !  where  shall  I  begin  1 
Where  end!  or  how  steal  music  from  the  spheres 
To  eooth  their  goddess  1 

O  majestic  Night ' 
Nature's  great  ancestor !  Day's  elder-born ! 


And  fated  to  survive  the  transient  Sun  ! 

By  mortals  and  immortals  seen  with  awe ! 

A  starry  crown  thy  raven  brow  adorns, 

An  azure  zone  thy  waist ;  clouds,  in  heaven's  loom 

Wrought  through  varieties  of  shape  and  shade, 

In  ample  folds  of  drapery  divine, 

Thy  flowing  mantle  form,  and,  Heaven  throughout, 

Voluminously  pour  thy  pompous  train : 

Thy  gloomy  grandeurs  (Nature's  most  august, 

Inspiring  aspect !)  claim  a  grateful  verse ; 

And,  like  a  sable  curtain  starred  with  gold, 

Drawn  o'er  my  labours  past,  shall  close  the  scene. 

And  what,  O  man !  so  worthy  to  be  sung  1 
What  more  prepares  us  for  the  songs  of  Heaven  1 
Creation  of  archangels  is  the  theme ! 
What  to  be  sung  so  needful,  what  so  well 
Celestial  joys  prepare  us  to  sustain  1 
The  soul  of  man,  His  face  designed  to  see 
Who  gave  these  wonders  to  be  seen  by  man, 
Has  here  a  previous  scene  of  objects  great 
On  which  to  dwell ;  to  stretch  to  that  expanse 
Of  thought,  to  rise  to  that  exalted  height 
Of  admiration,  to  contract  that  awe, 
And  give  her  whole  capacities  that  strength, 
Which  best  may  qualify  for  final  joy. 
The  more  our  spirits  are  enlarged  on  earth, 
The  deeper  draught  shall  they  receive  of  Heaven. 

Heaven's  King!  whose  face  unveiled  consum- 
mates bliss. 

Redundant  bliss!  which  fills  that  mighty  void 
The  whole  Creation  leaves  in  human  hearts! 
Thou,  who  did'st  touch  the  lip  of  Jesse's  son, 
Rapt  in  sweet  contemplation  of  these  fires, 
And  set  his  harp  in  concert  with  the  spheres. 
While  of  thy  works  material  the  Supreme 
I  dare  attempt,  assist  my  daring  song: 
Loose  me  from  earth's  inclosure;  from  the  sun's 
Contracted  circle  set  my  heart  at  large  j 
Eliminate  my  spirit,  give  it  range 
Through  provinces  of  thought  yet  unexplored; 
Teach  me,  by  this  stupendous  scaffolding, 
Creation's  golden  steps,  to  climb  to  Thee: 
Teach  me  with  art  great  Nature  to  control, 
And  spread  a  lustre  o'er  the  shades  of  night. 
Feel  I  thy  kind  assent?  and  shall  the  sun 
Be  seen  at  midnight,  rising  in  my  song  7 

Lorenzo!  come,  and  warm  thee:  thou,  whose 

heart, 

Whose  little  heart,  is  moored  within  a  nook 
Of  this  obscure  terrestrial,  anchor  weigh; 
Another  ocean  calls,  a  nobler  port ; 
I  am  thy  pilot,  I  thy  prosperous  gale : 
Gainful  thy  voyage  through  yon  azure  main, 
Main  without  tempest,  pirate,  rock,  or  shore, 
And  whence  thou  may'st  imjK>rt  eternal  wealth, 
And  leave  to  beggared  minds  the  pearl  and  gold. 
Thy  travels  dost  thou  boast  o'er  foreign  realms'? 
Thou  stranger  to  the  world!  thy  tour  begin; 
Thy  tour  through  Nature's  universal  orb. 


74 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Nature  delineates  her  whole  chart  at  large, 
On  soaring  souls,  that  sail  among  the  spheres; 
And  man  how  purblind,  if  unknown  the  whole. 
Who  circles  spacious  earth,  then  travels  here, 
Shall  own  he  never  was  from  home  before. 
Come,  my  Prometheus!*  from  thy  pointed  rock 
Of  false  ambition,  if  unchained,  we'll  mount ; 
We'll,  innocently,  steal  celestial  fire, 
And  kindle  our  devotion  at  the  stars ; 
A  theft  that  shall  not  chain,  but  set  thee  free. 

Above  our  atmosphere's  intestine  wars, 
Rain's  fountain-head,  the  magazine  of  hail; 
Above  the  northern  nests  of  feathered  snows, 
The  brew  of  thunders,  and  the  flaming  forge 
That  forms  the  crooked  lightning;  'bove  the  caves 
Where  infant  tempests  wait  their  growing  wings, 
And  tune  their  tender  voices  to  that  roar 
Which  soon,  perhaps,  shall  shake  a  guilty  world; 
Above  misconstrued  omens  of  the  sky, 
Far-travelled  comets'  calculated  blaze, 
Elance  thy  thought,  and  think  of  more  than  man: 
Thy  soul,  till  now  contracted,  withered,  shrunk, 
Blighted  by  blasts  of  earth's  unwholesome  air, 
Will  blossom  here;  spread  all  her  faculties 
To  these  bright  ardours;  every  power  unfold, 
And  rise  into  sublimities  of  thought. 
Stars  teach,  as  well  as  shine.    At  Nature's  birth 
Thus  their  commission  ran. — '  Be  kind  to  man.' 
Where  art  thou,  poor  benighted  traveller! 
The  stars  will  light  thee,  though  the  moon  should 

fail. 

Where  art  thou,  more  benighted!  more  astray! 
In  ways  immoral?  the  stars  call  thee  back, 
And,  if  obeyed  their  counsel,  set  thee  right. 

This  prospect  vast,  what  is  if? — Weighed  aright 
'Tis  Nature's  system  of  divinity, 
And  every  student  of  the  night  inspires. 
'Tis  elder  Scripture,  writ  by  God's  own  hand ; 
Scripture  authentic!  uncorrupt  by  man. 
Lorenzo !  with  my  radius  (the  rich  gift 
Of  thought  nocturnal)  I'll  point  out  to  thee 
Its  various  lessons ;  some  that  may  surprise 
An  unadept  in  mysteries  of  Night ; 
Little,  perhaps,  expected  in  her  school, 
Nor  thought  to  grow  on  planet  or  on  star; 
Bulls,  lions,  scorpions,  monsters  here  we  feign, 
Ourselves  more  monstrous,  not  to  see  what  here 
Exists,  indeed, — a  lecture  to  mankind  ! 

What  read  we  here?  th'  existence  of  a  God? 
Yes:  and  of  other  beings,  man  above; 
Natives  of  ether!  sons  of  higher  climes! 
And,  what  may  move  Lorenzo's  wonder  more, 
Eternity  is  written  in  the  skies. 
And  whose  eternity  ?  Lorenzo!  thine; 
Mankind's  eternity.    Nor  faith  alone, 
Virtue  grows  here;   here  springs  the  sovereign 
cure 


Of  almost  every  vice,  but  chiefly  thine, 
Wrath,  pride,  ambition,  and  impure  desire. 

Lorenzo!  thou  canst  wake  at  midnight  too, 
Though  not  on  morals  bent.   Ambition,  Pleasure! 
Those  tyrants  I  for  thee  so  lately  fought,* 
Afford  their  harassed  slaves  but  slender  rest. 
Thou,  to  whom  midnight  is  immoral  noon, 
And  the  sun's  noon-tide  blaze  prime  dawn  of  day} 
Not  by  thy  climate,  but  capricious  crime, 
Commencing  one  of  our  antipodes ! 
In  thy  nocturnal  rove  one  moment  halt, 
'Twixt  stage  and  stage  of  riot  and  cabal, 
And  lift  thine  eye  (if  bold  an  eye  to  lift, 
If  bold  to  meet  the  face  of  injured  Heaven) 
To  yonder  stars :  for  other  ends  they  shine 
Than  to  light  revellers  from  shame  to  shame, 
And  thus  be  made  accomplices  in  guilt. 

Why  from  yon  arch,  that  infinite  of  space, 
With  infinite  of  lucid  orbs  replete, 
Which  set  the  living  firmament  on  fire, 
At  the  first  glance,  in  such  an  overwhelm 
Of  wonderful  on  man's  astonished  sight 
Rushes  Omnipotence  ? — To  curb  our  pride, 
Our  reason  rouse,  and  lead  it  to  that  Power 
Whose  love  lets  down  these  silver  chains  of  light; 
To  draw  up  man's  ambition  to1  himself, 
And  bind  our  chaste  affections  to  his  throne. 
Thus  the  three  virtues,  least  alive  on  earth,    • 
And  welcomed  on  Heaven's  coast  with  most  ap- 
plause, 

An  humble,  pure,  and  heavenly  minded  heart, 
Are  here  inspired ; — and  canst  thou  gaze  too  long? 

Nor  stands  thy  wrath  deprived  of  its  reproof, 
Or  unupbraided  by  this  radiant  choir. 
The  planets  of  each  system  represent 
Kind  neighbours;  mutual  amity  prevails 
Sweet  interchange  of  rays,  received,  returned, 
Enlightening  and  enlightened!  all,  at  once, 
Attracting  and  attracted !  patriot-like, 
None  sins  against  the  welfare  of  the  whole ; 
But  their  reciprocal,  unselfish  aid, 
Affords  an  emblem  ofmillenial  love. 
Nothing  in  nature,  much  less  conscious  being, 
Was  e'er  created  solely  for  itself. 
Thus  man  his  sovereign  duty  learns  in  this 
Material  picture  of  benevolence. 

And  know,  of  all  our  supercilious  race, 
Thou  most  inflammable  !  thou  wasp  of  men  ! 
Man's  angry  heart,  inspected,  would  be  found 
As  rightly  set  as  are  the  starry  spheres : 
'Tis  Nature's  structure,  broke  by  stubborn  Will, 
Breeds  all  that  uncelestial  discord  there. 
Wilt  thou  not  feel  the  bias  Nature  gave  ? 
Canst  thou  descend  from  converse  with  the  skies, 
And  seize  thy  brother's  throat  ?— For  what  ?— a 

clod? 
An  inch  of  earth?  The  planets  cry  '  Forbear.' 


*  See  Night  the  Eighth,  p.  252. 


In  Night  the  Eighth. 


THE  CONSOLATION. 


75 


They  chase  our  double  darkness,  Nature's  gloom 
And,  (kinder  still,)  our  intellectual  night. 

And  see,  Day's  amiable  Sister  sends 
Her  invitation,  in  the  softest  rays 
Of  mitigated  lustre ;  courts  thy  sight 
Which  suffers  from  her  tyrant  brother's  blaze. 
Night  grants  thee  the  full  freedom  of  the  skies, 
Nor  rudely  reprimands  thy  lifted  eye ; 
With  gain  and  joy  she  bribes  thee  to  be  wise. 
Night  opes  the  noblest  scenes,  and  sheds  an  awe 
Which  jiives  those  venerable  scenes  full  weight, 
And  deep  reception  in  the  entendered  heart ; 
While  light  peeps  through  the  darkness  like  a  spy, 
And  darkness  shows  its  grandeur  by  the  light. 
Nor  is  the  profit  greater  than  the  joy, 
If  human  hearts  at  glorious  objects  glow, 
And  admiration  can  inspire  delight. 

What  speak  I  more,  than  I  this  moment  feel  7 
With  pleasing  stupor  first  the  soul  is  struck, 
(Stupor  ordained  to  make  her  truly  wise ;) 
Then  into  transport  starting  from  her  trance, 
With  love  and  admiration  how  she  glows ; 
This  gorgeous  apparatus — this  display — 
This  ostentation  of  creative  power ! 
This  theatre ! — what  eye  can  take  it  in  ? 
By  what  divine  enchantment  was  it  raised, 
For  minds  of  the  first  magnitude  to  launch 
In  endless  speculation  and  adore  1 
One  sun  by  day,  by  night  ten  thousand  shine, 
And  light  us  deep  into  the  Deity; 
How  boundless  in  magnificence  and  might ! 
O  what  a  confluence  of  ethereal  fires, 
From  urns  unnumbered,  down  the  steep  of  heaven, 
Streams  to  a  point,  and  centres  in  my  sight : 
Nor  tarries  there ;  I  feel  it  at  my  heart : 
My  heart,  at  once,  it  humbles  and  exalts ; 
Lays  it  in  dust,  and  calls  it  to  the  skies. 
Who  sees  it  unexalted,  or  unawed  ? 
Who  sees  it,  and  can  stop  at  what  is  seen  1 
Material  offspring  of  omnipotence ! 
Inanimate,  all-animating  birth ! 
Work  worthy  him  who  made  it ;  worthy  praise — 
All  praise;  praise  more  than  human;  nor  denied 
Thy  praise  divine.    But  though  man,  drowned  in 

sleep, 

Withholds  his  homage,  not  alone  I  wake ; 
Bright  legions  swarm  unseen,  and  sing  unheard 
By  mortal  ear,  the  glorious  Architect, 
In  this  his  universal  temple,  hung 
With  lustres,  with  innumerable  Ughts, 
That  shed  religion  on  the  soul ;  at  once 
The  temple  and  the  preacher.     O  how  loud 
It  calls  devotion  ; — genuine  growth  of  Night ! 

Devotion !  daughter  of  Astronomy ! 
An  undevout  astronomer  is  mad. 
True;  all  things  speak  a  God:  but  in  the  small, 
Men  trace  out  Him;  in  great,  He  seizes  man; 
Seizes,  and  elevates,  and  wraps,  and  fills 
With  new  enquiries,  mid  associates  new. 


Tell  me,  ye  stars,  ye  planets ;  tell  me,  all 

Ye  starred  and  planeted  inhabitants, — what  is  ill 

What  are  these  sons  of  wonder  1  Say,  proud  Arch, 

(Within  whose  azure  palaces  they  dwell) 

Built  with  divine  ambition  ;  in  disdain 

Of  limit,  built ;  built  in  the  taste  of  Heaven ! 

Vast  concave — ample  dome !  wast  thou  designed 

A  meet  apartment  for  the  Deity  ? 

Not  so;  that  thought  alone  thy  state  impairs, 

Thy  lofty  sinks,  and  shallows  thy  profound, 

And  strengthens  thy  diffusive ;  dwarfs  the  whole, 

And  makes  an  Universe  and  Orrery. 

But  when  I  drop  mine  eye,  and  look  on  man, 
Thy  right  regained,  thy  grandeur  is  restored, 
O  Nature !  wide  Hies  off  the  expanding  round : 
As  when  whole  magazines, -at  once,  are  fired, 
The  smitten  air  is  hollowed  by  the  blow, 
The  vast  displosion  dissipates  the  clouds, 
Shocked  ether's  billows  dash  the  distant  skies ; 
Thus  (but  far  more)  the  expanding  round  flies  off, 
And  leaves  a  mighty  void,  a  spacious  womb, 
Might  teem  with  new  creation ;  reinflamed, 
Thy  luminaries  triumph,  and  assume 
Divinity  themselves.     Nor  was  it  strange. 
Matter,  high  wrought  to  such  surprising  pomp, 
Such  godlike  glory,  stole  the  style  of  gods, 
From  ages  dark,  obtuse,  and  steeped  in  sense : 
For  sure  to  sense  they  truly  are  divine, 
And  half  absolved  idolatry  from  guilt, 
Nay,  turned  it  into  virtue.     Such  it  was 
In  those,  who  put  forth  all  they  had  of  man 
Unlost,  to  lift  their  thought,  nor  mounted  higher ; 
But,  weak  of  wing,  on  planets  perched,  and  thought 
What  was  their  highest  must  be  their  adored. 

But  they  how  weak,  who  could  no  higher  mount? 
And  are  there,  then,  Lorenzo,  those  to  whom 
Unseen,  and  unexistent,  are  the  same  1 
And  if  incomprehensible  is  joined, 
Who  dare  pronounce  it  madness  to  believe  7 
Why  has  the  mighty  Builder  thrown  aside 
All  measure  in  his  work  ?  stretched  out  his  line 
So  far,  and  spread  amazement  o'er  the.  whole  1 
Then  (as  he  took  delight  in  wide  extremes) 
Deep  in  the  bosom  of  his  Universe 
Dropped  down  that  reasoning  mite,  that  insect, 

man ! 

To  crawl,  and  gaze,  and  wonder  at  the  scene  1 — 
That  man  might  ne'er  presume  to  plead 

ment 

For  disbelief  of  wonders  in  himself. 
Shall  God  be  less  miraculous,  than  what 
His  hand  has  form'd  1  shall  mysteries  descend 
Prom  unmysterious  1  things  more  elevate, 
Be  more  familiar  1  uncreated  lie 
More  obvious  than  created,  to  the  grasp 
Of  human  thought  1    The  more  of  wonderful 
ts  heard  in  Him,  the  more  we  should  assent. 
Could  we  conceive  him,  God  he  could  not  be ; 
Or  he  not  God,  or  we  could  not  be  men. 


76 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


A  God  alone  can  comprehend  a  God : 
Man's  distance  how  immense !  On  such  a  theme, 
Know  this,  Lorenzo !  (seem  it  ne'er  so  strange) 
Nothing  can  satisfy  but  what  confounds ; 
Nothing  but  what  astonishes,  is  true. 
The  scene  thou  seest  attests  the  truth  I  sing, 
And  every  star  sheds  light  upon  thy  creed. 
These  stars,  this  furniture,  this  cost  of  Heaven, 
If  but  reported,  thou  hadst  ne'er  believed  ; 
But  thine  eye  tells  thee  the  romance  is  true. 
The  grand  of  Nature  is  the  Almighty's  oath 
In  Reason's  court,  to  silence  Unbelief. 

How  my  mind,  opening  at  this  scene,  imbibes 
The  moral  emanations  of  the  skies, 
While  nought,  perhaps;  Lorenzo  less  admires ! 
Has  the  Great  Sovereign  sent  ten  thousand  worlds 
To  tell  us,  He  resides  above  them  all, 
In  glory's  unapproachable  recess  ? 
And  dare  earth's  bold  inhabitants  deny 
The  sumptuous,  the  magnific  embassy, 
A  moment's  audience"?  Turn  we,  nor  will  hear 
From  whom  they  come,  or  what  they  would  impart 
For  man's  emolument ;  sole  cause  that  stoops 
Their  grandeur  to  man's  eye  ?  Lorenzo !  rouse ; 
Let  thought,  awakened,  take  the  lightning's  wing, 
And  glance  from  east  to  west,  from  pole  to  pole. 
Who  sees,  but  is  confounded,  or  convinced  1 
Renounces  reason,  or  a  God  adores  1 
Mankind  was  sent  into  the  world  to  see : 
Sight  gives  the  science  needful  to  their  peace ; 
That  obvious  science  asks  small  learning's  aid. 
Wouldst  thou  on  metaphysic  pinions  soarl 
Or  wound  thy  patience  amid  logic  thorns'? 
Or  travel  history's  enormous  round  1 
Nature  no  such  hard  task  enjoins :  she  gave 
A  make  to  man  directive  of  his  thought ; 
A  make  set  upright,  pointing  to  the  stars, 
As  who  shall  say,  '  Read  thy  chief  lesson  there.' 
Too  late  to  read  this  manuscript  of  Heaven, 
When,  like   a   parchment-scroll,  shrunk   up  by 

flames, 
It  folds  Lorenzo's  lesson  from  his  sight. 

Lesson  how  various !  not  the  God  alone, 
I  see  his  ministers ;  I  see,  diffused 
In  radiant  orders,  essences  sublime, 
Of  various  offices,  of  various  plume, 
In  heavenly  liveries  distinctly  clad, 
Azure,  green,  purple,  pearl,  or  downy  gold, 
Or  all  commixed;   they  stand,  with  wings  out- 
spread, 

Listening  to  catch  the  Master's  least  command, 
And  fly  through  nature  ere  the  moment  ends ; 
Numbers  innumerable! — Well  conceived 
By  Pagan  and  by  Christian !  O'er  each  sphere 
Presides  an  angel,  to  direct  its  course, 
And  feed,  or  fan,  its  flames ;  or  to  discharge 
Other  high  trusts  unknown ;  for  who  can  see 
Such  pomp  of  matter,  and  imagine  mind 
(For  which  alone  inanimate  was  made) 


More  sparingly  dispensed  1  that  nobler  son, 
Far  liker  the  great  Sire ! — 'Tis  thus  the  skies 
Inform  us  of  superiors  numberless, 
As  much,  in  excellence^  above  mankind, 
As  above  earth,  in  magnitude,  the  spheres. 
These,  as  a  cloud  of  witnesses,  hang  o'er  us  : 
In  a  thronged  theatre  all  our  deeds. 
Perhaps  a  thousand  demigods  descend 
On  every  beam  we  see,  to  walk  with  men, 
Awful^reflection!  strong  restraint  from  ill! 

Yet  here,  our  virtue  finds  still  stronger  aid 
From  these  ethereal  glories  sense  surveys. 
Something,  like  magic,  strikes  from  this  blue  vault: 
With  just  attention  is  it  viewed  1  we  feel 
A  sudden  succour,  unimplored,  unthought. 
Nature  herself  does  half  the  work  of  man. 
Seas,  rivers,  mountains,  forests,  deserts,  rocks, 
The  promontory's  height,  the  depth  profound    • 
Of  subterranean  excavated  grots, 
Black-browed,  and  vaulted  high,  and  yawning  wide, 
From  Nature's  structure,  or  the  scoop  of  Time ; 
If  ample  of  dimension,  vast  of  size, 
E'en  these  an  aggrandizing  impulse  give ; 
Of  solemn  thought  enthusiastic  heights 
Ev'n  these  infuse. — But  what  of  vast  in  these  1 
Nothing — or  we  must  own  the  skies  forgot. 
Much  less  in  art. — Vain  Art!  thou  pigmy  power! 
How  dost  thou  swell,  and  strut,  with  human  pride, 
To  show  thy  littleness!  What  childish  toys, 
Thy  watry  columns  squirted  to  the  clouds ! 
Thy  basined  rivers  and  imprisoned  seas ! 
Thy  mountains  moulded  into  forms  of  men ! 
Thy  hundred-gated  capitals  !  or  those 
Where  three  days'  travel  left  us  much  to  ride  ; 
Gazing  on  miracles  by  mortals  wrought, 
Arches  triumphal,  theatres  immense, 
Or  nodding  gardens  pendent  in  mid  air  I 
Or  temples  proud  to  meet  their  gods  half-way  J 
Yet  these  affect  us  in  no  common  kind : 
What  then  the  force  of  such  superior  scenes  1 
Enter  a  temple,  it  will  strike  an  awe : 
What  awe  from  this  the  Deity  has  built  1 
A  good  man  seen,  though  silent,  counsel  gives : 
The  touched  spectator  wishes  to  be  wise. 
In  a  bright  mirror  His  own  hands  have  made, 
Here  we  see  something  like  the  face  of  God. 
Seems  it  not  then  enough  to  say,  Lorenzo, 
To  man  abandoned,  '  Hast  thou  seen  the  skies T 

And  yet,  so  thwarted  Nature's  kind  design 
By  daring  man,  he  makes  her  sacred  awe 
(That  guard  from  ill)  his  shelter,  hjs  temptation 
To  more  than  common  guilt,  and  quite  inverts 
Celestial  Art's  intent.     The  trembling  stars 
See  crimes  gigantic,  stalking  through  the  gloom 
With  front  erect,  that  hide  their  head  by  day, 
And  making  night  still  darker  by  their  deeds. 
Slumbering  in  covert,  till  the  shades  descend, 
Rapine  and  Murder,  linked,  now  prowl  for  prey. 
The  miser  earths  his  treasure ;  and  the  thief 


THE  CONSOLATION. 


77 


mo;  the  mole,  half-beggars  him  ere  morn. 
Now  plots  and  foul  conspiracies  awake, 
And,  mulHing  up  their  horrors  from  the  moon, 

M-k  and  dt  \astation  they  prepare, 
And  kingdoms  tottering  in  the  field  of  blood. 

•  msof  riot  in  mid-revel  rage. 
What  shall  I  do?— suppress  it!  or  proclaim! 

->ops  the  thunder?  Now,  Lorenzo!  now 
His  best  friend's  couch  the  rank  adulterer 
Ascends  secure,  and  laughs  at  gods  and  men. 
Preposterous  madmen,  void  of  fear  or  shame, 
Lay  their  crimes  bare   to  these   chaste  eyes  of 

Heaven, 

Yet  shrink  and  shudder  at  a  mortal's  sight. 
Wrre  moon  and  stars  for  villains  only  made 
To  guide,  yet  screen  them,  with  tenebrious  light  1 
No ;  they  were  made  to  fashion  the  sublime 
Of  human  hearts,  and  wiser  make  the  wise. 

Those  ends  were  answered  once,  when  mortals 

lived 

Of  stronger  wing,  of  aquiline  ascent, 
In  theory  sublime.     O  how  unlike 
Those  vermine  of  the  night,  this  moment  sung, 
Who  crawl  on  earth,  and  on  her  venom  feed ! 
Those  ancient  sages,  human  stars !  they  met 
Their  brothers  of  the  skies  at  midnight  hour, 
Their  counsel  asked,  and  what  they  asked  obeyed. 
The  Stagirite,  and  Plato,  he  who  drank 
The  poisoned  bowl,  and  he  of  Tusculum, 
With  him  of  Corduba,  (immortal  names !) 
In  these  unbounded  and  Elysian  walks, 
An  area  fit  for  gods  and  godlike  men. 
They  took  their  nightly  round,  through  radiant 

paths, 

By  seraphs  trod ;  instructed,  chiefly,  thus, 
To  tread  in  their  bright  footsteps  here  below, 
To  walk  in  worth  still  brighter  than  the  skies. 
There  they  contracted  their  contempt  of  earth; 
Of  hopes  eternal  kindled  there  the  fire ; 
There,  as  in  near  approach,  they  glowed,  and  grew 
(Great  visitants!)  more  intimate  with  GOD, 
More  worth  to  men,  more  joyous  to  themselves. 
Through  various  virtues  they,  with  ardour,  ran 
The  zodiac  of  their  learned  illustrious  lives. 

In  Christian  hearts  O  for  a  Pagan  zeal ! 
A  needful,  but  opprobrious  prayer !  as  much 
Our  ardour  less,  as  is  our  greater  light. 
How  monstrous  this  in  morals!    Scarce  more 

stranue 

Would  this  phenomenon  in  nature  strike, 
A  sun  that  froze  her,  or  a  star  that  warmed. 

What  taught  these  heroes  of  the  moral  world  ? 
To  these  thou  giv'st  thy  praise,  give  credit  too. 
These  doctors  ne'er  were  pensioned  to  deceive  thee, 
And  Pagan  tutors  are  thy  taste  1 — They  taught, 
That  narrow  views  betrays  to  misery; 
That  wise  it  is  to  comprehend  the  whole ; 
That  virtue  rose  from  nature,  pondered  well. 
The  single  base  of  virtue  built  to  Heaven ; 


That  God  and  Nature  our  attention  claim; 

That  Nature  is  the  glass  reflecting  God, 

As,  by  the  sea,  reflected  is  the  sun, 

Too  glorious  to  be  gazed  on  in  his  sphere; 

That  mind  immortal  loves  immortal  aims; 

That  boundless  mind  affects  a  boundless  space; 

That  vast  surveys,  and  the  sublime  of  things, 

The  soul  assimilate,  and  make  her  great; 

That,  therefore,  Heaven  her  glories,  as  a  fund 

Of  inspiration,  thus  spreads  out  to  man. 

Such  are  their  doctrines;  such  the  Night  inspired. 

And  what  more  true  1  what  truth  of  greater 

weight? 

The  soul  of  man  was  made  to  walk  the  skies, 
Delightful  outlet  of  her  prison  here ! 
There,  disencumbered  of  her  chains,  the  ties 
Of  toys  terrestrial,  she  can  rove  at  large ; 
There  freely  can  respire,  dilate,  extend, 
In  full  'proportion  let  loose  all  her  powers, 
And,  undeluded,  grasp  at  something  great. 
Nor  as  a  stranger  does  she  wander  there, 
But,  wondering  herself,  through  wonder  strays; 
Contemplating  their  grandeur,  finds  her  own; 
Dives  deep  in  their  economy  divine, 
Sits  high  in  judgment  on  their  various  laws, 
And,  like  a  master,  judges  not  amiss. 
Hence  greatly  pleased,  and  justly  proud,  the  soul 
Grows  conscious  of  her  birth  celestial;  breathes 
More  life,  more  vigour,  in  her  native  air, 
And  feels  herself  at  home  among  the  stars, 
And,  feeling,  emulates  her  country's  praise. 

What  call  we,  then,  the  firmament,  Lorenzo'? 
As  earth  the  body,  since  the  skies  sustain 
The  soul  with  food  that  gives  immortal  life, 
Call  it  the  noblest  pasture  of  the  mind, 
Which  there  expatiates,  strengthens,  and  exults, 
And  riots  through  the  luxuries  of  thought. 
Call  it  the  garden  of  the  Deity, 
Blossomed  with  stars,  redundant  in  the  growth 
Of  fruit  ambrosial,  moral  fruit  to  man. 
Call  it  the  breast-plate  of  the  true  High-priest, 
Ardent  with  gems  oracular,  that  give, 
In  points  of  highest  moment,  right  response ; 
And  ill  neglected,  if  we  prize  our  peace. 

Thus  have  we  found  a  true  astrology; 
Thus  have  we  found  a  new  and  noble  sense, 
In  which  alone  stars  govern  human  fates. 
O  that  the  stars  (as  some  have  feigned)  let  fall 
Bloodshed  and  havock  on  embattled  realms, 
And  rescued  monarchs  from  so  black  a  guilt! 
Bourbon !  this  wish  how  generous  in  a  foe ! 
Wouldst  thou  be  great,  wouldst  thou  become  a  god, 
And  stick  thy  deathless  name  among  the  stars, 
For  mighty  conquests  on  a  needle's  point? 
Instead  of  forging  chains  for  foreigners; 
Bastile,  thy  tutor ;  grandeur,  all  thy  aim  1 
As  yet  thou  know'st  not  what  it  is.     How  great, 
How  glorious,  then  appears  the  mind  of  man, 
When  in  it  all  the  stars  and  planets  roll! 


78 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


And  what  it  seems,  it  is.  Great  objects  make 
Great  minds,  enlarging  as  their  views  enlarge; 
Those  still  more  godlike  as  these  more  divine. 

And  more  divine  than  these,  thou  canst  not  see 
Dazzled,  o'erpowered,  with  the  delicious  draught 
Of  miscellaneous  splendours,  how  I  reel 
From  thought  to  thought,  inebriate,  without  end ! 
An  Eden  this !  a  Paradise  unlost ' 
I  meet  the  Deity  in  every  view, 
And  tremble  at  my  nakedness  before  him! 
O  that  I  could  but  reach  the  tree  of  Hfe; 
For  here  it  grows  unguarded  from  our  taste; 
No  flaming  sword  denies  our  entrance  here : 
Would  man  but  gather,  he  might  live  for  ever. 

Lorenzo!  much  of  mortal  hast  thou  seen: 
Of  curious  arts  art  thou  more  fond  1  .then  mark 
The  mathematic  glories  of  the  skies, 

In  number,  weight,  and  measure,  all  ordained. 

Lorenzo's  boasted  builders,  Chance  and  Fate, 

Are  left  to  finish  his  aerial  towers; 

Wisdom  and  Choice,  their  well-known  characters 

Here  deep  impress,  and  claim  it  for  their  own. 

Though  splendid  all,  no  splendour  void  of  use. 

Use  rivals  beauty,  art  contends  with  power ; 

No  wanton  waste  amid  effuse  expanse. 

The  great  Economist  adjusting  all 

To  prudent  pomp,  magnificently  wise. 

How  rich  the  prospect !  and  for  ever  new ; 

And  newest,  to  the  man  that  views  it  most; 

For  newer  still  in  infinite  succeeds.    . 

Then  these  aerial  racers,  O  how  swift ! 

How  the  shaft  loiters  from  the  strongest  string; 

Spirit  alone  can  distance  the  career, 

Orb  above  ascending,  without  end! 

Circle  in  circle,  without  end,  inclosed! 

Wheel  within  wheel,  Ezekiel,  like  to  thine ! 

Like  thine,  it  seems  a  vision  or  a  dream : 

Though  seen,  we  labour  to  believe  it  true! 

What  involution!  what  extent!  what  swarms 

Of  worlds,  that  laugh  at  earth!  immensely  great ! 

Immensely  distant  from  each  other's  spheres ! 

What,  then,  the  wondrous  space  through  which 
they  rolH 

At  once  it  quite  ingulfs  all  human  thought; 

'Tis  Comprehension's  absolute  defeat. 
Nor  think  thou  scest  a  wild  disorder  here: 

Through  this  illustrious  chaos  to  the  sight, 

Arrangement  neat  and  chastest  order  reign. 

The  path  prescribed,  inviolably  kept, 

Upbraids  the  lawless  sallies  of  mankind. 

Worlds,  ever  thwarting,  never  interfere ; 

What  knots  are  tied !  how  soon  are  they  dissolved, 

And  set  the  seeming  married  planets  free  ! 

They  rove  for  ever,  without  error  rove ; 

Confusion  unconfused !  nor  less  admire 

This  tumult  untumultuous ;  all  on  wing ! 

In  motion  all !  yet  what  profound  repose ; 

What  fervid  action,  yet  no  noise !  as  awed 

To  silence  by  the  presence  of  their  Lord ; 


Or  hushed,  by  his  command,  in  love  to  man, 
And  bid  let  fall  soft  beams  on  human  rest, 
Restless  themselves.     On  yon  cerulean  plain, 
In  exultation  to  their  God  and  thine, 
They  dance,  they  sing  eternal  jubilee, 
Eternal  celebration  of  his  praise ! 
But  since  their  song  arrives  not  at  our  ear, 
Their  dance  perplexed  exhibits  to  the  sight 
Fair  hieroglyphic  of  his  peerless  power. 
Mark  how  the  labyrinthian  turns  they  take, 
The  circles  intricate,  and  mystic  maze, 
Weave  the  grand  cipher  of  Omnipotence ; 
To  gods  how  great !  how  legible  to  man  ! 

Leaves  so  much  wonder  greater  wonder  still  1 
Where  are  the  pillars  that  'support  the  skies  ? 
What  more  than  Atlantean  shoulder  props 
Th'  incumbent  load  1  what  magic,  what  strange  art, 
In  fluid  air  these  ponderous  orbs  sustains  1 
Who  would  not  think  them  hung  in  golden  chains? 
And  so  they  are ;  in  the  high  will  of  Heaven, 
Which  fixes  all ;  makes  adamant, 
Or  air  of  adamant ;  makes  all  of  nought, 
Or  nought  of  all,  if  such  the  dread  decree. 

Imagine,  from  their  deep  foundations  torn, 
The  most  gigantic  sons  of  earth,  the  broad 
And  towering  Alps,  all  tossed  into  the  sea ; 
And,  light  as  down,  or  volatile  as  air, 
Their  bulks  enormous  dancing  on  the  waves, 
In  time  and  measure  exquisite  ;  while  all 
The  winds,  in  emulation  of  the  spheres, 
Tune  their  sonorous  instruments  aloft, 
The  concert  swell,  and  animate  the  ball. 
Would  this  appear  amazing  1 — what  then  worlds 
In  a  far  thinner  element  sustained, 
And  acting  the  same  part  with  greater  skill, 
More  rapid  movement,  and  for  noblest  ends  1 

More  obvious  ends  to  pass,  are  not  these  stars 
The  seats  majestic,  proud  imperial  thrones, 
On  which  angelic  delegates  of  Heaven, 
At  certain  periods,  as  the  Sovereign  nods, 
Discharge  high  trusts  of  vengeance  or  of  love, 
To  clothe  in  outward  grandeur  grand  design, 
And  acts  more  solemn  still  more  solemnize  1 
Ye  citizens  of  air !  what  ardent  thanks, 
What  full  effusion  of  the  grateful  heart, 
[s  due  from  man.  indulged  in  such  a  sight ! 
A  sight  so  noble  !  and  a  sight  so  kind ! 
[t  drops  new  truths  at  every  new  survey ! 
Peels  not  Lorenzo  something  stir  within, 
That  sweeps  away  all  period.?    As  these  spheres 
Measure  duration,  they  no  less  inspire 
The  godlike  hope  of  ages  without  end. 
The  boundless  space,  through  which  these  rovers 

take 

Their  restless  roam,  suggests  the  sister-thought 
Of  boundless  time.     Thus,  by  kind  Nature's  skill, 
To  man  unlaboured,  that  important  guest, 
Sternity,  finds  entrance  at  the  sight ; 
And  an  eternity  for  man  ordained, 


THE  CONSOLATION. 


7'J 


Or  those  his  destined  midnight  counsellors, 
The  stars,  had  never  whispered  it  to  man. 
Nature  informs,  but  ne'er  insults,  her  sons : 
Could  she,  then,  kindle  the  most  ardent  wish 
To  disappoint  it  ?— That  is  blasphemy ! 
Thus  of  thy  creed  a  second  article, 
Momentous  as  the  existence  of  a  God, 
Is  found  (as  I  conceive)  where  rarely  sought, 
And  thou  may'st  read  thy  soul  immortal  here. 

Here,  then,  Lorenzo !  on  these  glories  dwell, 
Nor  want  the  gilt,  illuminated  roof, 
That  calls  the  wretched  gay  to  dark  delights. 
Assemblies  ? — this  is  one  divinely  bright ; 
Here,  unendangered  in  health,  wealth,  or  fame, 
Range  through  the  fairest,  and  the  Sultan  scorn. 
I  It\  wise  as  thou,  no  crescent  holds  so  fair 
As  that  which  on  his  turban  awes  a  world, 
And  thinks  the  moon  is  proud  to  copy  him. 
Look  on  her,  and  gain  more  than  worlds  can  give, 
A  mind  superior  to  the  charms  of  power. 
Thou,  muffled  in  delusions  of  this  life ! 
Can  yonder  moon  turn  Ocean  in  his  bed 
From  side  to  side,  in  constant  ebb  and  flow, 
And  purify  from  stench  his  watery  realms, 
And  fails  her  moral  influence  1  wants  she  power 
To  turn  Lorenzo's  stubborn  tide  of  thought 
From  stagnating  on  earth's  infected  shore, 
And  purge  from  nuisance  his  corrupted  heart1? 
Fails  her  attraction,  when  it  draws  to  Heaven? 
Nay,  and  to  what  thou  valuest  more,  earth's  joy? 
Minds  elevate,  and  panting  for  unseen, 
And  defecate  from  sense,  alone  obtain 
Full  relish  of  existence  undeflowered, 
The  life  of  life,  the  zest  of  worldly  bliss ; 
All  else  on  earth  amounts — to  what  ?  to  this, 
'  Bad  to  be  suffered,  blessings  to  be  left :' 
Earth's  richest  inventory  boasts  no  more. 

Of  higher  scenes  be  then  the  call  obeyed. 
O  let  me  gaze ! — of  gazing  there's  no  end. 
O  let  me  think ! — thought,  too,  is  wildered  here ; 
In  mid-way  flight  Imagination  tires ; 
Yet  soon  reprunes  her  wing  to  soar  anew, 
Her  point  unable  to  forbear  or  gain ; 
So  great  the  pleasure,  so  profound  the  plan ! 
A  banquet  this,  where  men  and  angels  meet, 
Eat  the  same  manna,  mingle  earth  and  Heaven. 
How  distant  some  of  these  nocturnal  suns ! 
So  distant  (says  the  sage)  'twere  not  absurd 
To  doubt  if  beams,  set  out  at  Nature's  birth, 
Are  yet  arrived  at  this  so  foreign  world, 
Though  nothing  half  so  rapid  as  their  flight. 
An  eye  of  awe  and  wonder  let  me  roll, 
And  roll  for  ever.     Who  can  satiate  sight 
In  such  a  scene  ?  in  such  an  ocean  wide 
Of  deep  astonishment,  where  depth,  height,  breadth 
Are  lost  in  their  extremes ;  and  where  to  count 
The  thick-sown  glories  in  this  field  of  fire, 
Perhaps  a  seraph's  computation  fails. 
19 


Now  go,  Ambition !  boast  thy  boundless  might 
In  conquest  o'er  the  tenth  part  of  a  grain. 

And  yet  Lorenzo  calls  for  miracles, 
To  give  his  tottering  faith  a  solid  base. 
Why  call  for  less  than  is  already  thine  ? 
Thou  art  no  novice  in  theology  ; 
What  is  a  miracle  ? — 'tis  a  reproacn, 
'Tis  an  implicit  satire  on  mankind, 
And  while  it  satisfies  it  censures  jtoo. 
To  common  sense  great  Nature's  course  proclaims 
A  Deity.     When  mankind  falls  asleep, 
A  miracle  is  sent  as  an  alarm 
To  wake  the  world,  and  prove  him  o'er  again, 
By  recent  argument,  but  not  more  strong. 
Say  which  imports  more  plenitude  of  power, 
Or  Nature's  laws  to  fix,  or  to  repeal  ? 
To  make  a  sun,  or  stop  his  mid  career? 
To  countermand  his  orders,  and  send  back 
The  flaming  courier  to  the  frighted  east, 
Warmed  and  astonished  at  his  evening  ray : 
Or  bid  the  moon,  as  with  her  journey  tired, 
In  Ajalon's  soft  flowery  vale  repose? 
Great  things  are  these  ?  still  greater  to  create. 
From  Adam's  bower  look  down  through  the  whole 

train 

Of  miracles; — resistless  is  their  power! 
They  do  not,  can  not,  more  amaze  the  mind, 
Than  this,  called  unmiraculous  survey, 
If  duly  weighed,  if  rationally  seen; 
If  seen  with  human  eyes.     The  brute,  indeed, 
Sees  nought  but  spangles  here ;  the  fool  no  more. 
Say'st  thou,  '  The  course  of  Nature  governs  all?' 
The  course  of  Nature  is  the  art  of  GOD. 
The  miracles  thou  call'st  for,  this  attest ; 
For  say,  could  Nature  Nature's  course  control  ? 

But,  miracles  apart,  who  sees  him  not 
Nature's  Controller,  Author,  Guide,  and  End? 
Who  turns  his  eye  on  Nature's  midnight  face, 
But  must  inquire — '  What  hand  behind  the  scene, 
What  arm  Almighty,  put  these  wheeling  globes 
In  motion,  and  wound  up  the  vast  machine  ? 
Who  rounded  in  his  palm  these  spacious  orbs? 
Who  bowled  them  flaming  through  the  dark  pro- 
found, 

Numerous  as  glittering  gems  of  morning  dew, 
Or  sparks  from  populous  cities  in  a  blaze, 
And  set  the  bosom  of  old  Night  on  fire, 
Peopled  her  desert,  and  made  Horror  smile  V 
Or  if  the  military  style  delights  thee, 
(For  stars  have  fought  their  battles,  leagued  with 

man) 
'  Who  marshals  this  bright  host  ?   enrols  their 

names, 

Appoints  their  posts,  their  marches,  and  returns, 
Punctual,  at  stated  periods  ?  who  disbands 
These  veteran  troops,  their  final  duty  done, 
[f  e'er  disbanded? — HE,  whose  potent  word, 
Like  the  loud  trumpet,  levied  first  their  powers 


80 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


In  Night's  inglorious  empire,  where  they  slept 
In   beds  of  darkness;    armed  them  with  fierce 

flames; 

Arranged,  and  disciplined,  and  clothed  in  gold, 
And  called  them  out  of  Chaos  to  the  field, 
Where  now  they  war  with  Vice  and  Unbelief. 
O  let  us  join  this  army !  joining  these 
Will  give  us  hearts  intrepid,  at  that  hour 
When  brighter  flames  shall  cut  a  darker  night ; 
When  these  strong  demonstrations  of  a  GOD 
Shall   hide  their  heads,    or  tumble  from    their 

spheres, 
And  one  eternal  curtain  cover  all! 

Struck  at  that  thought,  as  new-awaked,  I  lift 
A  more  enlightened  eye,  and  read  the  stars 
To  man  still  more  propitious,  and  their  aid 
(Though  guiltless  of  idolatry)  implore, 
Nor  longer  rob  them  of  their  noblest  name. 
O  ye  dividers  of  my  time !  ye  bright 
Accomptants  of  my  days,  and  months,  and  years, 
In  your  fair  kalendar  distinctly  marked ! 
Since  that  authentic,  radiant  register, 
Though  man  inspects  it  not,  stands  good  against 

him; 
Since  you  and  years  roll  on,  though  man  stands 

still, 

Teach  me  my  days  to  number,  and  apply 
My  trembling  heart  to  wisdom,  now  beyond 
All  shadow  of  excuse  for  fooling  on. 
Age  smooths  our  path  to  prudence;  sweeps  aside 
The  snares  keen  appetite  and  passion  spread 
To  catch  stray  souls;  and  wo  to  that  gray  head 
Whose  folly  would  undo  what  age  has  done! 
Aid,  then,  aid,  all  ye  Stars! — Much  rather  Thou, 
Great  Artist !    Thou  whose  finger  set  aright 
This  exquisite  machine,  with  all  its  wheels, 
Though  intervolved,  exact;  and  pointing  out 
Life's  rapid  and  irrevocable  flight 
With  such  an  index  fair  as  none  can  miss 
Who  lifts  an  eye,  nor  sleeps  till  it  is  closed; 
Open  mine  eye,  dread  Deity !  to  read 
The  tacit  doctrine  of  thy  works;  to  see 
Things  as  they  are,  unaltered  through  the  glass 
Of  worldly  wishes.     Time,  Eternity ! 
('Tis  these,  mismeasured,  ruin  all  mankind) 
Set  them  before  me;  let  me  lay  them  both 
In  equal  scale,  and  learn  their  various  weight. 
Let  time  appear  a  moment,  as  it  is ; 
And  let  eternity's  full  orb,  at  once, 
Turn  on  my  soul,  and  strike  it  into  Heaven. 
When  shall  I  see  far  more  than  charms  me  now, 
Gaze  on  creation's  model  in  thy  breast 
Unveiled,  nor  wonder  at  the  transcript  more? 
When  this  vile,  foreign  dust,  which  smothers  all 
That  travel  earth's  deep  vale,  shall  I  shake  off? 
When  shall  my  soul  her  incarnation  quit, 
And,  re-adopted  to  thy  blessed  embrace, 
Obtain  her  apotheosis  in  thcel — 

Dost  think,  Lorenzo,  this  is  wandering  wide  7 


No;  'tis  directly  striking  at  the  mark. 

To  wake  thy  dead  devotion*  was  my  point ; 

And  how  I  bless  Night's  consecrating  shades, 

Which  to  a  temple  turn  an  universe, 

Fill  us  with  great  ideas,  full  of  Heaven, 

And  antidote  the  pestilential  earth ! 

In  every  storm  that  either  frowns  or  falls, 

What  an  asylum  has  the  soul  in  prayer! 

And  what  a  fane  is  this,  in  which  to  pray ! 

And  what  a  GOD  must  dwell  in  such  a  fane  i 

O  what  a  genius  must  inform  the  skies ! 

And  is  Lorenzo's  salamander-heart 

Cold,  and  untouched,  amid  these  sacred  fires? 

O  ye  nocturnal  sparks !  ye  glowing  embers, 

On  Heaven's  broad  hearth !    Who  burn,  or  burn 

no  more,    • 
Who  blaze,  or  die,  as  great  Jehovah's  breath 
Or  blows  you,  or  forbears,  assist  my  song  ! 
Pour  your  whole  influence;  exorcise  his  heart, 
So  long  possessed,  and  bring  him  back  to  man. 

And  is  Lorenzo  a  demurrer  still? 
Pride  in  thy  parts  provokes  thee  to  contest 
Truths,  which,  contested,  put  thy  parts  to  shame: 
Nor  shame  they  more  Lorenzo's  head  than  heart, 
A  faithless  heart,  how  despicably  small! 
Too  straight,  aught  greater  generous  to  receive! 
Filled  with  an  atom!  filled  and  fouled  with  self! 
And  self-mistaken!  self,  that  lasts  an  hour! 
Instincts  and  passions  of  the  nobler  kind 
Lie  suffocated  there,  or  they  alone, 
Reason  apart,  would  wake  high  hope,  and  open, 
To  ravished  thought,  that  intellectual  sphere, 
Where  Order,  Wisdom,  Goodness,  Providence, 
Their  endless  miracles  of  love  display, 
And  promise  all  the  truly  great  desire. 
The  mind  that  would  be  happy  must  be  great; 
Great  in  its  wishes,  great  in  its  surveys. 
Extended  views  a  narrow  mind  extend, 
Push  out  its  corrugate,  expansive  make, 
Which,  ere  long,  more  than  planets  shall  embrace. 
A  man  of  compass  makes  a  man  of  %vorth : 
Divine  contemplate,  and  become  divine ! 

As  man  was  made  for  glory  and  for  bliss, 
All  littleness  is  in  approach  to  wo. 
Open  thy  bosom,  set  thy  wishes  wide, 
And  let  in  manhood;  let  in  happiness ; 
Admit  the  boundless  theatre  of  thought 
From  nothing,  up  to  God;  which  makes  a  man. 
Take  God  from  Nature,  nothing  great  is  left; 
Man's  mind  is  in  a  pit,  and  nothing  sees; 
Man's  heart  is  in  a  jakes,  and  loves  the  mire. 
Emerge  from  thy  profound;  erect  thine  eye; 
See  thy  distress !  how  close  art  thou  besieged 
Besieged  by  Nature,  the  proud  sceptic's  foe ! 
Inclosed  by  these  innumerable  worlds, 
Sparkling  conviction  on  the  darkest  mind, 
As  in  a  golden  net  of  Providence, 


•  See  page  74. 


THE  CONSOLATION. 


81 


How  art  thou  caught,  sure  captive  of  belief! 
From  this  thy  blessed  captivity  what  art, 
What  blasphemy  to  reason.  s< -ts  thee  free  ! 
This  scene  is  Heaven's  indulgent  violence  ; 
Canst  thou  bear  up  against  this  tide  of  glory1? 
What  is  earth  bosomed  in  these  ambient  orbs, 
But  faith  in  God  imposed,  and  pressed  on  man! 
Uar'st  thou  still  litigate  thy  desperate  cause, 
Spite  of  these  numerous,  awful  witnesses, 
And  doubt  the  deposition  of  the  skies'? 
O  how  lalxmous  is  thy  way  to  ruin ! 

Laborious  1  'tis  impracticable  quite 
To  sink  beyond  a  doubt  in  this  debate, 
With  all  its  weight  of  wisdom  and  of  will, 
And  crime  flagitious,  I  defy  a  fool. 
Some  wish  they  did,  but  no  man  disbelieves. 
'  God  is  a  spirit ;'  spirit  can  not  strike 
These  gross  material  organs ;  God  by  man 
As  much  is  seen,  as  man  a  God  can  see, 
In  these  astonishing  exploits  of  power 
What  order,  beauty,  motion,  distance,  size ! 
Concertion  of  design,  how  exquisite ! 
How  complicate  in  their  divine  police ! 
Apt  means !  great  ends !  consent  to  general  good ! — 
Each  attribute  of  these  material  gods, 
So  long  (and  that  with  specious  pleas)  adored, 
A  separate  conquest  gains  o'er  rebel  thought, 
And  leads  in  triumph  the  whole  mind  of  man.' 

Lorenzo !  this  may  seem  harangue  to  thee ; 
Such  all  is  apt  to  seem,  that  thwarts  our  will. 
And  dost  thou,  then,  demand  a  simple  proof 
Of  this  great  master- moral  of  the  skies, 
Unskilled,  or  disinclined,  to  read  it  there? 
Since  'tis  the  basis,  and  all  drops  without  it, 
Take  it  in  one  compact,  unbroken  chain. 
Such  proof  insists  on  an  attentive  ear, 
'Twill  not  make  one  amid  a  mob  of  thoughts, 
And  for  thy  notice  struggle  with  the  world. 
Retire;— the  world  shut  out}— thy  thoughts  call 

home ; — 

Imagination's  airy  wing  repress ; — 
Lock  up  thy  senses ; — let  no  passion  stir ; — 
Wake  all  to  Reason ; — let  her  reign  alone ; 
Then  in  thy  soul's  deep  silence,  and  the  depth 
Of  Nature's  silence,  midnight,  thus  inquire, 
As  I  have  done,  and  shall  inquire  no  more. 
In  nature's  channel  thus  the  questions  run: 

'  What  am  1 1  and  from  whence  ? — I  nothing 

know 

But  that  I  am ;  and  since  I  am,  conclude 
Something  eternal :  had  there  e'er  been  nought, 
Nought  still  had  been :  eternal  there  must  be. — 
But  what  eternal  1 — Why  not  human  race? 
And  Adam's  ancestors  without  an  end? — 
That's  hard  to  to  conceived,  since  every  link 
Of  that  long-chained  succession  is  so  frail. 
Can  every  part  depend,  and  not  the  whole  ? 
Yet  grant  it  true,  new  difficulties  rise; 
I'm  still  quite  out  at  sea,  nor  see  the  shore. 


Whence  earth,  and  these  bright  orbs  ? — Eternal 

tool- 
Grant  matter  was  eternal,  still  these  orbs 
Would  want  some  other  father ; — much  design 
Is  seen  in  all  their  motions,  all  their  makes, 
Design  implies  intelligence  and  art ; 
That  can't  be  from  themselves — or  man :  that  art 
Man  scarce  can  comprehend,  could  man  bestow ! 
And  nothing  greater  yet  allowed,  than  man. — 
Who  motion,  foreign  to  the  smallest  grain, 
Shot  through  vast  masses  of  enormous  weight  1 
Who  bid  brute  matter's  restive  lump  assume 
Such  various  forms,  and  gave  it  wings  to  fly  ? 
Has  matter  innate  motion  ?  then  each  atom, 
Asserting  its  indisputable  right 
To  dance,  would  form  an  universe  of  dust : 
Has   matter  none?   then  whence  these  glorious 

forms 

And  boundless  flights,  from  shapeless  and  re- 
posed? 

Has  matter  more  than  motion  ?  has  it  thought, 
Judgment,  and  genius  1  is  it  deeply  learned 
In  mathematics?  has  it  framed  such  laws, 
Which,  but  to  guess,  a  Newton  made  immortal?— 
If  so,  how  each  sage  atom  laughs  at  me, 
Who  thinks  a  clod  inferior  to  a  man ! 
If  art  to  form,  and  counsel  to  conduct, 
And  that  with  greater  far  than  human  skill, 
Resides  not  in  each  block, — a  Godhead  reigns ! — 
Grant,  then,  invisible,  eternal  Mind ; 
That  granted,  all  is.  solved; — but  granting  that, 
Draw  I  not  o'er  me  a  still  darker  cloud  1 
Grant  I  not  that,  which  I  can  ne'er  conceive  ? 
A  being  without  origin  or 'end! — 
Hail,  human  Liberty !  there  is  no  God — 
Yet  why?  on  either  scheme  that  knot  subsists ; 
Subsist  it  must,  in  God  or  human  race ; 
If  in  the  last,  how  many  knots  beside, 
Indissoluble  all  ? — why  choose  it  there 
Where,  chosen,  still  subsist  ten  thousand  more  ? 
Reject  it  where,  that  chosen,  all  the  rest, 
Dispersed,  leave  Reason's  whole  horizon  clear? 
This  is  not  Reason's  dictate;  Reason  says, 
Close  with  the  side  where  one  grain  turns  the 

scale. 

What  vast  preponderance  is  here !  can  Reason 
With  louder  voice  exclaim — '  Believe  a  God  ?' 
And  Reason  heard,  is  the  sole  mark  of  man. 
What  things  impossible  must  man  think  true, 
On  any  other  system  ?  and  how  strange 
To  disbelieve,  through  mere  credulity ! 

If  in  this  chain  Lorenzo  finds  no  flaw, 
Let  it  for  ever  bind  him  to  belief. 
And  where  the  link,  in  which  a  flaw  he  finds? 
And  if  a  GOD  there  is,  that  GOD  how  great ! 
How  great  that  Power  whose  providential  care 
Tlirough  these  bright  orbs'  dark  centres  darts  a 

ray! 
Of  Nature  universal  threads  the  whole! 


82 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


And  hangs  Creation,  like  a  precious  gem, 
Though  little,  on  the  footstool  of  his  throne ! 

That  little  gem,  how  large!  A  weight  let  fall 
From  a  fixed  star,  in  ages  can  it  reach 
This  distant  earth  1  Say,  then,  Lorenzo,  where, 
Where  ends  this  mighty  building'?  where  begin 
The  suburbs  of  Creation?  where  the  wall 
Whose  battlements  look  o'er  into  the  vale 
Of  non-existence,  Nothing's  strange  abode  ? 
Say  at  what  point  of  space  Jehovah  dropped 
His  slackened  line,  and  laid  his  balance  by; 
Weighed  worlds,  and  measured  infinite  no  more  ? 
Where  rears  his  terminating  pillar  high 
Its  extramundane  head  1  and  says  to 'gods, 
In  characters  illustrious  as  the  sun, 
'  I  stand  the  plan's  proud  period ;  I  pronounce 
The  work  accomplished ;  the  creation  closed ; 
Shout,  all  ye  Gods !  nor  shout,  ye  Gods,  alone ; 
Of  all  that  lives,  or,  if  devoid  of  life, 
That  rests,  or  rolls ;  ye  Heights  and  Depths  re- 
sound ! 

Resound !  resound !  ye  Depths  and  Heights  re- 
sound!' 

Hard  are  those  questions! — answer  harder  still. 
Is  this  the  sole  exploit,  the  single  birth, 
The  solitary  son  of  Power  Divine  1 
Or  has  the  Almighty  Father,  with  a  breath, 
Impregnated  the  womb  of  distant  Space  1 
Has  he  not  bid,  in  various  provinces, 
Brother-creations  the  dark  bowels  burst 
Of  Night  primeval,  barren  now  no  more  ? 
And  He,  the  central  sun,  transpiercing  all 
Those  giant-generations  which  disport, 
And  dance  as  motes,  in  his  meridian  ray ; 
That  ray  withdrawn,  benighted,  or  absorbed 
In  that  abyss  of  horror  whence  they  sprung; 
While  Chaos  triumphs,  repossest  of  all 
Rival  Creation  ravished  from  his  throne  ? 
Chaos !  of  Nature  both  the  womb  and  grave ! 

Think'st  thou  my  scheme,  Lorenzo,  spreads  too 

wide] 

Is  this  extravagant  ? — No ;  this  is  just ; 
Just  in  conjecture,  though  'twere  false  in  fact. 
If  'tis  an  error,  'tis  an  error  sprung 
From  noble  root,  high  thought  of  the  Most  High. 
But  wherefore  error  ?  who  can  prove  it  such  1 
He  that  can  set  Omnipotence  a  bound, 
Can  man  conceive  beyond  what  God  can  do? 
Nothing,  but  quite  impossible,  is  hard. 
He  summons  into  being,  with  like  ease, 
A  whole  creation,  and  a  single  grain. 
Speaks  he  the  word !  a  thousand  worlds  are  born 
A  thousand  worlds !  there's  space  for  millions  more 
And  in  what  space  can  his  great  fiat  fail  ? 
Condemn  me  not,  cold  critic !  but  indulge 
The  warm  imagination :  why  condemn? 
Why  not  indulge  such  thoughts  as  swell  our  hearts 
With  fuller  admiration  of  that  Power 


Who  gives  our  hearts  with  such  high  thoughts  to 

swell! 

Why  not  indulge  in  his  augmented  praise  1 
Darts  not  his  glory  a  still  brighter  ray, 
The  less  is  left  to  Chaos,  and  the  realms 
Of  hideous  Night,  where  Fancy  strays  aghast, 
And,  though  most  talkative,  makes  no  report  ? 

Still  seems  my  thought  enormous?  think  again; 
Experience  self  shall  aid  thy  lame  belief. 
Glasses,  (that  revelation  to  the  sight !) 
Have  they  not  led  us  in  the  deep  disclose 
Of  fine-spun  Nature,  exquisitely  small, 
And,  though  demonstrated,  still  ill-conceived? 
[f,  then,  on  the  reverse  the  mind  would  mount 
tn  magnitude  ;  what  mind  can  mount  too  far, 
To  keep  the  balance,  and  creation  poise? 
Defect  alone  can  err  on  such  a  theme : 
What  is  too  great,  if  we  the  cause  survey  ? 
Stupendous  Architect!  Thou,  Thou,  art  all! 
My  soul  flics  up  and  down  in  thoughts  of  Thee, 
And  finds  herself  but  the  centre  still ! 
[  AM,  thy  name !  existence  all  thine  own ! 
Creation's  nothing,  flattered  much  if  styled 
The  thin,  the  fleeting  atmosphere  of  God.' 

O  for  the  voice — of  what?   of  whom? — what 

voice 

2an  answer  to  my  wants,  in  such  ascent 
As  dares  to  deem  one  universe  too  small  ? 
Tell  me,  Lorenzo !  (for  now  Fancy  glows, 
Fired  in  the  vortex  of  almighty  power) 
Is  not  this  home-creation,  in  the  map 
Of  universal  Nature,  as  a  speck, 
Like  fair  Britannia,  in  our  little  ball ; 
Exceeding  fair  and  glorious,  for  its  size, 
But,  elsewhere,  far  outmeasured,  far  outshone? 
In  fancy  (for  the  fact  beyond  us  lies) 
Canst  thou  not  figure  it,  an  isle  almost 
Too  small  for  notice  in  the  vast  of  being ; 
Severed  by  mighty  seas  of  unbuilt  space 
From  other  realms ;  from  ample  continents 
Of  higher  life,  where  nobler  natives  dwell ; 
Less  northern,  less  remote  from  Deity. 
Glowing  beneath  the  line  of  the  Supreme, 
Where  souls  in  excellence  make  haste,  put  forth 
Luxuriant  growths,  nor  the  late  autumn  wait 
Of  human  worth,  but  ripen  soon  to  gods  ? 

Yet  why  drown  Fancy  in  such  depths  as  these? 
Return,  presumptuous  Rover !  and  confess 
The  bounds  of  man,  nor  blame  them,  as  too  small. 
Enjoy  we  not  full  scope  in  what  is  seen? 
Full  ample  the  dominions  of  the  sun ! 
Full  glorious  to  behold  !  how  far,  how  wide 
The  matchless  monarch  from  his  flaming  throne, 
Lavish  of  lustre,  throws  his  beams  about  him, 
Farther  and  faster  than  a  thought  can  fly, 
And  feeds  his  planets  with  eternal  fires! 
This  Heliopolis,  by  greater  far 
Than  the  proud  tyrant  of  the  Nile,  was  built ; 


THE  CONSOLATION. 


88 


And  He  alone  who  built  it,  can  destroy. 
Beyond  this  city  why  strays  human  thought  1 
One  wonderful  enough  for  man  to  know  ! 
One  infinite  enough  for  man  to  range! 
One  firmament  enough  for  man  to  read ! 
O  what  voluminous  instruction  here ! 
What  page  of  wisdom  is  denied  him  1  none, 
If  learning  his  chief  lesson  makes  him  wise. 
Nor  is  instruction  here  our  only  gain : 
There  dwells  a  noble  pathos  in  the  skies, 
Which  warms  our  passions,  proselytes  our  hearts. 
How  eloquently  shines  the  glowing  pole ! 
With  what  authority  it  gives  its  charge, 
Remonstrating  great  truths  in  style  sublime, 
Though  silent,  loud :  heard  earth  around ;  above 
The  planets  heard;  and  not  unheard  in  hell ; 
Hell  has  her  wonder,  though  too  proud  to  praise. 
Is  earth,  then,  more  infernal?  has  she  those 
Who  neither  praise  (Lorenzo,)  nor  admire  1 

Lorenzo's  admiration,  pre-engaged, 
Ne'er  asked  the  moon  one  question ;  never  held 
Least  correspondence  with  a  single  star ; 
Ne'er  reared  an  altar  to  the  queen  of  Heaven 
Walking  in  brightness,  or  her  train  adored. 
Their  sublunary  rivals  have  long  since 
Engrossed  his  whole  devotion ;  stars  malign, 
Which  made  the  fond  astronomer  run  mad, 
Darken  his  intellect,  corrupt  his  heart ; 
Cause  him  to  sacrifice  his  fame  and  peace 
To  momentary  madness,  called  delight : 
Idolater  more  gross,  than  ever  kissed 
The  lifted  hand  to  Luna,  or  poured  out 
The  blood  to  Jove. — O  Thou,  to  whom  belongs 
All  sacrifice !  O  Thou  great  Jove  unfeigned ! 
Divine  Instructor !  Thy  first  volume  this 
For  man's  perusal ;  all  in  capitals ; 
In  moon  and  stars  (Heaven's  golden  alphabet,) 
Emblazed  to  seize  the  sighl,  who  runs  may  read  ; 
Who  reads  can  understand.     'Tis  unconfined 
To  Christian  land  or  Jewry;  fairly  writ, 
In  language  universal,  to  mankind ; 
A  language  lofty  to  the  learned,  yet  plain 
To  those  that  feed  the  flock,  or  guide  the  plough, 
Or  from  its  husk  strike  out  the  bounding  grain  : 
A  language  worthy  the  great  mind  that  speaks : 
Preface  and  comment  to  the  sacred  page, 
Which  oft  refers  its  reader  to  the  skies, 
As  presupposing  his  first  lesson  there, 
And  scripture  'self  a  fragment,  that  unread. 
Stupendous  book  of  wisdom  to  the  wise ! 
Stupendous  book!  and  opened,  Night,  by  thee. 

By  thee  much  opened,  I  confess,  O  Night ! 
Yet  more  I  wish ;  yet  how  shall  I  prevail  ? 
Say,  gentle  Night,  whose  modest  maiden  beams. 
Give  us  a  new  creation,  and  present 
The  world's  great  picture  softened  to  the  sight ; 
Nay,  kinder  far,  far  more  indulgent  still, 
Say  thou,  whose  mild  dominion's  silver  key 
Unlocks  our  hemisphere,  and  sets  to  view 


Worlds  beyond  number ;  worlds  concealed  by  day 
Behind  the  proud  and  envious  star  of  noon  ; 
Canst  thou  not  draw  a  deeper  scene, — and  show 
The  Mighty  Potentate,  to  whom  belong 
These  rich  regalia,  pompously  displayed 
To  kindle  that  high  hope  1  Like  him  of  Uz, 
I  gaze  around,  I  search  on  every  side — 

0  for  a  glimpse  of  Him  my  soul  adores : 
As  the  chased  hart,  amid  the  desert  waste, 
Pants  for  the  living  stream,  for  Him  who  made  her, 
So  pants  the  thirsty  soul  amid  the  blank 

Of  sublunary  joys.     Say,  goddess,  where — 
Where  blazes  his  bright  court  ?  where  burns  his 

throne  1 
Thou  knowest,  for  Thou  art  near  Him ;  by  thee, 

round 

His  grand  pavilion,  sacred  Fame  reports 
The  sable  curtain  drawn.     If  not,  can  none 
Of  thy  fair  daughter-train,  so  swift  of  wing, 
Who  travel  far,  discover  where  he  dwells? 
A  star  his  dwelling  pointed  out  below. 
Ye  Pleiades !  Arcturus !  Mazaroth ! 
And  thou,  Orion  !  of  still  keener  eye, 
Say  ye,  who  guide  the  wildered  in  the  waves, 
And  bring  them  out  of  tempest  into  port,— 
On  which  hand  must  I  bend  my  course  to  find  him? 
These  courtiers  keep  the  secret  of  their  king ; 

1  wake  whole  nights  in  vain,  to  steal  it  from  them. 

I  wake,  and,  waking,  climb  Night's  radiant  scale 
From  sphere  to  sphere,  the  steps  by  Nature  set 
For  man's  ascent,  at  once  to  tempt  and  aid  ; 
To  tempt  his  eye,  and  aid  his  towering  thought, 
Till  it  arrives  at  the  great  goal  of  all. 

In  ardent  Contemplation's  rapid  car, 
From  earth,  as  from  my  barrier,  I  set  out. 
How  swift  I  mount ;  diminished  earth  recedes : 
I  pass  the  moon ;  and,  from  her  farther  side, 
Pierce  Heaven's  blue  curtain ;  strike  into  remote ; 
Where,  with  his  lifted  tube,  the  subtle  sage 
His  artificial  airy  journey  takes, 
And  to  celestial  lengthens  human  sight. 
I  pause  at  every  planet  on  my  road, 
And  ask  for  Him  who  gives  their  orbs  to  roll, 
Their  foreheads  fair  to  shine.  From  Saturn's  ring, 
In  which  of  earth's  an  army  might  be  lost, 
With  the  bold  comet  take  my  bolder  flight, 
Amid  those  sovereign  glories  of  the  skies, 
Of  independent  native  lustre  proud ; 
The  souls  of  systems,  and  the  lords  of  life, 
Through   then*  wide  empires! — What  behold  I 

now! 

A  wilderness  of  wonder  burning  round, 
Where  larger  suns  inhabit  higher  spheres; 
Perhaps  the  villas  of  descending  gods ; 
Nor  halt  I  here ;  my  toil  is  but  begun  ; 
'Tis  but  the  threshold  of  the  Deity ; 
Or,  far  beneath  it,  I  am  groveling  still. 
Nor  is  it  strange;  I  built  on  a  mistake : 
The  grandeur  of  his  works,  whence  Folly  sought 


84 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


For  aid,  to  reason  sets  his  glory  higher ; 

Who  built  thus  high  for  worms  (mere  worm  to 

Him) 
O  where,  Lorenzo,  must  the  builder  dwell  1 

Pause,  then,  and  for  a  moment  here  respire — 
If  human  thought  can  keep  its  station  here. 
Where  am  I  ? — where  is  earth  1  nay,  where  art 

thou, 

O  Sun? — Is  the  sun  turn'd  recluse 7  and  are 
His  boasted  expeditions  short  to  mine  ? —      ^ 
To  mine  how  short !  On  Nature's  Alps  I  stand, 
And  see  a  thousand  firmaments  beneath : 
A  thousand  systems,  as  a  thousand  grains ! 
So  much  a  stranger,  and  so  late  arrived, 
How  can  man's  curious  spirit  not  inquire 
What  are  the  natives  of  this  world  sublime, 
Of  this  so  foreign  unterrestrial  sphere, 
Where  mortal,  untranslated,  never  strayed  ^ 

'  O  ye,  as  distant  from  my  little  home 
As  swiftest  sunbeams  in  an  age  can  fly ; 
Far  from  my  native  element  I  roam, 
In  quest  of  new  and  wonderful,  to  man. 
What  province  this,  of  his  immense  domain, 
Whom  all  obeys  ?  or  mortals  here,  or  gods  ? 
Ye  borderers  on  the  coasts  of  bliss !  what  are  you  1 
A  colony  from  Heaven  1  or  only  raised, 
By  frequent  visit  from  Heaven's   neighbouring 

realms, 

To  secondary  gods,  and  half  divine  ? 
Whate'er  your  nature,  this  is  past  dispute, 
Far  other  life  you  live,  far  other  tongue 
You  talk,  far  other  thought,  perhaps,  you  think, 
Than  man.     How  various  are  the  works  of  God  ! 
But  say,  what  thought?  Is  Reason  here  enthroned, 
And  absolute?  or  Sense  in  arms  against  her? 
Have  you  too  lights  ?  or  need  you  no  revealed  ? 
Enjoy  your  happy  realms  their  golden  age? 
And  had  your  Eden  an  abstemious  Eve? 
Our  Eve's  fair  daughters  prove  their  pedigree, 
And  ask  their  Adams — { Who  would  not  be  wise?' 
Or,  if  your  mother  fell,  are  you  redeemed  ? 
And  if  redeemed — is  your  Redeemer  scorned  ? 
Is  this  your  final  residence  ?  if  not, 
Change  you  your  scene  translated,  or  by  death  ? 
And  if  by  death,  what  death  ? — Know  you  disease, 
Or  horrid  war  ? — With  war,  this  fatal  hour, 
Europa  groans,  (so  call  we  a  small  field 
Where  kings  run  mad.)  In  our  world,  Death  deputes 
Intemperance  to  do  the  work  of  Age, 
And,  hanging  up  the  quiver  Nature  gave  him, 
As  slow  of  execution,  for  despatch 
Sends  forth  imperial  butchers ;  bids  them  slay 
Their  sheep,  (the  silly  sheep  they  fleeced  before) 
And  toss  him  twice  ten  thousand  at  a  meal. 
Sit  all  your  executioners  on  thrones  ? 
With  you,  can  rage  for  plunder,  make  a  god  ? 
And  bloodshed  wash  out  every  other  stain  ? — 
But  you,  perhaps,  can't  bleed :  from  matter  gross 
Your  spirits  clean  are  delicately  clad 


In  fine-spun  ether,  privileged  to  soar, 

Unloaded,  uninfected.     How  unlike 

The  lot  of  man !  how  few  of  human  race 

By  their  own  mud  unmurderedl  how  we  wage 

Self- war  eternal ! — Is  your  painful  day 

Of  hardy  conflict  o'er  ?  or  are  you  still 

Raw  candidates  at  school  ?  and  have  you  those 

Who  disaffect  reversions,  as  with  us  1 — 

But  what  are  we  ?  you  never  heard  of  man, 

Or  earth,  the  bedlam  of  the  universe ! 

Where  Reason  (undiseased  with  you)  runs  road, 

And  nurses  Folly's  children  as  her  own, 

Fond  of  the  foulest.     In  the  sacred  mount 

Of  Holiness,  where  Reason  is  pronounced 

Infallible,  and  thunders  like  a  god, 

E'en  there,  by  saints  the  demons  are  outdone ; 

What  these  think  wrong,  our  saints  refine  to  right ; 

And  kindly  teach  dull  Hell  her  own  black  arts : 

Satan,  instructed,  o'er  their  morals  smiles. — 

But  this  how  strange  to  you,  who  know  not  man  ? 

Has  the  least  rumour  of  our  race  arrived  ? 

Called  here  Elijah  in  his  flaming  car? 

Past  by  you  the  good  Enoch,  on  his  road 

To  those  fair  fields  whence  Lucifer  was  hurled 

Who  brushed^  perhaps,  your  sphere  in  his  descent, 

Stained  your  pure  crystal  ether,  or  let  fall 

A  short  eclipse  from  his  portentous  shade  ? 

O  that  the  fiend  had  lodged  on  some  broad  orb 

Athwart  his  way,  nor  reached  his  present  home, 

Then  blackened  earth,  with  footsteps  fouled  in  hell, 

Now  washed  in  ocean,  as  from  Rome  he  past 

To  Britain's  isle ;  too,  too  conspicuous  there.' 

But  this  is  all  digression :  where  is  He 
That  o'er  Heaven's  battlements  the  felon  hurled 
To  groans,  and  chains,  and  darkness  ?  where  is  He 
Who  .sees  creation's  summit  in  a  vale  ? 
He  whom,  while  man  is  man,  he  can't  but  seek, 
And  if  he  finds,  commences  more  than  man? 
O  for  a  telescope  his  throne  to  reach ! 
Tell  me,  ye  learned  on  earth !  or  blessed  above ! 
Ye  searching,  ye  Newtonian  angels  !  tell 
Where  your  Great  Master's  orb  ?  his  planets  where? 
Those  conscious  satellites,  those  morning-stars, 
First-born  of  Deity !  from  central  love, 
By  veneration  most  profound,  thrown  off; 
By  sweet  attraction  no  less  strongly  drawn ; 
Awed,  and  yet  raptured ;  raptured,  yet  serene; 
Past  thought  illustrious,  but  with  borrowed  beams ; 
In  still  approaching  circles  still  remote, 
Revolving  round  the  sun's  eternal  Sire? 
Or  sent,  in  lines  direct,  on  embassies 
To  nations — in  what  latitude  ? — beyond 
Terrestrial  thought's  horizon ! — and  on  what 
High  errands  sent  ? — Here  human  effort  ends, 
And  leaves  me  still  a  stranger  to  his  throne. 

Full  well  it  might !  I  quite  mistook  my  road ; 
Born  in  an  age  more  curious  than  devout ; 
More  fond  to  fix  the  place  of  Heaven  or  hell, 
Than  studious  this  to  shun,  or  that  secure. 


THE  CONSOLATION. 


85 


'Tis  not  the  curious,  but  the  pious  path 
That  leads  me  to  my  |>oint.     Lorenzo !  know, 
Without  or  star  or  angel  for  their  guide, 
Who  worship  God  shall  find  him.  Humble  Love 
And  not  proud  Reason,  keeps  the  door  of  Heaven 
Love  finds  admission  where  proud  Science  fails. 
Man's  science  is  the  culture  of  his  heart, 
And  not  to  lose  his  plummet  in  the  depths 
Of  Nature,  or  the  more  profound  of  GOD  : 
Either  to  know,  is  an  attempt  that  sets 
The  wisest  on  a  level  with  the  fool. 
To  fathom  Nature  (ill  attempted  here !) 
Past  doubt,  is  deep  philosophy  above; 
Higher  degrees  in  bliss  archangels  take, 
As  deeper  learned,  the  deepest  learning  still. 
For  what  a  thunder  of  Omnipotence 
(So  might  I  dare  to  speak)  is  seen  in  all  I 
In  man !  in  earth !  in  more  amazing  skies  1 
Teaching  this  lesson  Pride  is  loth  to  learn — 
'  Not  deeply  to  discern,  not  much  to  know, 
Mankind  was  born  to  wonder  and  adore !' 

And  is  there  cause  for  higher  wonder  still 
Than  that  which  struck  us  from  our  past  survey  si 
Yes,  and  for  deeper  admiration  too. 
From  my  late  airy  travel  unconfined, 
Have  I  learned  nothing  1 — Yes,  Lorenzo !  this ; 
Each  of  these  stars  is  a  religious  house ; 
I  saw  their  altars  smeke,  their  incense  rise, 
And  heard  hosannas  ring  through  every  sphere, 
A  seminary  fraught  with  future  gods. 
Nature  all  o'er  is  consecrated  ground, 
Teeming  with  growths  immortal  and  divine. 
The  great  Proprietor's  all-bounteous  hand 
Leaves  nothing  waste,  but  sows  these  fiery  fields 
With  seeds  of  Reason,  which  to  virtues  rise 
Beneath  his  genial  ray ;  and,  if  escaped 
The  pestilential  blasts  of  stubborn  will, 
When  grown  mature,  are  gathered  for  the  skies. 
And  is  devotion  thought  too  much  on  earth, 
When  beings,  so  superior,  homage  boast, 
And  triumph  in  prostrations  to  the  throne  7 

But  wherefore  more  of  planets  or  of  stars  1 
Ethereal  journies,  and,  discovered  there, 
Ten  thousand  worlds,  ten  thousand  ways  devout, 
All  Nature  sending  incense  to  the  throne, 
Except  the  bold  Lorenzos  of  our  sphere  1 
Opening  the  solemn  sources  of  my  soul, 
Since  I  have  poured,  like  feigned  Eridanus, 
My  flowing  numbers  o'er  the  flaming  skies, 
Nor  see  of  fancy  or  of  fact  what  more 
Invites  the  Muse — here  turn  we,  and  review 
Our  past  nocturnal  landscape  wide ; — then  say, 
Say,  then,  Lorenzo !  with  what  burst  of  heart 
The  whole,  at  once,  revolving  in  his  thought, 
Must  man  exclaim,  adoring  and  aghast  1 
1 0  what  a  root !  O  what  a  branch,  is  here  ! 
O  what  a  Father  !  what  a  family ! 
Worlds !  systems !  and  creations ! — and  creations, 
la  one  agglomerated  cluster,  hung, 


Great  Vine  !*  on  thee ;  on  thee  the  cluster  hangs, 
The  filial  cluster !  infinitely  spread 
In  glowing  globes,  with  various  being  fraught, 
And  drinks  (nectareous  draught !)  immortal  life. 
Or,  shall  I  say  (for  who  can  say  enough?) 
A  constellation  of  ten  thousand  gems, 
(And,  O!  of  what  dimension !  of  what  weight !) 
Set  in  one  signet,  flames  on  the  right  hand 
Of  Majesty  divine !   The  blazing  seal, 
That  deeply  stamps,  on  all  created  mind, 
Indelible,  his  sovereign  attributes,    . 
Omnipotence  and  Love !  that  passing  bound, 
And  this  surpassing  that.     Nor  stop  we  here 
For  want  of  power  in  God,  but  thought  in  man. 
E'en  this  acknowledged,  leaves  us  still  in  debt; 
If  greater  aught,  that  greater  all  is  thine, 
Dread  Sire ! — Accept  this  miniature  of  Thee, 
And  pardon  an  attempt  from  mortal  thought, 
In  which  archangels  might  have  failed,  unblamed 

How  such  ideas  of  th'  Almighty's  power, 
And  such  ideas  of  th'  Almighty's  plan, 
(Ideas  not  absurd)  distend  the  thought 
Of  feeble  mortals !  nor  of  them  alone ! 
The  fulness  of  the  Deity  breaks  forth 
In  inconceivables,  to  men  and  gods. 
Think,  then,  O  think,  nor  ever  drop  the  thought, 
How  low  must  man  descend  when  gods  adore! 
Have  I  not,  then,  accomplished  my  proud  boast  1 
Did  I  not  tell  thee '  We  would  mount,  Lorenzo! 
And  kindle  our  devotion  at  the  stars  Tt 

And  have  I  failed  ?  and  did  I  flatter  thee  ? 
And  art  all  adamant  1  and  dost  confute, 
All  urged,  with  one  irrefragable  smile  1 
Lorenzo !  mirth  how  miserable  here ! 
Swear  by  the  stars,  by  Him  who  made  them, 


Thy  heart,  henceforth,  shall  be  as  pure  as  they; 
Then  thou,  like  them,  shall  shine :  like  them,  shall 
rise 

From  low  to  lofty,  from  obscure  to  bright, 

By  due  gradation,  Nature's  sacred  law. 

The  stars  from  whence  ?— ask  Chaos — he  can  tell. 

These  bright  temptations  to  idolatry 

Prom  darkness  and  confusion  took  their  birth; 
Sons  of  Deformily !  from  fluid  dregs 
Tartarean,  firsl  Ihey  rose  to  masses  rude, 
And  then  to  spheres  opaque;  Ihen  dimly  shone, 
Then  brightened ;  then  blazed  out  in  perfect  day. 

STature  delights  in  progress,  in  advance 
From  worse  to  better;  but  when  minds  ascend, 
rogress,  in  part,  depends  upon  themselves. 

rleaven  aids  exertion.     Greater  makes  the  great . 
The  voluntary  little  lessens  more. 
O  be  a  man !  and  thou  shall  be  a  god ! 
And  half  self-made! — ambition  how  divine! 

O  thou,  ambitious  of  disgrace  alone ! 
Still  undevoul?  unkindlod? — Ihough  high  taught. 


•  John,  xv.  1. 


t  Sea  page  74. 


86 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Schooled  by  the  skies,  and  pupil  of  the  stars, 
Rank  coward  to  the  fashionable  world ! 
Art  thou  ashamed  to  bend  thy  knee  to  Heaven  1 
Cursed  fume  of  pride,  exhaled  from  deepest  hell! 
Pride  in  religion  is  man's  highest  praise. 
Bent  on  destruction !  and  in  love  with  death ! 
Not  all  these  luminaries,  quenched  at  once, 
Were  half  so  sad  as  one  benighted  mind, 
Which  gropes  for  happiness,  and  meets  despair. 
How  like  a  widow  in  her  weeds,  the  Night, 
Amid  her  glimmering  tapers,  silent  sits ! 
How  sorrowful,  how  desolate,  she  weeps 
Perpetual  dews,  and  sadden's  Nature's  scene !     , 
A  scene  more  sad  Sin  makes  the  darkened  soul, 
All  comfort  kills,  nor  leaves  one  spark  alive. 

Though  blind  of  heart,  still  open  is  thine  eye. 
Why  such  magnificence  in  all  thou  seest? 
Of  matter's  grandeur,  know  one  end  is  this, 
To  tell  the  rational,  who  gazes  on  it, — 
'  Though  that  immensely  great,  still  greater  he 
Whose  breast  capacious,  can  embrace  and  lodge, 
Unburdened,  Nature's  universal  scheme; 
Can  grasp  creation  with  a  single  thought ; 
Creation  grasp,  and  not  exclude  its  Sire.' — 
To  tell  him  farther — '  It  behoves  him  much 
To  guard  the  important,  yet  depending  fate 
Of  being,  brighter  than  a  thousand  suns; 
One  single  ray  of  thought  outshines  them  all.' — 
And  if  man  hears  obedient,  soon  he'll  soar 
Superior  heights,  and  on  his  purple  wing, 
His  purple  wing  bedropped  with  eyes  of  gold, 
Rising,  where  thought  is  now  denied  to  rise, 
Look  down  triumphant  on  these  dazzling  spheres. 

Why  then  persist  ? — no  mortal  ever  lived 
But,  dying,  he  pronounced  (when  words  are  true) 
The  whole  that  charms  the  absolutely  vain ; 
Vain,  and  far  worse! — Think  thou  with  dying 

men! 

O  condescend  to  think  as  angels  think ! 
O  tolerate  a  chance  for  happiness ! 
Our  nature  such,  ill  choice  insures  ill  fate ; 
And  hell  had  been  though  there  had  been  no  GOD. 
Dost  thou  not  know,  my  new  astronomer, 
Earth,  turning  from  the  sun,  brings  night  to  man  1 
Man,  turning  from  his  GOD,  brings  endless  night; 
Where  thou  canst  read  no  morals,  find  no  friend, 
Amend  no  manners,  and  expect  no  peace. 
How  deep  the  darkness!  and  the  groan  how  loud! 
And  far,  how  far,  from  lambent  are  the  flames ! — 
Such  is  Lorenzo's  purchase!  such  his  praise! 
The  proud,  the  politic  Lorenzo's  praise ; 
Though  in  his  ear,  and  levelled  at  his  heart, 
I've  half  read  o'er  the  volume  of  the  skies. 

For  think  not  thou  hast  heard  all  this  from  me; 
My  song  but  echoes  what  great  Nature  speaks. 
What  has  she  spoken?— Thus  the  goddess  spoke, 
Thus  speaks  for  ever:—'  Place,  at  Nature's  head, 
A  Sovereign  which  o'er  all  things  rolls  his  eye, 
Extends  his  wing,  promulgates  his  commands, 


But,  above  all,  diffuses  endless  good; 
To  whom,  for  sure  redress,  the  wronged  may  fly, 
The  vile  for  mercy,  and  the  pained  for  peace; 
By  whom  the  various  tenants  of  these  spheres, 
Diversified  in  fortunes,  place,  and  powers, 
Raised  in  enjoyment,  as  in  worth  they  rise, 
Arrive  at  length  (if  worthy  such  approach) 
At  that   blessed  fountain-head  from  which  they 

stream, 

Where  conflict  past  redoubles  present  joy, 
And  present  joy  looks  forward  on  increase, 
And  that  on  more !  no  period !  every  step 
A  double  boon !  a  promise  and  a  bliss.' 
How  easy  sits  this  scheme  on  human  hearts ! 
It  suits  their  make,  it  sooths  Jtheir  vast  desires ; 
Passion  is  pleased,  and  Reason  asks  no  more: 
'Tis rational !  'tis  great! — but  what  is  thine? 
It  darkens!  shpcks!  excruciates !  and  confounds ! 
Leaves  us  quite  naked,  both  of  help  and  hope, 
Sinking  from  bad  to  worse ;  few  years  the  sport 
Of  Fortune,  then  the  morsel  of  despair. 

Say  then,  Lorenzo!  (for  thou  know'st  it  well) 
What's  vice — mere  want  of  compass  in  our  thought. 
Religion  what? — the  proof  of  common  sense. 
How  art  thou  hooted  where  the  least  prevails ! 
It  is  my  fault  if  these  truths  call  thee  Fool  ? 
And  thou  shall  never  be  miscalled  by  me. 
Can  neither  Shame  nor  Terror  stand  thy  friend1? 
And  art  thou  still  an  insect  in  the  mire? 
How  like  thy  guardian-angel  have  I  flown, 
Snatched  thee  from  earth,  escorted  thee  through  all 
Th'  ethereal  armies,  walked  thee  like  a  god, 
Through  splendours  of  first  magnitude,  arranged 
On  either  hand ;  clouds  thrown  beneath  thy  feet ; 
Close  cruised  on  the  bright  paradise  of  God, 
And  almost  introduced  thee  to  the  throne ! 
And  art  thou  still  carousing,  for  delight, 
Rank  poison !  first  fermenting  to  mere  froth, 
And  then  subsiding  into  final  gall  ? 
To  beings  of  sublime,  immortal  make, 
How  shocking  is  all  joy  whose  end  is  sure! 
Such  joy  more  shocking  still,  the  more  it  charms  ' 
And  dost  thou  choose  what  ends  ere  well  begun, 
And  infamous  as  short?  and  dost  thou  choose 
(Thou,  to  whose  palate  glory  is  so  sweet) 
To  wade  into  perdition  through  contempt, 
Not  of  poor  bigots  only,  but  thy  own? 
For  I  have  peeped  into  thy  covered  heart, 
And  seen  it  blush  beneath  a  boastful  brow?  ' 
For  by  strong  Guilt's  most  violent  assault, 
Conscience  is  but  disabled ;  not  destroyed. 

O  thou  most  awful  being !  and  most  vain ! 
Thy  will  how  frail !  how  glorious  is  thy  power ! 
Though  dread  Eternity  has  sown  her  seeds 
Of  bliss  and  wo  in  thy  despotic  breast ; 
Though  Heaven  and  hell  depend  upon  thy  choice, 
A  butterfly  comes  cross,  and  both  are  fled. 
Is  this  the  picture  of  a  rational  ? 
This  horrid  image,  shall  it  be  most  just? 


THE  CONSOLATION. 


87 


Lorenzo !  no ;  it  can  not, — shall  not  be, 

If  there  is  force  in  reason,  or  in  sounds, 

Chanted  beneath  the  glimpses  of  the  moon 

A  magic,  at  this  planetary  hour, 

When  Slumber  locks  the  general  lip,  and  dreams 

Through  senseless  mazes,  hunt  souls  uninspired. 

Attend — the  sacred  mysteries  begin 

.My  solemn  night-born  adjuration  hear; 
Hear,  and  I'll  raise  thy  spirit  from  the  dust, 
While  the  stars  gaze  on  this  enchantment  new ; 
Enchantment  not  infernal,  but  divine ! 

'  By  Silence,  Death's  peculiar  attribute ; 
By  Darkness,  Guilt's  inevitable  doom; 
By  Darkness  and  by  Silence,  sisters  dread! 
That  draw  the  curtain  round  Night's  ebon  throne, 
And  raise  ideas  solemn  as  the  scene ! 

_-!it,  and  all  of  awful  Night  presents 
To  thought  or  sense  (of  awful  much,  to  both, 
The  goddess  brings!)  By  these  her  trembling  fires, 
Like  Vesta's,  ever  burning,  and,  like  her's, 
Sacred  to  thoughts  immaculate  and  pure ! 
By  these  bright  orators  that  prove  and  praise, 
And  press  thee  to  revere  the  Deity, 
Perhaps,  too,  aid  thee,  when  revered,  awhile, 
To  reach  his  throne,  as  stages  of  the  soul 
Through  which,  at  different  periods,  she  shall  pass, 
Refining  gradual,  for  the  final  height, 
And  purging  off  some  dross  at  every  sphere ! 
By  this  dark  pall  thrown  o'er  the  silent  world! 
By  the  world's  kings  and  kingdoms  most  renowned, 
From  short  Ambition's  zenith  set  for  ever, 
Sad  presage  to  vain  boasters,  now  in  bloom! 
By  the  long  list  of  swift  mortality, 
From  Adam  downward  to  this  evening  knell, 
Which  midnight  waves  in  Fancy's  startled  eye, 
And  shocks  her  with  an  hundred  centuries, 
Round  Death's  black  banner  thronged  in  human 

thought ! 

By  thousands  now  resigning  their  last  breath, 
And  calling  thee — wert  thou  so  wise  to  hear ! 
By  tombs  o'er  tombs  arising,  human  earth 
Ejected,  to  make  room  for — human  earth, 
The  monarch's  terror !  and  the  sexton's  trade ! 
By  pompous  obsequies  that  shun  the  day, 
The  torch  funereal,  and  the  nodding  plume, 
Which  makes  poor  man's  humiliation  proud, 
Boast  of  our  ruin !  triumph  of  our  dust ! 
By  the  damp  vault  that  weeps  o'er  royal  bones, 
And  the  pale  lamp  that  shows  the  ghastly  dead, 
More  ghastly  through  the  thick  incumbent  gloom! 
By  visits  (if  there  are)  from  darker  scenes, 
The  gliding  spectre!  and  the  groaning  grove ! 
By  groans,  and  graves,  and  miseries  that  groan 
For  the  grave's  shelter!  By  desponding  men, 
Senseless  to  pains  of  death  from  pangs  of  guilt! 
By  Guilt's  last  audit!  By  yon  moon  in  blood, 
The  rocking  firmament,  the  falling  stars, 
And  thunder's  last  discharge,  great  Nature's  knell ! 
By  second  Chaos,  and  eternal  Night, — 


Be  wise — nor  let  Philander  blame  my  charm; 
But  own  not  ill  discharged  my  double  debt, 
Love  to  the  living,  duty  to  the  dead. 

For  know  I'm  but  executor ;  he  left 
This  moral  legacy;  I  make  it  o'er 
By  his  command :  Philander  hear  in  me, 
And  Heaven  in  both. — If  deaf  to  these,  oh!  hear 
Florello's  tender  voice ;  his  weal  depends 
On  thy  resolve ;  it  trembles  at  thy  choice ; 
For  his  sake — love  thyself:  example  strikes 
All  human  hearts;  a  bad  example  more; 
More  still  a  father's;  that  insures  his  ruin. 
As  parent  of  his  being,  wouldst  thou  prove 
Th'  unnatural  parent  of  his  miseries, . 
And  make  him  curse  the  being  which  thou  gav'st? 
Is  this  the  blessing  of  so  fond  a  father7? 
If  careless  of  Lorenzo,  spare,  oh !  spare 
Florello's  father,  and  Philander's  friend! 
Florello's  father  ruined,  ruins  him ; 
And  from  Philander's  friend  the  world  expects 
A  conduct  no  dishonour  to  the  dead. 
Let  passion  do  what  nobler  motive  should ; 
Let  love  and  emulation  rise  in  aid 
To  reason,  and  persuade  thee  to  be — blessed. 

This  seems  not  a  request  to  be  denied ; 
Yet  (such  the  infatuation  of  mankind !) 
'Tis  the  most  hopeless  man  can  make  to  man. 
Shall  I  then  rise  in  argument  and  warmth'? 
And  urge  Philander's  posthumous  advice, 

From  topics  yet  unbroached? 

But,  oh !  I  faint !  my  spirits  fail !  nor  strange ! 
So  long  on  wing,  and  in  no  middle  clime! 
To  which  my  great  Creator's  glory  called ; 
And  calls — but  now,  in  vain.     Sleep's  dewy  wand 
Has  stroked  my  drooping  lids,  and  promises 
My  long  arrear  of  rest-:  the  downy  god 
(Wont  to  return  with  our  returning  peace) 
Will  pay,  ere  long,  and  bless  me  with  repose. 
Haste,  haste,  sweet  stranger !  from  the  peasant's 

cot, 

The  shipboy's  hammock,  or  the  soldier's  straw, 
Whence  Sorrow  never  chased  thee;   with  thee 

bring 

Not  hideous  visions,  as  of  late,  but  draughts 
Delicious  of  well-tasted  cordial  rest, 
Man's  rich  restorative;  his  balmy  bath, 
That  supples,  lubricates,  and  keeps  in  play 
The  various  movements  of  this  nice  machine, 
Which  asks  such  frequent  periods  of  repair. 
When  tired  with  vain  rotations  of  the  day, 
Sleep  winds  us  up  for  the  succeeding  dawn ; 
Fresh  we  spin  on,  till  sickness  clogs  our  wheels, 
Or  death  quite  breaks  the  spring,  and  motion  ends: 
When  will  it  end  with  me? 

'  THOU  only  know'st, 

Thou,  whose  broad  eye  the  future  and  the  past 

Joins  to  the  present,  making  one  of  three 

To  mortal  thought!  Thou  know'st,  and  Thou 

alone, 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


All-knowing !-all-unknown!-and  yet  well  known! 
Near,  though  remote!  and,  though  unfathomed, 

felt' 

And,  though  invisible,  for  ever  seen ! 
And  seen  in  all,  the  great  and  the  minute : 
Each  globe  above,  with  its  gigantic  race, 
Each  flower,  each  leaf,  with   its  small  people 

swarmed, 

(Those  puny  vouchers  of  Omnipotence !) 
To  the  first  thought  that  asks  '  From  whence  7' 

declare 

Their  common  source :  thou  fountain,  running  o'er 
In  rivers  of  communicated  joy ! 
Who  gav'stus  speech  for  far,  far  humbler  themes ! 
Say  by  what  name  shall  I  presume  to  call 
Him  I  see  burning  in  these  countless  suns, 
As  Moses  in  the  bush  1  Illustrious  Mind ! 
The  whole  creation  less,  far  less,  to  Thee, 
Than  that  to  the  creation's  ample  round, 
How  shall  I  name  Thee?— How  my  labouring 

soul 
Heaves  underneath  the  thought,  too  big  for  birth ! 

Great  System  of  perfections !  mighty  Cause 
Of  causes  mighty !  Cause  uncaused!  sole  root 
Of  Nature,  that  luxuriant  growth  of  God! 
First  Father  of  effects!  that  progeny 
Of  endless  series;  where  the  golden  chain's 
Last  link  admits  a  period,  who  can  tell? 
Father  of  all  that  is  or  heard  or  hears ! 
Father  of  all  that  is  or  seen  or  sees ! 
Father  of  all  that  is  or  shall  arise ! 
Father  of  this  immeasurable  mass 
Of  matter  multiform,  or  dense  or  rare, 
Opaque  or  lucid,  rapid  or  at  rest, 
Minute  or  passing  bound !  in  each  extreme 
Of  like  amaze  and  my  story -to  man. 
Father  of  these  bright  millions  of  the  night ! 
Of  which  the  least,  full  Godhead  had  proclaimed, 
And  thrown  the  gazer  on  his  knee — Or,  say, 
Is  appellation  higher  still  thy  choice  ? 
Father  of  matter's  temporary  lords ! 
Father  of  spirits !  nobler  offspring !  sparks 
Of  high  paternal  glory,  rich  endowed 
With  various  measures,  and  with  various  modes 
Of  instinct,  reason,  intuition ;  beams 
More  pale  or  bright  from  day  divine,  to  break 
The  dark  of  matter  organized  (the  ware 
Of  all  created  spirit)  beams  that  rise 
Each  over  other  in  superior  light, 
Till  the  last  ripens  into  lustre  strong, 
Of  next  approach  to  Godhead.    Father  fond 
(Far  fonder  than  ere  bore  that  name  on  earth) 
Of  intellectual  beings !  beings  blessed 
With  powers  to  please  thee,  not  of  passive  ply 
To  laws  they  know  not ;  beings  lodged  in  seats 
Of  well-adapted  joys,  in  different  domes 
Of  this  imperial  palace  for  thy  sons ; 
Of  this  proud,  populous,  well-policied, 
Though  boundless  habitation,  planned  by  Thee ; 


Whose  several  clans  their  several  climates  suit, 
And  transposition  doubtless,  would  destroy. 
Or,  oh !  indulge,  immortal  King !  indulge 
A  title  lest  august,  indeed,  but  more 
Endearing ;  ah !  how  sweet  in  human  ears ! 
Sweet  in  our  ears,  and  triumph  in  our  hearts ! 
Father  of  immortality  to  man ! 
A  theme -that  lately*  set  my  soul  on  fire — 
And  THOU  the  next !  yet  equal !  thou  by  whom 
That  blessing  was  conveyed,  far  more!    was 

bought,    . 
Ineffable  the  price !  by  whom  all  worlds 
Were  made,  and  one  redeemed!  illustrious  Light 
From  light  illustrious !  thou,  whose  regal  power, 
Finite  in  time,  but  infinite  in  space, 
On  more  than  adamantine  basis  fixed, 
O'er  more,  far  more,  than  diadems  and  thrones 
Inviolably  reigns,  the  dread  of  gods ! 
And,  oh !  the  friend  of  man !  beneath  whose  foot, 
And  by  the  mandate  of  whose  awful  not!, 
All  regions,  revolutions,  fortunes,  fates, 
Of  high,  of  low,  of  mind,  and  matter,  roll 
Through  the  short  channels  of  expiring  time, 
Or  shoreless  ocean  of  eternity, 

aim  or  tempestuous  (as  thy  Spirit  breathes) 
In  absolute  subjection ! — And,  O  THOU  ! 
The  glorious  Third !  distinct,  not  separate ! 
Beaming  from  both !  with  both  incorporate, 
And  (strange  to  tell !)  incorporate  with  dust ! 
By  condescension,  as  thy  glory,  great, 
Inshrined  in  man !  of  human  hearts,  if  pure, 
Divine  Inhabitant !  the  tie  divine 
Of  Heaven  with  distant  earth !  by  whom,  I  trust, 
(If  not  inspired)  uncensured  this  address 
To  Thee,  to  Them — to  whom  ? — mysterious  pow- 
er! 

Revealed — yet  unrevealed !  darkness  in  light ! 
Number  in  unity !  our  joy !  our  dread ! 
The  triple  bolt  that  lays  all  wrong  in  ruin! 
That  animates  all  right,  the  triple  sun ! 
Sun  of  the  soul !  her  never-setting  sun  ! 
Triune,  unutterable,  unconceived, 
Absconding,  yet  demonstrable,  Great  GOD  ! 
Greater  than  greatest !  better  than  the  best ! 
Kinder  than  kindest !  with  soft  Pity's  eye, 
Or  (stronger  still  to  speak  it)  with  thine  own, 
From  thy  bright  home,  from  that  high  firmament, 
Where  thou,  from  all  eternity,  hast  dwelt; 
Beyond  archangels'  unassisted  ken, 
From  far  above  what  mortals  highest  call, 
From  Elevation's  pinnacle,  look  down, 
Through — what  ?  confounding  interval !  through 

all, 

And  more,  than  labouring  Fancy  can  conceive ; 
Through  radiant  ranks  of. essences  unknown; 
Through  hierarchies  from  hierarchies  detached 
Round  various  banners  of  Omnipotence, 


'  See  Nights  the  Sixth  and  Seventh. 


THE  CONSOLATION. 


89 


With  endless  change  of  rapturous  duties  fired ; 
Through  wondrous  beings'  interposing  swarms, 
All  clustering  at  the  call,  to  dwell  in  thee ; 
Through  this  wide  waste  of  worlds!  this  vista  vast, 
All  sanded  o'er  with  suns,  suns  turned  to  night 
Before  thy  feeblest  beam— look  down-^down — 

down, 

On  a  poor  breathing  particle  in  dust, 
Or  lower,  an  immortal  in  his  crimes : 
His  crimes  forgive !  forgive  his  virtues  too ! 
Those  smaller  faults,  half-converts  to  the  right : 
Nor  let  me  close  these  eyes,  which  never  more 
May  see  the  sun  (though  Night's  descending  scale 
Now  weighs  up  Morn)  unpitied  and  unblessed ! 
In  thy  displeasure  dwells  eternal  pain ; 
Pain,  our  aversion;  pain  which  strikes  me  now; 
And  since  all  pain  is  terrible  to  man, 
Though  transient,  terrible;  at  thy  good  hour, 
Gently,  ah,  gently,  lay  me  in  my  bed, 
My  clay-cold  bed !  by  nature,  now,  so  near ; 
By  nature  near,  still  nearer  by  disease ! 
Till  then  be  this  an  emblem  of  my  grave ; 
Let  it  out  preach  the  preacher ;  every  night 
Let  it  outcry  the  boy  at  Philip's  ear, 
That  tongue  of  death  !  that  herald  of  the  tomb ! 
And  when  (the  shelter  of  thy  wing  implored) 
My  senses,  soothed,  shall  sink  in  soft  repose, 
O  sink  this  truth  still  deeper  in  my  soul, 
Suggested  by  my  pillow,  signed  by  Fate, 
First  in  Fate's  volume,  at  the  page  of  Man — 
'  Man's  sickly  soul,  though  turned  and  tossed  for 

ever 

From  side  to  side,  can  rest  on  nought  but  Thee ; 
Here  in  full  trust,  hereafter  in  full  joy:' 
On  Thee,  the  promised,  sure,  eternal  down 
Of  spirits  toiled  in  travel  through  this  vale : 
Nor  of  that  pillow  shall  my  soul  despond ; 
For— Love  almighty!  Love  almighty!  (sing, 
Exult,  Creation ! )  Love  almighty  reigns ! 
That  death  of  death !  that  cordial  of  despair 
And  loud  Eternity's  triumphant  song ! 

Of  whom  no  more : — for,  O  thou  Patron-God ! 
Thou  God  and  mortal !  thence  more  God  to  man! 
Man's  theme  eternal !  man's  eternal  theme ! 
Thou  canst  not  'scape  uninjured  from  our  praise : 
Uninjured  from  our  praise  can  he  escape 
Who,  disembosomed  from  the  Father,  bows 
The  Heaven  of  heavens  to  kiss  the  distant  earth ! 
Breathes  out  in  agonies  a  sinless  soul ! 
Against  the  cross  Death's  iron  sceptre  breaks ! 
From  famished  Ruin  plucks  her  human  prey! 
Throws  wide  the  gates  celestial  to  his  foes ! 
Their  gratitude,  for  such  a  boundless  debt, 
Deputes  their  suffering  brothers  to  receive ! 
And  if  deep  human  guilt  in  payment  fails, 
As  deeper  guilt,  prohibits  our  despair ! 
Enjoys  it,  as  our  duty,  to  rejoice ! 
And  (to  close  all)  omnipotently  kind, 


Takes  his  delights  among  the  sons  of  men.'* 

What  words  are  these — and  did  they  come  from 

Heaven  ? 

And  were  they  spoke  to  man  7  to  guilty  man? 
What  are  all  mysteries  to  love  like  this  1 
The  songs  of  angels,  all  the  melodies 
Of  choral  gods,  are  wafted  in  the  sound 
Heal  and  exhilarate  the  broken  heart, 
Though  plunged,  before,  in  horrors  dark  as  night : 
Rich  preUbation  of  consummate  joy  ! 
Nor  wait  we  dissolution  to  be  blessed. 

This  final  effort  of  the  moral  Muse, 
How  justly  titled  !t  nor  for  me  alone ; 
For  all  that  read.    What  spirit  of  support, 
What  heights  of  Consolation,  crown  my  song  1 

Then  farewell  Night!  of  darkness,  now,  no 

more; 

Joy  breaks,  shines,  triumphs;  'tis  eternal  day! 
Shall  that  which  rises  out  of  nought  complain 
Of  a  few  evils,  paid  with  endless  joys? 
My  soul!  henceforth,  in  sweetest  union  join 
The  two  supports  of  human  happiness, 
Which  some,  erroneous,  think  can  never  meet, 
True  taste  of  life,  and  constant  thought  of  death ! 
The  thought  of  death,  sole  victor  of  its  dread ! 
Hope  be  thy  joy,  and  probity  thy  skill ; 
Thy  patron  HE  whose  diadem  has  dropped 
Yon  gems  of  Heaven,  eternity  thy  prize ; 
And  leave  the  racers  of  the  world  their  own, 
Their  feather  and  their  froth,  for  endless  toils : 
They  part  with  all,  for  that  which  is  not  bread ; 
They  mortify,  they  starve,  on  wealth,  fame,  power, 
And  laugh  to  scorn  the  fools  that  aim  at  more. 
How  must  a  spirit,  late  escaped  from  earth, 
Suppose  Philander's,  Lucia's,  or  Narcissa's, 
The  truth  of  things  new  blazing  in  its  eye, 
Look  back  astonished  on  the  ways  of  men, 
Whose  lives'  whole  drift  is  to  forget  their  graves ! 
And  when  our  present  privilege  is  past, 
To  scourge  us  with  due  sense  of  its  abuse, 
The  same  astonishment  will  seize  us  all. 
What  then  must  pain  us,  would  presexve  us  now. 
Lorenzo !  'tis  not  yet  too  late.     Lorenzo ! 
Seize  wisdom,  ere  'tis  torment  to  be  wise ; 
That  is,  seize  wisdom  ere  she  seizes  thee. 
For  what,  my  small  philosopher!  is  hell  1 
'Tis  nothing  but  full  knowledge  of  the  truth, 
When  Truth,  resisted  long,  is  sworn  our  foe, 
And  calls  Eternity  to  do  her  right. 

Thus  darkness  aiding  intellectual  light, 
And  sacred  Silence  whispering  truths  divine, 
And  truths  divine  converting  pain  to  peace, 
My  song  the  midnight  raven  has  outwinged, 
And  shot,  ambitious  of  unbounded  scenes, 
Beyond  the  flaming  limits  of  the  world 
Her  gloomy  flight.     But  what  avails  the  flight 


Prov.  chap.  viiL 


t  The  Consolation. 


90 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Of  Fancy,  when  our  hearts  remain  below? 
Virtue  abounds  in  flatterers  and  foes ; 
'Tis  pride  to  praise  her,  penance  to  perform. 
To  more  than  words,  to  more  than  worth  of 

tongue, 

Lorenzo !  rise,  at  this  auspicious  hour, 
An  hour  when  Heaven's  most  intimate  with  man ; 
'When,  like  a  falling  star,  the  ray  divine 
Glides  swift  into  the  bosom  of  the  just ; 


And  just  are  all,  determined  to  reclaim ; 
Which  sets  that  title  high  within  thy  reach. 
Awake,  then ;  thy  Philander  calls :  awake  ! 
Thou,  who  shalt  wake  when  the  Creation  sleeps : 
When  like  a  taper,  all  these  suns  expire ; 
When  Time,  like  him  of  Gaza  in  his  wrath, 
In  Nature's  ample  ruins  lies  entombed, 
And  midnight,  universal  midnight !  reigns. 


ffitic  Hast  Sag, 

A  POEM. 

IN  THREE  BOOKS. 


Venit  summa  dies. —  Virg. 


DEDICATION  TO  THE  Q.UEEN. 

MADAM, 

MY  only  title  to  the  great  honour  I  now  do  my- 
self, is  the  obligation  I  have  formerly  received  from 
your  royal  indulgence;  which  I  remember  with 
the  utmost  gratitude.  I  was  indeed  uneasy,  till 
I  had  bethought  myself  of  sonic  means  of  reliev- 
ing my  heart  by  expressing  its  acknowledgments : 
my  inclination  carried  me  to  poetry ;  your  virtues 
determined  me  to  sacred  poetry  above  all  other ; 
and  in  that  kind  there  is  no  subject  more  exalted 
and  affecting  than  this  which  I  have  chosen :  its 
very  first  mention  snatches  away  the  soul  to  the 
borders  of  eternity,  surrounds  it  with  wonders, 
opens  to  it  on  every  hand  the  most  surprising  scenes 
of  awe  and  astonishment,  and  terminates  its  view 
with  nothing  less  than  the  fulness  of  glory,  and 
the  throne  of  God. 

But  this  may  seem  a  very  improper  season  for 
any  thing  of  so  grave  and  solemn  a  nature  to  pre- 
sent itself  before  you,  and  mingle  with  the  gaiety 
and  splendouf  of  universal  joy  and  thanksgiving : 
yet  if  we  consider  that  the  thoughts  which  you  will 
meet  in  the  following  pages  are  such  as  are  ever 
uppermost  in  your  own  heart;  and  that,  in  all  pro- 
bability, those  great  blessings  which  your  people 
now  enjoy,  are  the  reward  of  that  religious  bent 
of  mind  and  virtuous  disposition  in  their  Prince ; 
I  hope  that  may  seem  less  foreign  and  unseasona- 
ble, which  is  the  root  of  the  felicity  now  flourish- 
ing amongst  us,  and  shedding  its  ripened  fruits  on 
our  land. 

They  are  strangers  to  your  Majesty,  who  think, 
when  they  write  to  the  British  throne,  that  victo- 
ries and  triumphs  must  be  their  constant  theme ; 
they  know  not  there  is  something  you  hold  much 
dearer  than  either  your  fortune  or  your  glory :  they 
have  not  attended  to  your  unbounded  charities; 
they  have  not  heard  of  your  royal  care  and  gene- 


rosity to  those  who  serve  at  the  holy  altar ;  they 
never  sufficiently  admired  your  resolution  of  build- 
ing magnificently  to  the  LORD,  and  setting  wide 
the  gates  of  salvation :  in  a  word,  they  are  still  to 
be  informed,  that  prudent  counsels  and  successful 
arms,  well-ordered  states,  and  humbled  foes,  are 
only  the  second  glories  of  your  most  illustrious 
reign. 

It  is,  Madam,  a  prospect  truly  great  to  behold 
you  seated  on  your  throne,  surrounded  with  your 
faithful  counsellors  and  mighty  men  of  war,  issuing 
forth  commands  to  your  own  people,  or  giving  au- 
dience to  the  great  princes  and  powerful  rulers  of 
the  earth :  but  why  should  we  confine  your  glory 
here  1  I  am  pleased  to  see  you  rise  from  this  low- 
er world,  soaring  above  the  clouds,  passing  the 
first  and  second  heavens,  leaving  the  fixed  stars 
behind  you ;  nor  will  I  lose  you  there,  but  keep  you 
still  in  view  through  the  boundless  spaces  on  the 
other  side  of  creation,  in  your  journey  towards  eter- 
nal bliss ;  till  I  behold  the  Heaven  of  heavens  open, 
and  angels  receiving  and  conveying  you  still  on- 
ward from  the  stretch  of  my  imagination,  which 
tires  in  her  pursuit,  and  falls  back  again  to  the 
earth. 

What  a  panegyric  is  it  on  human  nature  to  con- 
sider that  it  shall  come  to  pass  in  some  future  time, 
through  which  the  thread  of  your  existence  shall 
run,  that  you  yourself  may  forget  this  glorious 
year*  or  make  its  remembrance  only  serve  by  com- 
parison to  recommend  superior  honours,  and  more 
splendid  renown  1  Let  us  tremble  at  the  power  of 
GOD,  and  adore  the  profusion  of  his  goodness  on 
us  his  creatures !  we  behold  thee,  O  dueen' !  great 
in  peace  and  war,  great  in  thy  alliance,  greater  in 
thyself!  We. see  thee  blessing  thy  people,  and 
composing  the  strifes  of  Europe ;  we  survey  thee 


'  The  year  1713,  when  the  peace  of  Utrecht  was  concluded 


THE  LAST  DAY. 


91 


in  this  full  light,  this  blaze  of  sublunary  greatness, 
and  own  thy  glory  is  not  yet  begun. 

Such  thoughts  might  appear  too  warm  and  af- 
fected on  another  occasion ;  but  they  are  so  natu- 
ral to  him  who  presents  such  a  theme  to  such  a 
Queen,  that  thry  are  not  without  violence  to  be 
suppressed.  When  at  your  royal  leisure  you  turn 
over  the  following  sheets,  if  you  find  any  thing 
that  encourages  virtue,  or  disheartens  vice,  let  it 
intercede  for  pardon  of  my  many  defects  and  er- 
rors. 

That  your  reign  may  be  as  pious  as  it  is  glori- 
ous, and  give  posterity  as  many  instances  of  ex- 
emplary virtue  and  religion,  as  it  will  of  eminent 
talents  and  extraordinary  capacities ;  that  it  may 
not  only  shine  in  history  and  be  great  in  the  an- 
nals of  the  earth,  but  also  be  set  down  in  the  ob- 
servation of  angels,  and  with  distinguished  cha- 
racters be  written  in  the  book  of  life,  to  give  joy 
at  the  GREAT  DAY  ;  is  the  constant  prayer  of  him 
who  is  (as  most  particularly  obliged  to  be) 
Your  Majesty's 
Most  humble 

And  most  obedient  Servant, 
EDWARD  YOUNG. 


BOOK  I. 

Ipee  pater,  media  nimborum  in  nocte,  corusca 
Fulmina  molitur  dextra.  Quo  maxima  motu 
Terra  tremit :  fugere  ferae ;  et  mortalia  corda 
Per  gentes  humilis  stravit  pavor. Virg. 

WHILE  others  sing  the  fortune  of  the  great, 
Empire  and  arms,  and  all  the  pomp  of  state, 
With  Britain's  hero*  set  their  souls  on  fire, 
And  grow  immortal  as  his  deeds  inspire, 
I  draw  a  deeper  scene ;  a  scene  that  yields 
A  louder  trumpet,  and  more  dreadful  fields ; 
The  world  alarmed,  both  earth  and  heaven  o'er- 

thrown, 

And  gasping  Nature's  last  tremendous  groan ; 
Death's  ancient  sceptre  broke,  the  teeming  tomb, 
The  righteous  Judge,  and  man's  eternal  doom ! 
'Twixt  joy  and  pain  I  view  the  bold  design, 
And  ask  my  anxious  heart  if  it  be  mine  1 
Whatever  great  or  dreadful  has  been  done 
Within  the  sight  of  conscious  stars  or  sun, 
Is  far  beneath  my  daring ;  I  look  down 
On  all  the  splendours  of  the  British  crown. 
This  globe  is  for  my  verse  a  narrow  bound ; 
Attend  me,  all  ye  glorious  worlds  around ! 
O  all  ye  angels,  howsoe'er  disjoined, 
Of  every  various  order,  place,  and  kind, 
Hear,  and  assist  a  feeble  mortal's  lays ; 
'Tis  your  eternal  King  I  strive  to  praise. 


The  Duke  of  Marlborough. 


But  chiefly  thou,  great  ruler !  Lord  of  all ! 
Before  whose  throne  archangels  prostrate  fall ; 
If  at  thy  nod,  from  discord  and  from  night, 
Sprang  beauty,  and  yon  sparkling  worlds  of  light, 
Exalt  e'en  me ;  all  inward  tumults  quell ; 
The  clouda  and  darkness  of  my  mind  dispel ; 
To  my  great  subject  thou  my  breast  inspire, 
And  raise  my  labouring  soul  with  equal  fire. 

Man !  bear  thy  brow  aloft,  view  every  grace 
In  GOD'S  great  offspring,  beauteous  Nature's  face ; 
See  Spring's  gay  bloom,  see  golden  Autumn's  store, 
See  how  Earth  smiles,  and  hear  old  Ocean  roar. 
Leviathans  but  heave  their  cumbrous  mail, 
It  makes  a  tide,  and  wind-bound  navies  sail. 
Here  forests  rise,  the  mountains  awful  pride ; 
Here  rivers  measure  climes,  and  worlds  divide : 
There  vallies,  fraught  with  gold's  resplendent  seeds, 
Holds  kings'  and  kingdoms'  fortunes  in  their  beds : 
There  to  the  skies  aspiring  hills  ascend, 
And  into  distant  lands  their  shades  extend. 
View  cities,  armies,  fleets ;  of  fleets  the  pride, 
See  Europe's  law  in  Albion's  channel  ride. 
View  the  whole  earth's  vast  landscape,  unconfined, 
Or  view  in  Britain  all  her  glories  joined. 

Then  let  the  firmament  thy  wonder  raise ; 
'Twill  raise  thy  wonder,  but  transcend  thy  praise. 
How  far  from  east  to  west  1  the  labouring  eye 
Can  scarce  the  distant  azure  bounds  descry: 
Wide  theatre !  where  tempests  play  at  large, 
And  God's  right  hand  can  all  its  wrath  discharge. 
Mark  how  those  radiant  lamps  inflame  the  pole, 
Call  forth  the  seasons,  and  the  year  control: 
They  shine  through  time  with  an  unaltered  ray, 
See  this  grand  period  rise,  and  that  decay : 
So  vast,  th^prorld's  a  grain;  yet  myriads  grace, 
With  golden  pomp,  the  thronged  ethereal  space ; 
So  bright,  with  such  a  wealth  of  glory  stored, 
'Twere  sin  Heathens  not  to  have  adored. 

How  great,  how  firm,  how  sacred,  all  appears 
How  worthy  an  immortal  round  of  years ! 
Yet  all  must  drop,  as  autumn's  sickliest  grain, 
And  earth  and  firmament  be  sought  in  vain: 
The  tract  forgot  where  constellations  shone, 
Or  where  the.  Stuarts  filled  an  awful  throne: 
Time  shall  be  slain,  all  nature  be  destroyed, 
Nor  leave  an  atom  in  the  mighty  void. 

Sooner  or  later,  in  some  future  date, 
(A  dreadful  secret  in  the  book  of  fate!) 
This  hour,  for  aught  all  human  wisdom  knows, 
Or  when  ten  thousand  harvests  more  have  rose; 
When  scenes  are  changed  on  this  revolving  earth, 
Old  empires  fall,  and  give  new  empires  birth; 
While  other  Bourbons  rule  in  other  lands, 
And  (if  man's  sin  forbids  not)  other  Annes; 
While  the  still  busy  world  is  treading  o'er 
The  paths  they  trode  five  thousand  years  before, 
Thoughtless  as  those  who  now  life's  mazes  run, 
Of  earth  dissolved,  or  an  extinguished  sun; 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Ye  sublunary  worlds!  awake,  awake! 
Ye  rulers  of  the  nations !  hear,  and  shake ! 
Thick  clouds  of  darkness  shall  arise  on  day, 
In  sudden  night  all  earth's  dominions  lay, 
Impetuous  winds  the  scattered  forests  rend, 
Eternal  mountains,  like  their  cedars,  bend ; 
The  valleys  yawn,  the  troubled  ocean  roar^ 
And  break  the  bondage  of  his  wonted  shore; 
A  sanguine  stain  the  silver  moon  o'erspread, 
Darkness  the  circle  of  the  sun  invade; 
From  inmost  heaven  incessant  thunders  roll, 
And  the  strong  echo  bound  from  pole  to  pole.  • 

When,  lo!  a  mighty  trump,  one  half  concealed 
In  clouds,  one  half  to  mortal  eye  revealed, 
Shall  pour  a  dreadful  note;  the'piercing  call 
Shall  rattle  in  the  centre  of  the  ball; 
The  extended  circuit  of  creation  shake, 
The  living  die  with  fear,  the  dead  awake. 

Oh,  powerful  blast !  to  which  no  equal  sound 
Did  e'er  the  frighted  ear  of  Nature  wound, 
Though  rival  clarions  have  been  strained  on  high, 
And  kindled  wars  immortal  through  the  sky; 
Though  God's  whole  enginery  discharged,  and  all 
The  rebel  angels  bellowed  in  their  fall. 
Have  angels  sinned  1  and  shall  not  man  beware? 
How  shall  a  son  of  earth  decline  the  snare  1 
Not  folded  arms,  and  slackness  of  the  mind, 
Can  promise  for  the  safety  of  mankind, 
None  are  supinely  good;  through  care  and -pain, 
And  various  arts,  the  steep  ascent  we  gain. 
This  is  the  scene  of  combat,  not  of  rest; 
Man's  is  laborious  happiness  at  best : 
On  this  side  death  his  dangers  never  cease; 
His  joys  are  joys  of  conquest,  not  of  peace. 

If  then,  obsequious  to  the  will  of  Ftffe, 
And  bending  to  the  terms  of  human  state, 
When  guilty  joys  invite  us  to  their  arms, 
When  Beauty  smiles,  or  Grandeur  spreads  her 

charms, 

The  conscious  soul  would  this  great  scene  display, 
Call  down  the  immortal  hosts  in  dread  array, 
The  trumpet  sound,  the  Christian  banner  spread, 
And  raise  from  silent  graves  the  trembling  dead ; 
Such  deep  impression  would  the  picture  make, 
No  power  on  earth  her  firm  resolve  could  shake ; 
Engaged  with  angels  she  would  greatly  stand, 
And  look  regardless  down  on  sea  and  land: 
Not  proffered  worlds  her  ardour  could  restrain, 
And  Death  might  shake  his  threatening  lance  in 

vain. 

Her  certain  conquest  would  endear  the  fight, 
And  danger  serve  but  to  exalt  delight. 

Instructed  thus  to  shun  the  fatal  spring 
Whence  flow  the  terrors  of  that  day  I  sing, 
More  boldly  we  our  labours  may  pursue, 
And  all  the  dreadful  image  set  to  view. 

The  sparkling  eye,  the  sleek  and  painted  breast, 
The  burnished  scale,  curled  train,  and  rising  crest, 


All  that  is  lovely  in  the  noxious  snake, 
Provokes  our  fear,  and  bids  us  flee  the  brake 
The  sting  once  drawn,  his  guiltless  beauties  rise 
In  pleasing  lustre,  and  detain  our  eyes; 
We  view  with  joy  what  once  did  horror  move, 
And  strong  aversion  softens  into  love. 

Say  then,  my  muse,  whom  dismal  scenes  de- 
light, 

Frequent  at  tombs,  and  in  the  realms  of  night; 
Say,  melancholy  maid  !  if  bold  to  dare, 
The  last  extremes  of  terror  and  despair, 
Oh  say  what  change  on  earth,  what  heart  in  man, 
This  blackest  moment  since  the  world  began. 

Ah  mournful  turn !  the  blissful  earth,  who  late 
At  leisure  on  her  axle  rolled  in  state, 
While  thousand  golden  planets  knew  no  rest, 
Still  onward  in  their  circling  journey  pressed; 
A  grateful  change  of  seasons  some  to  bring, 
And  sweet  \icissitudeoffall  and  spring; 
Some  through  vast  oceans  to  conduct  the  keel, 
And  some  those  wat'ry  worlds  to  sink  or  swell: 
Around  her  some  their  splendours  to  display, 
And  gild  her  globe  with  tributary  day : 
This  world  so  great,  of  joy  the  bright  abode, 
Heaven's  darling  child,  and  favourite  of  her  God, 
Now  looks  an  exile  from  her  Father's  care, 
Delivered  o'er  to  darkness  and  despair. 
No  sun  in  radiant  glory  shines  on  high, 
No  light,  but  from  the  terrors  of  the  sky; 
Fallen  are  her  mountains,  her  famed  rivers  lost, 
And  all  into  a  second  chaos  tossed : 
One  universal  ruin  spreads  abroad ; 
Nothing  is  safe  beneath  the  throne  of  God. 

Such,  Earth!  thy  fate:  what  then  canst  thou 

afford 

To  comfort  and  support  thy  guilty  lord? 
Man,  haughty  lord  of  all  beneath  the  moon, 
How  must  he  bend  his  soul's  ambition  down? 
Prostrate,  the  reptile  own,  and  disavow 
His  boasted  stature,  and  assuming  brow  ? 
Claim  kindred  with  the  clay,  and  curse  his  form, 
That  speaks  distinction  from  his  sister  worm? 
What  dreadful  pangs  the  trembling  heart  invade? 
Lord!   why  dost  thou   forsake  whom  thou  hast 

made? 

Who  can  sustain  thy  anger?  who  can  stand 
Beneath  the  terrors  of  thy  lifted  hand! 
It  flies  the  reach  of  thought:  oh,  save  me,  Power 
Of  powers  supreme,  in  that  tremendous  hour! 
Thou  who  beneath  the  frown  of  Fate  hast  stood, 
And  in  thy  dreadful  agony  sweat  blood; 
Thou  who  for  me,  through  every  throbbing  vein, 
Hast  felt  the  keenest  edge  of  mortal  pain ; 
Whom   Death  led  captive  through  the  realms 

below, 

And  taught  those  horrid  mysteries  of  wo; 
Defend  me,  O  my  God !  oh,  save  me,  Power 
Of  powers  supreme,  in  that  tremendous  hour! 


THE  LAST  DAY. 


From  east  to  west  they  lly,  from  pole  to  line, 
Imploring  shelter  from  the  wrath  divine; 
Beg  flames  to  wrap,  or  whelming  seas  to  sweep, 
Or  rocks  to  yawn,  compassionately  deep: 
Seas  cast  the  monster  forth  to  meet  his  doom, 
And  rocks  but  prison  up  for  wrath  to  come. 
So  fares  a  traitor  to  an  earthly  crown, 
While  Death  sits  threatening  in  his  prince's  frown, 
His  heart's  dismayed ;  and  now*his  fears  command 
To  change  his  native  for  a  distant  land  : 
Swill  orders  fly,  the  king's  severe  decree 
Stands  in  the  channel,  and  locks  up  the  sea; 
The  port  he  seeks  obedient  to  her  lord, 
Hurls  back  the  rebel  to  his  lifted  sword. 

But  why  this  idle  toil  to  paint  that  day  1 
This  time  elaborately  thrown  away! 
Words  all  in  vain  pant  after  the  distress, 
The  height  of  eloquence  would  make  it  less. 
Heavens !  how  the  good  man  trembles! — 

And  is  there  a  Last  Day  1  and  must  there  come 
A  sure,  a  fixed,  inexorable  doom? 
Ambition!  swell ;  and,  thy  proud  sails  to  show, 
Take  all  the  winds  that  Vanity  can  blow; 
Wealth !  on  a  golden  mountain  blazing  stand, 
And  reach  an  India  forth  in  either  hand; 
Spread  all  thy  purple  clusters,  tempting  Vine! 
And  thou,  more,dreaded  foe,  bright  Beauty  shine: 
Shine  all,  in  all  your  charms  together  rise, 
That  all,  in  all  you  charms,  I  may  despise, 
While  I  mount  upward  on  a  strong  desire, 
Borne,  like  Elijah,  on  a  car  of  fire. 

In  hopes  of  glory  to  be  quite  involved ! 
To  smile  at  death !  to  long  to  be  dissolved! 
From  our  decays  a  pleasure  to  receive! 
And  kindle  into  transport  at  a  grave ! 
What  equals  this?  and  shall  the  Victor  now 
Boast  the  proud  laurels  on  his  loaded  brow  ? 
Religion!  oh  thou  cherub, heavenly  bright! 
Oh  joys  unmixed,  and  fathomless  delight! 
Thou,  thou  art  all;  nor  find  I  in  the  whole 
Creation  aught  but  God  and  my  own  soul. 

For  ever,  then,  my  soul!  thy  God  adore, 
Nor  let  the  brute  creation  praise  him  more. 
Shall  tilings  inanimate  my  conduct  blame, 
And  flush  my  conscious  cheek  with  spreading 

shame'? 

They  all  for  him  pursue,  or  quit,  their  end; 
The  mounting  flames  their  burning  power  sus- 
pend; 

In  solid  heaps  the  unfrozen  billows  stand, 
To  rest  and  silence  awed  by  his  command  : 
Nay,  the  dire  monsters  that  infest  the  flood, 
By  nature  dreadful,  and  athirst  for  blood, 
His  will  can  calm,  their  savage  tempers  bind, 
And  turn  to  mild  protectors  of  mankind. 
Did  not  the  prophet  this  great  truth  maintain 
In  the  deep  chambers  of  the  gloomy  main, 
When  darkness  round  him  all  her  horrors  spread, 
And  the  loud  ocean  bellowed  o'er  his  head  ? 


When  now  the  thunders  roar,  the  lightning 

flies, 

And  all  the  warring  winds  tumultuous  rise ; 
When  now  the  foaming  surges  tossed  on  high, 
Disclose  the  sands  beneath,  and  touch  the  sky ; 
When  death  draws  near,  the  mariners  aghast 
Look  back  with  terror  on  their  actions  past, 
Their  courage  sickens  into  deep  dismay, 
Their  hearts,  through  fear  and  anguish,  melt  away; 
Nor  tears,  nor  prayers,  the  tempest  can  appease ; 
Now  they  devote  their  treasure  to  the  seas ; 
Unload  their  shattered  bark,  though  richly  fraught, 
And  think  the  hopes  of  life  are  cheaply  bought 
With  gems  and  gold ;  but,  oh,  the  storm  so  high! 
Nor  gems  not  gold  the  hopes  of  life  can  buy. 

The  trembling  prophet  then,  themselves  to  save, 
They  headlong  plunge  into  the  briny  wave ; 
Down  he  descends,  and,  booming  o'er  his  head 
The  billows  close  ;  he's  numbered  with  the  dead. 
(Hear,  O  ye  just!  attend  ye  virtuous fe.w! 
And  the  bright  paths  of  piety  pursue) 
Lo!  the  great  Ruler  of  the  world,  from  high, 
Looks  smiling  down  with  a  propitious  «ye, 
Covers  his  servant  with  his  gracious  hand, 
And  bids  tempestuous  Nature  silent  stand ; 
Commands  the  peaceful  waters  to  give  place, 
Or  kindly  fold  him  in  a  soft  embrace ; 
He  bridles  in  the  monsters  of  the  deep ; 
The  bridled  monsters  awful  distance  keep : 
Forget  their  hunger  while  they  view  their  prey, 
And  guiltless  gaze,  and  round  the  stranger  play. 

But  still  arise  new  wonders :  Nature's  Lord 
Sends  forth  into  the  deep  his  powerful  word, 
And  calls  the  great  leviathan ;  the  great 
Leviathan  attends  in  all  his  state, 
Exults  for  joy,  and,  with  a  mighty  bound, 
Makes  the  sea  shake,  and  heaven  and  earth  re- 
sound, 

Blackens  the  waters  with  the  rising  sand, 
And  drives  vast  billows  to  the  distant  land. 
As  yawns  an  earthquake,  when  imprisoned  air 
Struggles  for  vent,  and  lays  the  centre  bare, 
The  whale  expands  his  jaws  enormous  size, 
The  prophet  views  the  cavern  with  surprise, 
Measures  his  monstrous  teeth,  afar  descried, 
And  rolls  his  wondering  eyes  from  side  to  side ; 
Then  takes  possession  of  the  spacious  seat, 
And  sails  secure  within  the  dark  retreat. 

Now  is  he  pleased  the  northern  blast  to  hear, 
And  hangs  on  liquid  mountains  void  of  fear, 
Or  falls,  immersed,  into  the  depths  below, 
Where  the  dead  silent  waters  never  flow ; 
To  the  foundations  of  the  hills  conveyed, 
Dwells  in  the  shelving  mountain's  dreadful  shade  j 
Where  plummet  never  reached  he  draws  his  breath, 
And  glides  serenely  through  the  paths  of  death. 
Two  wondrous  days  and  night*  through  coral 

groves, 
Through  labyrinths  of  rocks  and  sands  he  roves ; 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


When  the  third  morning  with  its  level  rays, 
The  mountains  gilds,  and  on  the  billows  plays, 
It  sees  the  king  of  waters  rise  and  pour 
His  sacred  guest  uninjured  on  the  shore; 
A  type  of  that  great  blessing  which  the  Muse 
In  her  next  labour  ardently  pursues. 


BOOK  II. 


Au^sty  &7rot%oftiva>v  omtreo  <Ti  ©tat  TtKtBovlcii. 

PHOCYL. 
i.  e. 

We  hope  that  the  departed  will  rise  again  from  the  dust  ;  after 
which,  like  the  gods,  they  will  be  immortal. 


Now  man  awakes,  and  from  his  silent  bed, 
Where  he  has  slept  for  ages,  lifts  his  head, 
Shakes  off  the  slumber  often  thousand  years, 
And  on  the  borders  of  new  worlds  appears. 
Whate'er  the  bold,  the  rash  adventure  cost, 
In  wide  eternity  I  dare  be  lost. 
The  Muse  is  wont  in  narrow  bounds  to  sing, 
To  teach  the  swain,  or  celebrate  the  king: 
I  grasp' the  whole ;  no  more  to  parts  confined, 
I  lift  my  voice,  and  sing  to  human  kind : 
1  sing  to  men  and  angels ;  angels  join, 
While  such  the  theme,  their  sacred  songs  with 
mine. 

Again  the  trumpet's  intermitted  sound 
Rolls  the  wide  circuit  of  creation  round, 
A  universal  concourse  to  prepare 
Of  all  that  ever  breathed  the  vital  air ; 
In  some  wide  field,  which  active  whirlwinds  sweep, 
Drive  cities,  forests,  mountains  to  the  deep, 
To  smooth  and  lengthen  out  the  unbounded  space, 
And  spread  an  area  for  all  human  race. 

Now  monuments  prove  faithful  to  their  trust, 
And  render  back  their  long  committed  dust! 
Now  charnels  rattle;  scattered  limbs  and  all 
The  various  bones,  obsequious  to  the  call, 
Self-moved,  advance ;  the  neck,  perhaps,  to  meet 
The  distant  head;  the  distant  legs  the  feet. 
Dreadful  to  view,  see  through  the  dusky  sky 
Fragments  of  bodies  in  confusion  fly, 
To  distant  regions  journeying,  there  to  claim 
Deserted  members,  and  complete  the  frame. 

When  the  world  bowed  to  Rome's  almighty 

sword, 

Rome  bowed  to  Pompey,  and  confesssed  her  lord : 
Yet  one  day  lost,  this  deity  below 
Became  the  scorn  and  pity  of  his  foe; 
His  blood  a  traitor's  sacrifice  was  made, 
And  smoked  indignant  on  a  ruffian's  blade: 
No  trumpet's  sound,  no  gasping  army's  yell, 
Bid,  with  due  horror,  his  great  soul  farewell : 
Obscure  his  fall !  all  weltering  in  his  gore, 
His  trunk  was  cast  to  perish  on  the  shore ! 


While  Julius  frowned  the  bloody  monster  dead, 

Who  brought  the  world  in  his  great  rival's  head. 

This  severed  head  and  trunk  shall  join  once  more, 

Though  realms  now  rise  between  and  oceans  roar. 

The  trumpet's  sound  each  vagrant  mote  shall  hear, 

Or  fixed  in  earth,  or  if  afloat  in  air, 

Obey  the  signal  wafted  in  the  wind, 

And  not  one  sleeping  atom  lay  behind. 

So  swarming  bees  that  on  a  summer's  day 

In  airy  rings  and  wild  meanders  play, 

Charmed  with  the  brazen  sound,  their  wanderings 

end, 
And,  gently  circling,  on  a  bough  descend. 

The  body  thus  renewed,  the  conscious  soul, 
Which  has  perhaps  been  fluttering  near  the  pole, 
Or  midst  the  burning  planets  wondering  strayed, 
Or  hovered  o'er  where  her  pale  corpse  was  laid, 
Or  rather  coasted  on  her  final  state, 
And  feared,  or  wished  for  her  appointed  fate ; 
This  soul,  returning  with  a  constant  flame, 
Now  weds  for  ever  her  immortal  frame : 
Life,  which  ran  down  before,  so  high  is  wound, 
The  springs  maintain  an  everlasting  round. 
Thus  a  frail  model  of  the  work  designed 
First  takes  a  copy  of  the  builder's  mind; 
Before  the  structure  firm,  with  lasting  oak, 
And  marble  bowels  of  the  solid  rock, 
Turns  the  strong  arch,  and  bids  the  columns  rise, 
And  bear  the  lofty  palace  to  the  skies ; 
The  wrongs  of  time  enabled  to  surpass, 
With  bars  of  adamant  and  ribs  of  brass. 

That  ancient,  sacred,  and  illustrious  dome,* 
Where  soon  or  late  fair  Albion's  heroes  come 
From  camps  and  courts,  though  great,  or  wise,  or 

just, 

To  feed  the  worm,  and  moulder  into  dust ; 
That  solemn  mansion  of  the  royal  dead, 
Where  passing  slaves  o'er  sleeping  monarchs  tread, 
Now  populous  o'erflows ;  a  numerous  race 
Of  rising  kings  fill  all  the  extended  space : 
A  life  well  spent,  not  the  victorious  sword, 
Awards  the  crown,  and  styles  the  greater  lord. 

Nor  monuments  alone,  and  burial  earth, 
Labours  with  man  to  this  his  second  birth ; 
But  where. gay  palaces  in  pomp  arise, 
And  gilded  theatres  invade  the  skies, 
Nations  shall  wake,  whose  unrespected  bones 
Support  the  pride  of  their  luxurious  sons. 
The  most  magnificent  and  costly  dome 
Is  but  an  upper  chamber  to  a  tomb. 
No  spot  on  earth  but  has  supplied  a  grave, 
And  human  skulls  the  spacious  ocean  pave : 
All's  full  of  man ;  and  at  this  dreadful  turn 
The  swarm  shall  issue,  and  the  hive  shall  burn. 

Not  all  at  once,  nor  in  like  manner,  rise : 
Some  lift  with  pain  their  slow  unwilling  eyes, 


Westminster  Abbey. 


THE  LAST  DAY. 


Shrink  backward  from  the  terror  of  the  light, 
And  Moss  the  grave,  and  call  for  lasting  night ; 
Others,  whose  long-attempted  virtue  stood 

1  as  a  rock,  and  broke  the  rushing  flood, 
Whose  firm  resolve  nor  beauty  could  melt  down, 
Nor  raging  tyrants  from  their  posture  frown; 
Such,  in  this  day  of  horrors,  shall  be  seen 
To  face  the  thunders  with  a  godlike  mien. 
The  planets  drop,  their  thoughts  are  fixed  above ; 
The  centre  shakes,  their  hearts  disdain  to  move. 
An  earth  dissolving,  and  a  Heaven  thrown  wide, 
A  yawning  gulf,  and  fiends  on  every  side, 
Serene  they  view,  impatient  of  delay, 
And  bless  the  dawn  of  everlasting  day. 

Here  Greatness  prostrate  falls;  their  Strength 

gives  place. 

Here  layers  smile ;  their  Beauty  hides  her  face. 
Christiansand  Jews,  and  Turks,  and  Pagansstand, 
A  blended  throng,  one  undistinguished  band. 
Some  who,  perhaps,  by  mutual  wounds  expired, 
With  zeal  for  their  distinct  persuasions  fired, 
In  mutual  friendship  their  long  slumber  break, 
And  hand  in  hand  their  Saviour's  love  partake. 

But  none  are  flushed  witli  brighter  joy,  or,  warm 
With  juster  confidence,  enjoy  the  storm, 
Than  those  whose  pious  bounties,  unconfined, 
Have  made  them  public  fathers  of  mankind. 
In  that  illustrious  rank  what  shining  light 
With  such  distinguished  glory  fills  my  sight? 
Bond  down,  my  grateful  muse ;  that  homage  show, 
Which  to  such  worthies  thou  art  proud  to  owe. 
Wickham!  Fox!  Chichely!*  hail,  illustrious  names! 
Who  to  far  distant  times  dispense  your  beams ; 
Beneath  your  shades,  and  near  your  crystal  springs, 
I  first  presumed  to  touch  the  trembling  strings : 
All  had,  thrice  honoured,  'twas  your  great  renown 
To  bless  a  people,  and  oblige  a  crown ; 
And  now  you  rise,  eternally  to  shine, 
Eternally  to  drink  the  rays  divine. 

Indulgent  God !  oh,  how  shall  mortal  raise 
His  soul  to  due  returns  of  grateful  praise 
For  bounty  so  profuse  to  human  kind, 
Thy  wondrous  gift  of  an  eternal  mind  1 
Shall  I,  who  some  few  years  ago,  was  less 
Than  worm,  or  mite,  or  shadow  can  express, 
Was  nothing ;  shall  I  live,  when  every  fire 
Of  every  star  shall  languish  and  expire  1 
When  earth's  no  more,  shall  I  survive  above, 
And  through  the  radiant  files  of  angels  move  1 
Or,  as  before  the  throne  of  God  I  stand, 
See  new  worlds  rolling  from  his  spacious  hand, 
Where  our  adventures  shall  perhaps  be  taught, 
As  we  now  tell  how  Michael  sung  or  fought  ? 
All  that  has  being  in  full  consort  join, 
And  celebrate  the  depths  of  love  divine. 


*  Founders  of  New  College,  Corpus  Christi  and  All  Souls, 
in  Oxford ;  of  all  which  the  Author  was  a  member. 
20 


But,  oh,  before  this  blissful  state,  before 
The  aspiring  soul  this  wondrous  height  can  soar, 
The  Judge,  descending,  thunders  from  afar, 
And  all  mankind  is  summoned  to  the  bar. 

This  mighty  scene  I  next  presume  to  draw ; 
Attend,  great  Anna,  with  religious  awe : 
Expect  not  here  the  known  successful  arts 
To  win  attention,  and  command  our  hearts. 
Fiction !  be  far  away;  let  no  machine, 
Descending  here,  no  fabled  god,  be  seen ; 
Behold  the  God  of  gods  indeed  descend, 
And  worlds  unnumbered  his  approach  attend. 

Lo,  the  wide  theatre,  whose  ample  space 
Must  entertain  the  whole  of  human  race, 
At  Heaven's  all  powerful  edict  is  prepared, 
And  fenced  around  with  an  immortal  guard. 
Tribes,  provinces,  dominions,  worlds  o'erflow 
The  mighty  plain,  and  deluge  all  below, 
And  every  age  and  nation  pours  along ; 
Nimrod  and  Bourbon  mingle  in  the  throng ; 
Adam  salutes  his  youngest  son :  no  sign 
Of  all  those  ages  which  their  births  disjoin. 

How  empty  learning,  and  how  vain  is  art, 
But  as  it  mends  the  life,  and  guides  the  heart : 
What  volumes  have  been  swelled,  what  time  been 

spent, 

To  fix  a  hero's  birth-day  or  descent. 
What  joy  must  it  now  yield,  what  rapture  raise, 
To  see  the  glorious  race  of  ancient  days — 
To  greet  those  worthies  who  perhaps  have  stood 
Illustrious  on  record  before  the  flood  : 
Alas,  a  nearer  care  your  soul  demands ; 
Caesar  unnoted  in  your  presence  stands. 

How  vast  the  concourse !  not  in  number  more 
The  waves  that  break  on  the  resounding  shore, 
The  leaves  that  tremble  in  the  shady  grove, 
The  lamps  that  gild  the  spangled  vaults  above ; 
Those  overwhelming  armies,  whose  command 
Said  to  one  empire  Jail — another,  stand  ; 
Whose  rear  lay  wrapt  in  night,  while  breaking 

dawn 

Roused  the  broad  front,  and  called  the  battle  on ; 
Great  Xerxes'  world  in  arms,  proud  Cannae's  field, 
Where  Carthage  taught  victorious  Rome  to  yield, 
(Another  blow  had  broke  the  Fates'  decree, 
And  earth  had  wanted  her  fourth  monarchy) 
Immortal  Blenheim,  famed  Ramillia's  host ; 
They  all  are  here,  and  here  they  all  are  lost ; 
Their  millions  swell  to  be  discerned  in  vain, 
Lost  as  a  billow  in  th'  unbounded  main. 

This  echoing  voice  now  rends  the  yielding  air : 
'For  judgment,  judgment,  sons  of  men!  prepare!' 
Earth  shakes  anew,  I  hear  her  groans  profound, 
And  Hell  through  all  her  trembling  realms  resound. 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  thou  greatest  power  of  earth, 
Blessed  with  most  equal  planets  at  thy  birth, 
Whose  valour  drew  thj3  most  successful  sword, 
Most  realms  united  in  one  common  lord, 


96 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Who  on  the  day  of  triumph,  saidst,  '  Be  thine 
The  skies,  Jehovah;  all  this  world  is  mine;' 
Dare  not  to  lift  thine  eye. — Alas !  my  muse ! 
How  art  thou  lost?   what  numbers  canst  thou 
choose  1 

A  sudden  blush  inflames  the  waving  sky, 
And  now  the  crimson  curtains  open  fly; 
Lo !  far  within,  and  far  above  all  height, 
Where  Heaven's  great  Sovereign  reigns  in  worlds 

of  light. 

Whence  Nature  he  informs,  and  with  one  ray, 
Shot  from  his  eye,  does  all  her  works  survey, 
Creates,  supports,  confounds!  where  time  and  place, 
Matter,  and  form,  and  fortune,  life,  and  grace, 
Wait  humbly  at  the  footstool  of  their  God, 
And  move  obedient  at  his  awful  nod ; 
Whence  he  beholds  us  vagrant  emmets  crawl 
At  random  on  this  air-suspended  ball, 
(Speck  of  creation)  if  he  pour  one  breath, 
The  bubble  breaks,  and  'tis  eternal  death. 

Thence  issuing  I  behold,  (but  mortal  sight 
Sustains  not  such  a  rushing  sea  of  light) 
I  see  on  an  empyreal  flying  throne 
Sublimely  raised,  Heaven's  everlasting  Son, 
Crowned  with  that  majesty  which  formed  the  world, 
And  the  grand  rebel  flaming  downward  hurled ; 
Virtue,  Dominion,  Praise,  Omnipotence, 
Support  the  train  of  their  triumphant  Prince, 
A  zone,  beyond  the  thought  of  angels  bright, 
Around  him,  like  the  zodiac,  winds  its  light ; 
Night  shades  the  solemn  arches  of  his  brows, 
And  in  his  cheek  the  purple  morning  glows. 
Where'er,  serene,  he  turns  propitious  eyes, 
Or  we  expect,  or  find,  a  paradise ; 
But  if  resentment  reddens  their  mild  beams, 
The  Eden  kindles,  and  the  world's  in  flames. 
On  one  hand  Knowledge  shines  in  purest  light ; 
On  one,  the  sword  of  Justice,  fiercely  bright. 
Now  bend  the  knee  in  sport,  present  the  reed : 
Now  tell  the  scourged  Impostor  he  shall  bleed ! 

Thus  glorious  through  the  courts  of  Heaven, 

the  Source 

Of  life  and  death  eternal  bends  his  course ; 
Loud  thunders  round  him  roll,  and  lightnings  play; 
Th'  angelic  host  is  ranged  in  bright  array : 
Some  touch  the  string,  some  strike  the  sounding 


And  mingling  voices  in  rich  concert  swell ; 
Voices  seraphic !  blessed  with  such  a  strain, 
Could  Satan  hear,  he  were  a  god  again. 

Triumphant  King  of  glory !  Soul  of  bliss ! 
What  a  stupendous  turn  of  fate  is  this ! 
Oh !  whither  art  thou  raised  above  the  scorn 
And  indigence  of  him  in  Bethlehem  born; 
A  needless,  helpless,  unaccounted  guest, 
And  but  a  second  to  the  foddered  beast? 
How  changed  from  him  who,  meekly  prostrate  laid, 
Vouchsafed  to  wash  the  feet  himself  had  made  1 


From  him  who  was  betrayed,  forsook,  denied, 
Wept,  languished,  prayed,  bled,  thirsted,  groaned, 

and  died  ? 

Hung  pierced  and  bare,  insulted  by  the  foe, 
All  Heaven  in  tears  above,  earth  unconcerned  be- 
low? 

And  was 't  enough  to  bid  the  sun  retire  ? 
Why  did  not  Nature  at  thy  groan  expire? 
I  see,  I  hear,  I  feel,  the  pangs  divine ; 
The  world  is  vanished, — I  am  wholly  thine. 

Mistaken  Caiaphas !  ah,  which  blasphemed, 
Thou  or  thy  prisoner :  which  shall  be  condemned? 
Well  might'st  thou  rend  thy  garments,  well  ex- 
claim, 

Deep  are  the  horrors  of  eternal  flame ! 
But  God  is  good !  'tis  wondrous  all !  e'en  He 
Thou  gav'st  to  death,  shame,  torture,  died  for  thee. 

Now  the  descending  triumph  stops  its  flight, 
From  earth  full  twice  a  planetary  height ; 
There  all  the  clouds  condensed,  two  columns  raise, 
Distinct  with  orient  veins  and  golden  blaze ; 
One  fixed  on  earth,  and  one  in  sea,  and  round 
Its  ample  foot  the  swelling  billows  sound  : 
These  an  immeasurable  arch  support, 
The  grand  tribunal  of  this  awful  court : 
Sheets  of  bright  azure,  from  the  purest  sky, 
Stream  from  the  crystal  arch,  and  round  the  co- 
lumns fly : 

Death,  wrapt  in  chains,  low  at  the  basis  lies, 
And  on  the  point  of  his  own  arrow  dies. 

Here  high  enthroned  th'  eternal  Judge  is  placed, 
With  all  the  grandeur  of  his  godhead  graced ; 
Stars  on  his  robes  in  beauteous  order  meet, 
And  the  sun  burns  beneath  his  awful  feet. 

Now  an  archangel,  eminently  bright, 
From  off  his  silver  staff,  of  wondrous  height, 
Unfurls  the  Christian  flag,  which  waving  flies, 
And  shuts  and  opens  more  than  half  the  skies : 
The  Cross  so  strong  a  red,  it  sheds  a  stain 
Where'er  it  floats,  on  earth,  and  air,  and  main ; 
Flushes  the  hill,  and  sets  on  fire  the  wood, 
And  turns  the  deep-dyed  ocean  into  blood. 

O  formidable  glory  !  dreadful  bright ! 
Refulgent  torture  to  the  guilty  sight. 
Ah  turn,  unwary  muse  !  nor  dare  reveal 
What  horrid  thoughts  with  the  polluted  dwell. 
Say  not,  (to  make  the  sun  shrink  in  his  beam) 
Dare  not  affirm  they  wish  it  all  a  dream ; 
Wish  or  their  souls  may  wish  their  limbs  decay, 
Or  God  be  spoiled  of  his  eternal  sway : 
But  rather,  if  thou  know'st  the  means,  unfold 
How  they  with  transport  might  the  scene  behold. 

Ah  how !  but  by  repentance,  by  a  mind 
Gluick,  and  severe,  its  own  offence  to  find? 
By  tears,  and  groans,  and  never-ceasing  care, 
And  all  the  pious  violence  of  prayer  ? 
Thus  then,  with  fervency,  till  now  unknown, 
I  cast  my  heart  before  th'  eternal  throne, 


THE  LAST  DAY. 


97 


In  this  great  temple,  which  the  skies  surround 
For  homage  to  its  Lord  a  narrow  bound. 

'  O  Thou !  whose  balance  doth  the  mountains 

weigh, 

Whose  will  the  wild  tumultuous  seas  obey, 
Whose  breath  can  turn  those  wat'ry  worlds  to  flame, 
That  flame  to  tempest,  and  that  tempest  tame ; 
Earth's  meanest  son,  all  trembling,  prostrate  falls, 
And  on  the  boundless  of  thy  goodness  calls. 

1  Oh !  give  the  winds  all  past  offence  to  sweep, 
To  scatter  wide,  or  bury  in  the  deep : 
Thy  power,  my  weakness,  may  I  ever  see, 
And  wholly  dedicate  my  soul  to  thee : 
Reign  o'er  my  will;  my  passions  ebb  and  flow 
At  thy  command,  nor  human  motive  know ! 
If  anger  boil,  let  anger  be  my  praise, 
And  sin  the  graceful  indignation  raise : 
My  love  be  warm  to  succour  the  distressed, 
And  lift  the  burden  from  the  soul  oppressed. 

'  Oh  may  my  understanding  ever  read 
This  glorious  volume  which  thy  wisdom  made ! 
Who  decks  the  maiden  Spring  with  flowery  pride? 
Who  calls  forth  Summer,  like  a  sparkling  bride? 
Who  joys  the  mother  Autumn's  bed  to  crown  1 
And  bids  old  Winter  lay  her  honours  down  1 
Not  the  great  Ottoman,  or  greater  Czar, 
Not  Europe's  arbitress  of  peace  and  war. 
May  sea,  and  land,  and  earth,  and  heaven,  be 

joined, 

To  bring  the  eternal  Author  to  my  mind ! 
When  oceans  roar,  or  awful  thunders  roll, 
May  thoughts  of  thy  dread  vengeance  shake  my 

soul; 

When  earth's  in  bloom,  or  planets  proudly  shine, 
Adore,  my  heart,  the  majesty  Divine ! 

1  Through  every  scene  of  life,  or  peace  or  war, 
Plenty  or  want,  thy  glory  be  my  care ! 
Shine  we  in  arms  1  or  sing  beneath  our  vine  1 
Thine  is  the  vintage,  and  the  conquest  thine : 
Thy  pleasure  points  the  shaft,  and  bends  the  bow, 
The  cluster  blasts,  or  bids  it  brightly  glow : 
JTis  thou  that  lead'st  our  powerful  armies  forth, 
And  giv'st  great  Anne  thy  sceptre  o'er  the  North. 

'  Grant  I  may  ever,  at  the  morning  ray, 
Open  with  prayer  the  consecrated  day ; 
Tune  thy  great  praise,  and  bid  my  soul  arise, 
And  with  the  mounting  sun  ascend  the  skies ; 
As  that  advances,  let  my  zeal  improve, 
And  glow  with  ardour  of  consummate  love; 
Nor  cease  at  eve,  but  with  the  setting  sun 
My  endless  worship  shall  be  still  begun. 
And,  oh !  permit  the  gloom  of  solemn  Night 
To  sacred  thought  may  forcibly  invite. 
When  this  world's  shut,  and  awful  planets  rise; 
Call  on  our  minds,  and  raise  them  to  the  skies ; 
Compose  our  souls  with  a  less  dazzling  sight, 
And  show  all  nature  in  a  milder  light ; 
How  every  boist'rous  thought  in  calms  subsides ! 
How  the  smoothed  spirit  into  goodness  glides! 


Oh  how  divine !  to  dread  the  milky  way 
To  the  bright  palace  of  the  Lord  of  day; 
His  court  admire,  or  for  his  favour  sue, 
Or  leagues  of  friendship  with  his  saints  renew ; 
Pleased  to  look  down,  and  see  the  world  asleep, 
While  I  long  vigils  to  its  founder  keep ! 

1  Can'st  thou  not  shake  the  centre?  Oh,  control, 
Subdue  by  force,  the  rebel  in  my  soul. 
Thou  who  can'st  still  the  raging  of  the  flood, 
Restrain  the  various  tumults  of  my  blood : 
Teach  me,  with  equal  firmness,  to  sustain 
Alluring  pleasure,  and  assaulting  pain. 
Oh  may  I  pant  for  thee  in  each  desire ! 
And  with  strong  faith  foment  the  holy  fire ! 
Stretch  out  my  soul  in  hope,  and  grasp  the  prize 
Which  in  Eternity's  deep  bosom  lies ! 
At  the  great  day  of  recompense  behold, 
Devoid  of  fear,  the  fatal  book  unfold ! 
Then  wafted  upward  to  the  blissful  seat. 
From  age  to  age  my  grateful  song  repeat; 
My  light,  my  life,  my  God,  my  Saviour,  see, 
And  rival  angels  in  the  praise  of  thee !' 


BOOK  III. 


Esse  quoque  in  fatis  reminiscitur,  affore  tempus, 
Quo  mare,  quo  tellus,  correptaque  regia  coeli 
Ardeat;  et  mundi  moles  operosa  laboret. 

Ovid  Met. 

THE  book  unfolding,  the  resplendent  seat 
Of  saints  and  angels,  the  tremendous  fate 
Of  guilty  souls,  the  gloomy  realms  of  wo, 
And  all  the  horrors  of  the  world  below, 
I  next  presume  to  sing.     What  yet  remains 
Demands  my  last,  but  most  exalted  strains; 
And  let  the  muse  or  now  affect  the  sky, 
Or  in  inglorious  shades  for  ever  lie. 
She  kindles ;  she's  inflamed,  so  near  the  goal ; 
She  mounts ;  she  gains  upon  the  starry  pole  ; 
The  world  grows  less  as  she  pursues  her  flight, 
And  the  sun  darkens  to  her  distant  sight, 
Heaven  opening,  all  its  sacred  pomp  displays, 
And  overwhelms  her  with  the  rushing  blaze ! 
The  triumph  rings !  archangels  shout  around ! 
And  echoing  Nature  lengthens  out  the  sound  ! 

Then  thousand  trumpets  now  at  once  advance ; 
Now  deepest  silence  lulls  the  vast  expanse: 
So  deep  the  silence,  and  so  strong  the  blast, 
As  Nature  died,  when  she  had  groaned  her  last. 
Nor  man  nor  angel  moves ;  the  Judge  on  high 
Looks  round,  and  with  his  glory  fills  the  sky ; 
Then  on  the  fatal  book  his  hand  he  lays, 
Which  high  to  view  supporting  seraphs  raise; 
In  solemn  form  the  rituals  are  prepared, 
The  seal  is  broken,  and  a  groan  is  heard. 
And  thou,  my  soul !  (oh,  fall  to  sudden  prayer, 
And  let  the  thought  sink  deep!)  shall  thou  be 
there  7 


98 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


See  on  the  left  (for  by  the  great  command 
The  throng  divided  falls  on  either  hand) 
How  weak,  how  pale,  how  haggard,  how  obscene, 
What  more  than  death  in  every  face  and  mien  ? 
With  what  distress,  and  glarings  of  affright, 
They  shock  the  heart,  and  turn  away  the  sight? 
In  gloomy  orbs  their  trembling  eyeballs  roll, 
And  tell  the  horrid  secrets  of  the  soul : 
Each  gesture  mourns,  each  look  is  black  with  care, 
And  every  groan  is  laden  with  despair. 
Reader!  if  guilty,  spare  the  muse,  and  find 
A  truer  image  pictured. in  thy  mind. 

Should'st  thou  behold  thy  brother,  father,  wife, 
And  all  the  soft  companions  of  thy  life, 
Whose  blended  interests  leveled  at  one  aim, 
Whose  mixed  desires  sent  up  one  common  flame, 
Divided  far,  thy  wretched  self  alone 
Cast  on  the  left  of  all  whom  thou  hast  known, 
How  would  it  wound!   what  millions  would'st 

thou  give 

For  one  more  trial,  one  day  more  to  live  1 
Flung  back  in  time  an  hour,  a  moment's  space. 
To  grasp  with  eagerness  the  means  of  grace, 
Contend  for  mercy  with  a  pious  rage, 
And  in  that  moment  to  redeem  an  age  1 
Drive  back  the  tide,  suspend  a  storm  in  air, 
Arrest  the  sun,  but  still  of  this  despair. 

Mark,  on  the  right,  how  amiable  a  grace ! 
Their  Maker's  image  fresh  in  every  face ! 
What  purple  bloom  my  ravished  soul  admires, 
And  their  eyes  sparkling  with  immortal  fires ! 
Triumphant  Beauty!  charms  that  rise  above 
This  world,  and  in  blessed  angels  kindle  love ! 
To  the  great  Judge  with  holy  pride  they  turn, 
And  dare  behold  the  Almighty's  anger  burn, 
Its  flash  sustain,  against  its  terror  rise, 
And  on  the  dread  tribunal  fix  their  eyes, 
Are  these  the  forms  that  mouldered  in  the  dust  1 
Oh,  the  transcendent  glory  of  the  just! 
Yet  still  some  thin  remains  of  fear  and  doubt 
The  infected  brightness  of  their  joy  pollute. 
Thus  the  chaste  bridegroom,  when  the  priest  draws 

nigh, 

Beholds  his  blessing  with  a  trembling  eye, 
Feels  doubtful  passions  throb  in  every  vein, 
And  in  his  cheeks  are  mingled  joy  and  pain, 
Lest  still  some  intervening  chance  should  rise, 
Leap  forth  at  once,  and  snatch  the  golden  prize, 
Inflame  his  wo,  by  bringing  it  so  late, 
And  stab  him  in  the  crisis  of  his  fate. 

Since  Adam's  family,  from  first  to  last, 
Now  into  one  distinct  survey  is  cast, 
Look  round,  vain-glorious  Muse !  and  you  whoe'er 
Devote  yourselves  to  Fame,  and  think  her  fair, 
Look  round,  and  seek  the  lights  of  human  race, 
Whose  shining  acts  Time's  brightest  annals  grace; 
Who  founded   sects,  crowns   conquered  or   re- 
signed ; 
Gave  names  to  nations,  or  famed  empires  joined ; 


Who  raised  the  vale,  and  laid  the  mountain  low 
And  taught  obedient  rivers  where  to  flow; 
Who  with  vast  fleets,  as  with  a  mighty  chain, 
Could  bind  the  madness  of  the  roaring  main ; 
All  lost  1  all  undistinguished'?  nowhere  found? 
How  will  this  truth  in  Bourbon's  palace  sound  1 

That  hour,  on  which  the  Almighty  King  on 

high, 

From  all  eternity  has  fixed  his  eye, 
Whether  his  right  hand  favoured  or  annoyed, 
Continued,  altered,  threatened,  or  destroyed, 
Southern  or  eastern  sceptre  downward  hurled, 
Gave  north  or  west  dominion  o'er  the  \vorld ; 
The  point  of  time,  for  which  the  world  was  built, 
For  which  the  blood  of  God  himself  was  spilt, 
That  dreadful  moment  is  arrived. ! 

Aloft,  the  seats  of  bliss  their  pomp  display, 
Brighter  than  brightness  this  distinguished  day; 
Less  glorious  when  of  old  the  eternal  Son 
From  realms  of  night  returned  with  trophies  won : 
Through  Heaven's  high  gates  when  he  triumphant 

rode, 

And  shouting  angels  hailed  the  Victor-God. 
Horrors  beneath,  darkness  in  darkness,  hell 
Of  hell,  where  torments  behind  torments  dwell; 
A  furnace  formidable,  deep  and  wide, 
O'erboiling  with  a  mad  sulphureous  tide, 
Expands  its  jaws,  most  dreadful  to  survey, 
And  roars  outrageous  for  the  destined  prey  : 
The  sons  of  light  scarce  unappalled  look  down, 
And  nearer  press  Heaven's  everlasting  throne. 

Such  is  the  scene,  and  one   short  moment's 

space 

Concludes  the  hopes,  and  fears  of  human  race. 
Proceed  who  dares ! — I  tremble  as  I  write ; 
The  whole  creation  swims  before  my  sight ; 
I  see,  I  see  the  Judge's  frowning  brow: 
Say  not  'tis  distant ;  I  behold  it  now ; 
I  faint,  my  tardy  blood  forgets  to  flow, 
My  roul  recoils  at  the  stupendous  wo ; 
That  wo,  those  pangs,  which  from   the  guilty 

breast 
In  these,  or  words  like  these,  shall  be  expressed : — 

'  Who  burst  the  barriers  of  my  peaceful  grave  ? 
Ah !  cruel  Death,  that  would  no  longer  save, 
But  grudged  me  even  that  narrow  dark  abode, 
And  cast  me  out  into  the  wrath  of  God ; 
Where  shrieks,  the  roaring  flame,  the  rattling 

chain, 

And  all  the  dreadful  eloquence  of  pain, 
Our  only  song ;  black  fire's  malignant  light, 
The  sole  refreshment  of  the  blasted  sight. 

c  Must  all  those  powers  Heaven  gave  me  to  sup- 

piy 

My  soul  with  pleasure,  and  bring  in  my  joy, 
Rise  up  in  arms  against  me,  join  the  foe, 
Sense,  reason,  memory,  increase  my  wo? 
And  shall  my  voice,  ordained  on  hymns  to  dwell, 
Corrupt  to  groans,  and  blow  the  fires  of  hell  1 


THE  LAST  DAY. 


Oh  !•  must  I  look  with  terror  on  my  gain, 
And  with  existence  only  measure  pain '? 
What !  no  reprieve,  no  least  indulgence  given, 
No  beam  of  hope,  from  any  point  of  Heaven! 
Ah.  Mercy!  Mercy!  art  thou  dead  above? 
Is  love  extinguished  in  the  source  of  love  1 

1  Bold  that  I  am,  did  heaven  stoop  down  to  hell? 
The  expiring  Lord  of  life  my  ransom  seal  1 
Have  I  not  been  industrious  to  provoke! 
From  his  embraces  obstinately  broke  ? 
Pursued  and  panted  for  his  mortal  hate, 
Earned  jny  destruction,  laboured  out  my  fate  1 
And  dare  I  on  extinguished  love  exclaim  ? 
Take,  take  full  vengeance ;  rouse  the  slackening 

flame; 

Just  is  my  lot— but,  oh,  must  it  transcend 
The  reach  of  time,  despair  a  distant  end  1 
Where  dreadful  growth  shoot  forward,  and  arise 
Where  Thought  can't  follow,  and  bold  Fancy  dies. 

'  Xever!  where  falls  the  soul  at  that  dread  sound? 
Down  an  abyss  how  dark,  and  how  profound ! 
Down,  down,  (I  still  am  falling — horrid  pain!) 
Ten  thousand  thousand  fathoms  still  remain ; 
My  plunge  but  still  begun — and  this  for  sin  ? 
Could  I  offend  if  I  had  never  been, 
But  still  increased  the  senseless  happy  mass, 
Flowed  in  the  stream,  or  shivered  in  the  grass. 

1  Father  of  mercies !  why  from  silent  earth 
Didst  thou  awake,  and  curse  me  into  birth  1 
Tear  me  from  quiet,  ravish  me  from  night, 
And  make  a  thankless  present  of  thy  light  ? 
Push  into  being  a  reverse  of  thee, 
And  animate  a  clod  with  misery ! 

'  The  beasts  are  happy;  they  come  forth,  and 

keep 

Short  watch  on  earth,  and  then  lie  down  to  sleep: 
Pain  is  for  man ;  and,  oh,  how  vast  a  pain 
For  crimes  which  made  the  Godhead  bleed  in  vain? 
Annulled  his  groans,  as  far  as  in  them  lay, 
And  flung  his  agonies  and  death  away? 
As  our  dire  punishment  for  ever  strong, 
Our  constitution,  too,  for  ever  young, 
Cursed  with  returns  of  vigour,  still  the  same, 
Powerful  to  bear,  and  satisfy  the  flame ; 
Still  to  be  caught,  and  still  to  be  pursued ; 
To  perish  still,  and  still  to  be  renewed. 

'  And  this  my  help,  my  God,  at  thy  decree  ? 
Nature  is  changed,  and  hell  should  succour  me. 
Arid  canst  thou  then,  look  down  from  perfect  bliss, 
And  see  me  plunging  in  the  dark  abyss  ? 
Calling  thee  Father  in  a  sea  of  fire  ? 
Or  pouring  blasphemies  at  thy  desire  1 
With  mortals'  anguish  wilt  thou  raise  thy  name, 
And  by  my  pangs  Omnipotence  proclaim  ? 

1  Thou  who  canst  toss  the  planets  to  and  fro, 
Contract  not  thy  great  vengeance  to  my  wo ; 
Crush  worlds;  in  hotter  flames  fallen  angels  lay; 
On  me  almighty  wrath  is  cast  away. 


Call  back  thy  thunders,  Lord  :  hold  in  thy  rage, 
Nor  with  a  speck  of  wretchedness  engage; 
Forget  me  quite,  nor  stoop  a  worm  to  blame, 
But  lose  me  in  the  greatness  of  thy  name. 
Thou  art  all  love,  all  mercy,  all  divine, 
And  shall  I  make  those  glories  cease  to  shine  ? 
Shall  sinful  man  grow  great  by  his  offence, 
And  from  its  course  turn  back  Omnipotence  ? 

'  Forbid  it ;  and,  oh  grant,  great  God,  at  least 
This  one,  this  slender,  almost  no  request ; 
When  I  have  wept  a  thousand  lives  away, 
When  Torment  is  grown  weary  of  its  prey, 
When  I  have  raved  ten  thousand  years  in  fire, 
Ten  thousand  thousands,  let  me  then  expire.' 

Deep  anguish!  but  too  late :  the  hopeless  soul, 
Bound  to  the  bottom  of  the  burning  pool, 
Though  loth,  and  ever  loud  blaspheming,  owns 
He's  justly  doomed  to  pour  eternal  groans ; 
Inclosed  with  horrors,  and  transfixed  with  pain, 
Rolling  in  vengeance,  struggling  with  his  chain ; 
To  talk  to  fiery  tempests,  to  implore 
The  raging  flame  to  give  its  burnings  o'er ; 
To  toss,  to  writhe,  to  pant  beneath  his  load, 
And  bear  the  weight  of  an  offended  GOD. 

The  favoured  of  their  Judge  in  triumph  move 
To  take  possession  of  their  thrones  above, 
Satan's  accursed  desertion  to  supply, 
And  fill  the  vacant  stations  of  the  sky; 
Again  to  kindle  long  extinguished  rays, 
And  with  new  lights  dilate  the  heavenly  blaze ; 
To  crop  the  roses  of  immortal  youth, 
And  drink  the  fountain-head  of  sacred  truth 
To  swim  in  seas  of  bliss,  to  strike  the  string, 
And  lift  the  voice  to  their  Almighty  King ; 
To  lose  eternity  in  grateful  lays 
And  fill  Heaven's  wide  circumference  with  praise. 

But  I  attempt  the  wondrous  height  in  vain, 
And  leave  unfinished  the  too  lofty  strain  : 
What  boldly  I  begin,  let  others  end ; 
My  strength,  exhausted,  fainting  I  descend, 
And  choose  a  less  but  no  ignoble  theme, 
Dissolving  elements,  and  worlds  in  flame. 

The  fatal  period,  the  great  hour,  is  come, 
And  Nature  shrinks  at  her  approaching  doom  ; 
Loud  peals  of  thunder  give  the  sign,  and  all 
Heaven's  terrors  in  array  surround  the  ball ; 
Sharp  lightnings  with  the  meteor's  blaze  conspire, 
And,  darted  downward,  set  the  world  on  fire : 
Black  rising  clouds  the  thickened  ether  choke, 
And  spiry  flames  dart  through  the  rolling  smoke, 
With  keen  vibrations  cut  the  sullen  night, 
And  strike  the  darkened  sky  with  dreadful  light ; 
From  Heaven's  four  regions,  with  immortal  force, 
Angels  drive  on  the  wind's  impetuous  course, 
To  enrage  the  flame ;  it  spreads,  it  soars  on  high, 
Swells  in  the  storm,  and  billows  through  the  sky : 
Here  winding  pyramids  of  fire  ascend, 
Cities  and  deserts  in  one  ruin  blend  ; 


100 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Here  blazing  volumes,  wafted,  overwhelm 
The  spacious  face  of  a  far  distant  realm ; 
There,  undermined,  down  rush  eternal  hills, 
The  neighbouring  vales  the  vast  destruction  fills. 

Hear'st  thou  that  dreadful  crack,  that  sound 

which  broke 

Like  peals  of  thunder,  and  the  centre  shook  1 
What  wonders  must  that  groan  of  Nature  tell  1 
Olympus  there,  and  mightier  Atlas,  fell, 
Which  seemed,  above  the  reach  of  Fate,  to  stand 
A  towering  monument  of  God's  right-hand, 
Now  dust  and  smoke,  whose   brow,  so  lately, 

spread 
O'er  sheltered  countries  its  diffusive  shade. 

Show  me  that  celebrated  spot,  where  all 
The  various  rulers  of  the  severed  ball 
Have  humbly  sought  wealth,  honour,  and  redress, 
That  land  which   Heaven  seemed   diligent   to 


Once  called  Britannia ;  can  her  glories  end  1 
And  can't  surrounding  seas  her  realms  defend? 
Alas !  in  flames  behold  surrounding  seas ! 
Like  oil,  their  waters  but  augment  the  blaze. 

Some  angel  say,  where  ran  proud  Asia's  bound1? 
Or  where  with  fruits  was  fair  Europa  crowned? 
Where  stretched  waste  Lybia?  where  did  India's 

store 

Sparkle  in  diamonds,  and  her  golden  ore? 
Each  lost  in  each,  their  mingling  kingdoms  glow, 
And  all  dissolved,  one  fiery  deluge  flow: 
Thus  earth's  contending  monarchies  are  joined, 
And  a  full  period  of  ambition  find. 

And  now  whate'er  or  swims,  or  walks,  or  flies, 
Inhabitants  of  sea,  or  earth,  or  skies ; 
All  on  whom  Adam's  wisdom  fixed  a  name, 
All  plunge,  and  perish  in  the  conquering  flame. 

This  globe  alone  would  but  defraud  the  fire, 
Starve  its  devouring  rage ;  the  flakes  aspire, 
And  catch  the  clouds,  and  make  the  heavens  their 

prey; 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  all  melt  away ; 


All,  all  is  lost ;  no  monument,  no  sign, 
Where  once  so  proudly  blazed  the  gay  machine. 
So  bubbles  on  the  foaming  stream  expire ; 
So  sparks  that  scatter  from  the  kindling  fire ; 
The  devastations  of  one  dreadful  hour, 
The  great  Creator's  six  days'  work  devour : 
A  mighty,  mighty  ruin !  yet  one  soul 
Has  more  to  boast,  and  far  outweighs  the  whole ; 
Exalted  in  superior  excellence, 

asts  down  to  nothing  such  a  vast  expense. 
Have  ye  not  seen  the  eternal  mountains  nod, 
An  earth  dissolving,  a  descending  God? 
What  strange  surprises  through  all  nature  ran? 
For  whom  these  revolutions  but  for  man? 
For  him  Omnipotence  new  measures  takes, 
For  him  through  all  eternity  awakes ; 
Pours  on  him  gifts  sufficient  to  supply 
Heaven's  loss,  and  with  fresh  glories  fill  the  sky. 

Think  deeply  then,  O  Man !  how  great  thou  art  : 
Pay  thyself  homage  with  a  trembling  heart ; 
What  angels  guard  no  longer  dare  neglect, 
Slighting  thyself,  affront  not  God's  respect. 
Enter  the  sacred  temple  of  thy  breast, 
And  gaze  and  wander  there,  a  ravished  guest ; 
Gaze  on  those  hidden  treasures  thou  shalt  find, 
Wander  through  all  the  glories  of  thy  mind : 
Of  perfect  knowledge,  see,  the  dawning  light 
Foretells  a  moon  most  exquisitely  bright  1 
Here  springs  of  endless  joy  are  breaking  forth: 
There  buds  the  promise  df  celestial  worth ! 
Worth  which  must  ripen  in  a  happier  clime, 
And  brighter  sun,  beyond  the  bounds  of  tune. 
Thou,  minor,  canst  not  guess  thy  vast  estate, 
What  stores,  on  foreign  coasts,  thy  landing  wait ; 
Lose  not  thy  claim,  let  virtue's  paths  be  trod, 
Thus  glad  all  Heaven,  and  please  that  bounteous 

God, 

Who,  to  light  thee  to  pleasures,  hung  on  high 
Yon  radiant  orb.  proud  regent  of  the  sky : 
That  service  done,  its  beams  shall  fade  away, 
And  God  shine  forth  in  one  eternal  day ! 


ffifie  JForte  of 

OR, 

VANQUISHED  LOVE. 

A  POEM. 

IN  TWO  BOOKS. 

Gratior  et  pulchro  veniens  in  corpora  virtus Virg. 


BOOK  I. 

Ad  coelum  ardentia  lumina  tollcug, 

Lumina ;  nam  teneras  arcebant  vincula  palmas.—  Virg. 

FROM  lofty  themes,  from  thoughts  that  soared  on 

high, 
And  opened  wondrous  scenes  above  the  sky, 


My  muse !  descend :  indulge  my  fond  desire : 
With    softer   thoughts   my    melting   soul   in- 
spire, 

And  smooth  my  numbers  to  a  female's  praise; 
A  partial  world  will  listen  to  my  lays, 
While  Anna  reigns,  and  sets  a  female  name 
Unrivalled  in  the  glorious  lists  of  Fame. 


THE  FORCE  OF  RELIGION. 


101 


Hear,  ye  fair  daughters  of  this  happy  land ! 
Whose  radiant  eyes  the  vanquish'd  world  command , 
Virtue  is  beauty  :  but  when  charms  of  mind 
With  elegance  of  outward  form  are  joined ; 
When  youth  makes  such  bright  objects  still  more 

bright, 

And  fortune  sets  them  in  the  strongest  light, 
Tis  all  of  heaven  that  we  below  may  view, 
And  all  but  adoration  is  your  due. 

Famed  female  virtue  did  this  isle  adorn 
Ere  Ormond,  or  her  glorious  queen,  was  born ; 
When  now  Maria's  powerful  arms  prevailed, 
And  haughty  Dudley's  bold  ambition  failed, 
The  beauteous  daughter  of  great  Suffolk's  race, 
In  blooming  youth,  adorned  with  every  grace, 
Who  gained  a  crown  by  treason  not  her  own, 
And  innocently  filled  another's  throne, 
Hurled  from  the  summit  of  imperial  state, 
With  equal  mind  sustained  the  stroke  of  fate. 

But  how  will  Guilford,  her  far  dearer  part, 
With  manly  reason  fortify  his  heart  1 
At  once  she  longs,  and  is  afraid  to  know ; 
Now  swift  she  moves,  and  now  advances  slow, 
To  find  her  lord,  and  finding,  passes  by, 
Silent  with  fear,  nor  dares  she  meet  his  eye, 
Lest  that,  unasked,  in  speechless  grief  disclose 
The  mournful  secret  of  his  inward  woes. 
Thus,  after  sickness,  doubtful  of  her  face, 
The  melancholy  virgin  shuns  the  glass. 

At  length,  with  troubled  thought,  but  look  serene, 
And  sorrow  softened  by  her  heavenly  mien, 
She  clasps  her  lord,  brave,  beautiful,  and  young, 
While  tender  accents  melt  upon  her  tongue ; 
Gentle  and  sweet,  as  vernal  zephyr  blows, 
Fanning  the  lily,  or  the  blooming  rose. 

"Grieve  not,  my  lord ;  a  crown,  indeed,  is  lost ; 
What  far  outshines  a  crown  we  still  may  boast; 
A  mind  composed,  a  mind  that  can  disdain 
A  fruitless  sorrow  for  a  loss  so  vain. 
Nothing  is  lost  that  virtue  can  improve 
To  wealth  eternal,  and  return  above ; 
Above  where  no  distinction  shall  be  known 
'T\vixt  him  whom  storms  have  shaken  from  a 

throne, 

And  him  who,  basking  in  the  smiles  of  Fate, 
Shone  forth  in  all  the  splendour  of  the  great : 
Nor  can  I  find  the  difference  here  below ; 
I  lately  was  a  queen ;  I  still  am  so, 
While  Guilford's  wife,  thee  rather  I  obey, 
Than  o'er  mankind  extend  imperial  sway. 
When  we  lie  down  on  some  obscure  retreat, 
Incensed  Maria  may  her  rage  forget ; 
And  I  to  death  my  duty  will  improve, 
And  what  you  miss  in  empire  add  in  love. 
Your  godlike  soul  is  opened  in  your  look, 
And  I  have  faintly  your  great  meaning  spoke. 
For  this  alone  I'm  pleased  I  wore  the  crown, 
To  find  with  what  content  we  lay  it  down. 


Heroes  may  win,  but  'tis  a  heavenly  race 
Can  quit  a  throne  with  a  becoming  grace." 

Thus  spoke  the  fairest  of  her  sex,  and  cheered 
Her  drooping  lord,  whose  boding  bosom  feared 
A  darker  cloud  of  ills  would  burst,  and  shed 
Severer  vengeance  on  her  guiltless  head. 
Too  just,  alas,  the  terrors  which  he  felt ! 
For,  lo !  a  guard ! — forgive  him  if  he  melt — 
How  sharp  her  pangs,  when  severed  from  his  side, 
The  most  sincerely  loved,  and  loving  bride 
In  space  confined,  the  muse  forbears  to  tell ; 
Deep  was  her  anguish,  but  she  bore  it  well : 
His  pain  was  equal,  but  his  virtue  less ; 
He  thought  in  grief  there  could  be  no  excess. 
Pensive  he  sat,  o'ercast  with  gloomy  care, 
And  often  fondly  clasped  his  absent  fair ; 
Now,  silent,  wandered  through  his  rooms  of  state, 
And  sickened  at  their  pomp,  and  taxed  his  fate, 
Which  thus  adorned,  in  all  her  shining  store, 
A  splendid  wretch,  magnificently  poor. 
And  on  the  bridal  bed  his  eyes  were  cast, 
And  anguish  fed  on  his  enjoyments  past ; 
Each  recollected  pleasure  made  him  smart, 
And  every  transport  stabbed  him  to  the  heart. 

That  happy  moon  which  summoned  to  delight, 
That  moon  which  shone  on  his  dear  nuptial  night, 
Which  saw  him  fold  her  yet  untasted  charms 
(Denied  to  princes)  in  his  longing  arms, 
Now  sees  the  transient  blessing  fleet  away, 
Empire  of  love !  the  vision  of  a  day. 

Thus  in  the  British  clime,  a  summer-storm 
Will  oft  the  smiling  face  of  heaven  deform ; 
The  winds  with  violence  at  once  descend, 
Sweep  flowers  and  fruits,  and  make  the  forest  bend ; 
A  sudden  winter,  while- the  sun  is  near, 
O'ercomes  the  season,  and  inverts  the  year. 

But  whither  is  the  captive  borne  away, 
The  beauteous  captive !  from  the  cheerful  day? 
The  scene  is  changed  indeed :  before  her  eyes 
Ill-boding  locks  and  unknown  horrors  rise ; 
For  pomp  and  splendour,  for  her  guard  and  crown, 
A  gloomy  dungeon,  and  a  keeper's  frown : 
Black  thoughts  each  morn  invade  the  lover's  breast ; 
Each  night  a  ruffian  locks  the  queen  to  rest. 

Ah,  mournful  change,  if  judged  by  vulgar  minds ! 
But  Suffolk's  daughter  its  advantage  finds. 
Religion's  force  divine  is  best  displayed 
In  deep  desertion  of  all  human  aid : 
To  succour  in  extremes  is  her  delight, 
And  cheer  the  heart  when  terror  strikes  the  sight. 
We,  disbelieving  our  own  senses,  gaze, 
And  wonder  what  a  mortal's  heart  can  raise 
To  triumph  o'er  misfortunes,  smile  in  grief, 
And  comfort  those  who  come  to  bring  relief : 
We  gaze,  and,  as  we  gaze,  wealth,  fame,  decay, 
And  all  the  world's  vain  glories  fade  away. 
Against  her  cares  she  raised  a  dauntless  mind, 
And  with  an  ardent  heart,  but  most  resigned, 


102 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Deep  in  the  dreadful  gloom,  with  pious  heat, 
Amid  the  silence  of  her  dark  retreat, 
Addressed  her  God—"  Almighty  Power  Divine ! 
'Tis  thine  to  raise,  and  to  depress  is  thine ; 
With  honour  to  light  up  the  name  unknown, 
Or  to  put  out  the  lustre  of  a  throne. 
In  my  short  span  both  fortunes  I  have  proved, 
And  though  with  ill  frail  nature  will  be  moved, 
I'll  bear  it  well :  (O  strengthen  me  to  bear!) 
And  if  my  piety  may  claim  thy  care, 
If  I  remembered,  in  youth's  giddy  heat, 
And  tumult  of  a  court,  a  future  state, 
O  favour,  when  thy  mercy  I  implore, 
For  one  who  never  guilty  sceptre  bore ! 
'Twas  I  received  the  crown ;  my  lord  is  free ; 
If  it  must  fall,  let  vengeance  fall  on  me ; 
Let  him  survive,  his  country's  name  to  raise, 
And  in  a  guilty  land  to  speak  thy  praise ! 
O  may  th'  indulgence  of  a  father's  love, 
Poured  forth  on  me,  be  doubled  from  above ! 
If  these  are  safe,  I'll  think  my  prayers  succeed, 
And  bless  thy  tender  mercies  whilst  I  bleed." 

'Twas  now  the  mournful  eve  before  that  day 
In  which  the  queen  to  her  full  wrath  gave  WAy  ; 
Through  rigid  justice  rushed  into  offence, 
And  drank,  in  zeal,  the  blood  of  innocence. 
The  sun  went  down  in  clouds,  and  seemed  to 

mourn 

The  sad  necessity  of  his  return; 
The  hollow  wind,  and  melancholy  rain, 
Or  did,  or  was  imagined  to  complain : 
The  tapers  cast  an  inauspicious  light ; 
Stars  there  were  none,  and  doubly  dark  the  night. 

Sweet  Innocence  in  chains  can  take  her  rest ; 
Soft  slumber  gently  creeping  through  her  breast, 
She  sinks ;  and  in  her  sleep  is  re-enthroned, 
Mocked  by  a  gaudy  dream,  and  vainly  crowned. 
She  views  her  fleets  and  armies,  seas  and  land, 
And  stretches  wide  her  shadow  of  command : 
With  royal  purple  is  her  vision  hung ; 
By  phantom  hosts  are  shouts  of  conquest  rung ; 
Low  at  her  feet  the  suppliant  rival  lies ; 
Our  prisoner  mourns  her  fate,  and  bids  her  rise. 

Now  level  beams  upon  the  waters  played, 
Glanced  on  the  hills,  and  westward  cast  the  shade; 
The  busy  trades  in  city  had  began 
To  sound,  and  speak  the  painful  life  of  man. 
In  tyrant's  breasts  the  thoughts  of  vengeance  rouse, 
And  the  fond  bridegroom  turns  him  to  his  spouse. 
At  this  first  birth  of  light,  while  morning  breaks, 
Our  spouseless  bride,  our  widowed  wife,  awakes; 
A  wakes  and  smiles;  nor  night's  imposture  blames: 
Her  real  pomps  were  little  more  than  dreams ; 
A  short-lived  blaze,  a  lightning  quickly  o'er, 
That  died  in  birth,  that  shone  and  was  no  more ; 
She  turns  her  side  and  soon  resumes  a  state 
Of  mind  well  suited  to  her  altered  fate, 
Serene,  though  serious,  when  dread  tidings  come 
(Ah  wretched  Guilford!)  of  her  instant  doom. 


Sun !  hide  thy  beams ;  in  clouds  as  black  as  night 
Thy  face  involve ;  be  guiltless  of  the  sight ; 
Or  haste  more  swiftly  to  the  western  main, 
Nor  let  her  blood  the  conscious  daylight  stain. 

Oh !  how  severe !  to  fall  so  new  a  bride, 
Yet  blushing  from  the  priest,  in  youthful  pride; 
When  Time  had  just  matured  each  perfect  grace, 
And  opened  all  the  wonders  of  her  face ! 
To  leave  her  Guilford  dead  to  all  relief, 
Fond  of  his  wo,  and  obstinate  in  grief. 
Unhappy  fair !  whatever  Fancy  drew, 
(Vain  promised  blessings)  vanish  from  her  view; 
No  train  of  cheerful  days,  endearing  nights, 
No  sweet  domestic  joys,  and  chaste  delights ; 
Pleasures  that  blossom  e'en  from  doubts  and  fears, 
And  bliss  and  rapture  rising  out  of  cares: 
No  little  Guilford,  with  paternal  grace, 
Lulled  on  her  knee,  or  smiling  in  her  face ; 
Who,  when  her  dearest  father  shall  return, 
From  pouring  tears  on  her  untimely  urn, 
Might  comfort  to  his  silver  hairs  impart, 
And  fill  her  place  in  his  indulgent  heart ; 
As  where  fruits  fall,  quick-rising  blossoms  smile, 
And  the  blessed  Indian  of  his  cares  beguile. 

In  vain  these  various  reasons  jointly  press 
To  blacken  death,  and  heighten  her  distress ; 
She,  through  the'  encircling  terrors  darts  her  sight 
To  the  blessed  regions  of  eternal  light, 
And  fills  her  soul  with  peace :  to  weeping  friends 
Her  father  and  her  lord  she  recommends, 
Unmoved  herself:  her  foes  her  air  survey, 
And  rage  to  see  their  malice  thrown  away. 
She  soars;  now  nought  on  earth  detains  her  care — 
But  Guilford,  who  still  struggles  for  his  share. 
Still  will  his  form  importunately  rise, 
Clog  and  retard  her  transport  to  the  skies. 
As  trembling  flames  now  take  a  feeble  flight, 
Now  catch  the  brand  with  a  returning  light, 
Thus  her  soul  onward,  from  the  seats  above 
Falls  fondly  back,  and  kindles  into  love. 
At  length  she  conquers  in  the  doubtful  field ; 
That  heaven  she  seeks  will  be  her  Guilford 's 

shield. 

Now  death  is  welcome :  his  approach  is  slow ; 
'Tis  tedious  longer  to  expect  the  blow. 

Oh,   mortals!   short  of  sight,  who  think  the 

past, 

O'erblown  misfortune  still  shall  prove  the  last : 
Alas !  misfortunes  travel  in  a  train, 
And  oft  in  life  from  one  perpetual  chain : 
Fear  buries  fear,  and  ills  on  ills  attend, 
Till  life  and  sorrow  meet  one  common  end. 

She  thinks  that  she  has  nought  but  death  to  fear, 
And  death  is  conquered.    Worse  than  death  is 

near: 

Her  rigid  trials  are  not  yet  complete; 
The  news  arrives  of  her  great  father's  fate. 
She  sees  his  hoary  head,  all  white  with  age, 
A  victim  to  the  offended  monarch's  rage. 


THE  FORCE  OF  RELIGION. 


103 


How  great  the  mercy,  had  she  breathed  her  last 
Ere  the  dire  sentence  on  her  father  past ! 

A  fonder  parent  Nature  never  knew, 
And,  as  his  age  increased,  his  fondness  grew. 
A  parent's  love  ne'er  better  was  bestowed ; 
The  pious  daughter  in  her  heart  o'erflowed. 
And  can  she  from  all  weakness  still  refrain  1 
And  still  the  firmness  of  her  soul  maintain  7 
Impossible !  a  sigh  will  force  its  way, 
One  patient  tear  her  mortal  birth  betray ; 
She  sighs  and  weeps!   but  so  she  weeps  and 

sighs, 
As  silent  dews  descend,  and  vapours  rise. 

Celestial  Patience !  how  dost  thou  defeat 
The  foe's  proud  menace,  and  elude  his  hate  1 
While  Passion  takes  his  part,  betrays  our  peace, 
To  death  and  torture  swells  each  slight  disgrace : 
By  not  opposing,  thou  dost  ills  destroy, 
And  wear  thy  conquered  sorrows  into  joy. 

Now  she  revolves  within  her  anxious  mind, 
What  wo  still  lingers  in  reserve  behind. 
Griefs  rise  on  griefs,  and  she  can  see  no  bound, 
While  nature  lasts,  and  can  receive  a  wound. 
The  sword  is  drawn;  the  Glueen  to  rage  inclined, 
By  mercy  nor  by  piety  confined. 
What  mercy  can  the  zealot's  heart  assuage, 
Whose  piety  itself  converts  to  rage  ? 
She  thought,  and  sighed :  and  now  the  blood  be- 
gan 

To  leave  her  beauteous  choek  all  cold  and  wan : 
New  sorrow  dimmed  the  lustre  of  her  eye, 
And  on  her  cheek  the  fading  roses  die. 
Alas !  .  should  Guilford  too — When  now   she's 

brought 

To  that  dire  view,  that  precipice  of  thought, 
While  there  she  trembling  stands,  nor  dares  look 

down 

Nor  can  recede,  'till  Heaven's  decrees  are  known. 
Cure  of  all  ills,  till  now  her  lord  appears — 
But  not  to  cheer  her  heart,  and  dry  her  tears! 

MOW,  as  usual,  like  the  rising  day, 
To  chase  the  shadows  and  £he  damps  away ; 
But,  like  a  gloomy  storm,  at  once  to  sweep 
And  plunge  her  to  the  bottom  of  the  deep. 
Black  were  his  robes,  dejected  was  his  air, 
His  voice  was  frozen  by  his  cold  despair ; 
Slow  like  a  ghost,  he  moved  with  solemn  pace ; 
A  dying  paleness  sat  upon  his  face. 
Back  she  recoiled,  she  smote  her  lovely  breast, 
Her  eyes  the  anguish  of  her  heart  confest ; 
Struck  to  the  soul,  she  staggered  with  the  wound 
And  sunk,  a  breathless  image,  to  the  ground. 

Thus  the  fair  lily,  when  the  sky's  o'ercast, 
At  first  but  shudders  in  the  feeble  blast ; 
But  when  the  winds  and  weighty  rains  descend, 
The  fair  and  upright  stem  is  forced  to  bend, 
Till  broke,  at  length,  its  snowy  leaves  are  shed, 
And  strew,  with  dying  sweets,  their  native  bed. 


BOOK  II. 

Hie  pietatis  honos?  sic  nos  in  sceptra  repouis? —  Virg. 

HER  Guilford  clasps  her,  beautiful  in  death, 
And  with  a  kiss  recalls  her  fleeting  breath. 
To  tapers  thus,  which  by  a  blast  erpire, 
A  lighted  taper,  touched,  restores  the  fire : 
She  reared  her  swimming  eye,  and  saw  the  light, 
And  Guilford  too,  or  she  had  loathed  the  sight 
Her  father's  death  she  bore,  despised  her  own, 
But  now  she  must,  she  will  have  leave  to  groan. 
Ah!  Guilford!"  she  began,  and  would  have 

spoke, 

But  sobs  rushed  in,  and  every  accent  broke : 
Reason  itself,  as  gusts  of  passion  blew, 
Was  ruffled  hi  the  tempest,  and  withdrew. 

So  the  youth  lost  his  image  in  the  well, 
When  tears  upon  the  yielding  surface  fell ; 
The  scattered  features  slid  into  decay, 
And  spreading  circles  drove  his  face  away. 

To  touch  the  soil  affections,  and  control 
The  manly  temper  of  the  bravest  soul, 
What  with  afflicted  beauty  can  compare, 
And  drops  of  love  distilling  from  the  fair  1 
It  melts  us  down:  our  pains  delight  bestow, 
And  we  with  fondness  languish  o'er  our  wo. 

This  Guilford  proved:  and  with  excess  of  pain, 
And  pleasure  too,  did  to  his  bosom  strain 
The  weeping  fair :  sunk  deep  in  soft  desire, 
Indulged  his  love,  and  nursed  the  raging  fire : 
Then  tore  himself  away,  and,  standing  wide, 
As  fearing  a  relapse  of  fondness,  cried, 
With  ill  dissembled  grief,  "  My  life !  forbear; 
You  wound  your  Guilford  with  each  cruel  tear: 
Did  you  not  chide  my  grief!  repress  your  own, 
Nor  want  compassion  for  yourself  alone. 
Have  you  beheld  how,  from  the  distant  main, 
The  thronging  waves  roll  on,  a  numerous  train, 
And  foam,  and  bellow,  till  they  reach  the  shore, 
There  burst  their  noisy  pride,  and  are  no  more  1 
Thus  the  successive  flows  of  human  race, 
Chased  by  the  coming,  the  preceding  chase; 
They  sound  and  swell,  their  haughty  heads  they 

rear, 

Then  fall  and  flatten,  break,  and  disappear. 
Life  is  a  forfeit  we  must  shortly  pay, 
And  where's  the  mighty  lucre  of  a  day  7 
Why  should  you  mourn  my  fate  ?  'tis  most  unkind; 
Your  own  you  bore  with  an  unshaken  mind: 
And  which,  can  you  imagine,  was  the  dart 
That  drank  most  blood,  sunk  deepest  in  my  heart? 
I  can  not  live  without  you;  and  my  doom 
I  meet  with  joy,  to  share  one  common  tomb. — 
And  are  again  your  tears  profusely  spill  7 
Oh!  then,  my  kindness  blackens  to  my  guilt; 
It  foils  itself  if  it  recall  your  pain: — 
Life  of  my  life !  I  beg  you  to  refrain : 


104 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


The  load  which  Fate  imposes  you  increase, 
And  help  Maria  to  destroy  my  peace." 

But,  oh!  against  himself  his  labour  turned; 
The  more  he  comforted,  the  more  she  mourned. 
Compassion  swells  our  grief;  words  soft  and  kind 
But  sooth  our  weakness,  and  dissolve  the  mind. 
Her  sorrow  flowed  in  streams ;  nor  her's  alone; 
While  that  he  blamed,  he  yielded  to  his  own. 
Where  are  the  smiles  she  wore,  when  she  so  late, 
Hailed  him  great  partner  of  the  regal  state ; 
When  orient  gems  around  her  temples  blazed, 
And  bending  nations  on  the  glory  gazed  1 

'Tis  now  the  Queen's  command  they  both  re- 
treat, 

To  weep  with  dignity,  and  mourn  in  state: 
She  forms  the  decent  misery  with  joy, 
And  loads  with  pomp  the  wretch  she  would  de- 
stroy. 

A  spacious  hall  is  hung  with  black,  all  light 
Shut  out,  and  noon-day  darkened  into  night: 
From  the  dim  roof  a  lamp  depends  on  high, 
Like  a  dim  crescent  in  a  clouded  sky; 
It  sheds  a  quivering  melancholy  gloom, 
Which  only  shows  the  darkness  of  the  room: 
A  shining  axe  is  on  the  table  laid, 
A  dreadful  sight !  and  glitters  through  the  shade. 

In  this  sad  scene  the  lovers  are  confined, 
A  scene  of  terrors  to  a  guilty  mind ! 
A  scene  that  would  have  damped  with   rising 


And  quite  extinguished  every  love  but  theirs* 
What  can  they  do?  they  fix  their  mournful  eyes — 
Then  Guilford  thus  abruptly;  "  I  despise 
An  empire  lost;  I  fling  away  the  crown; 
Numbers  have  laid  that  bright  delusion  down ; 
But  where's  the  Charles,  or  Dioclesian  where, 
Could  quit  the  blooming,  wedded,  weeping  fair  ? 
Oh!  to  dwell  ever  on  thy  lip!  to  stand 
In  full  possession  of  thy  snowy  hand ! 
And,  through  the  unclouded  crystal  of  thine  eye, 
The  heavenly  treasures  of  thy  mind  to  spy! 
Till  rapture  reason  happily  destroys, 
And  my  soul  wanders  through  immortal  joys! 
Give  me  the  world,  and  ask  me  where's  my  bliss? 
I  clasp  thee  to  my  breast,  and  answer,  This. 
And  shall  the  grave" — He  groans,  and  can  no 

more, 

But  all  her  charms  in  silence  traces  o'er ; 
Her  lip,  her  cheek,  and  eye,  to  wonder  wrought, 
And,  wondering,  sees,  in  sad  presaging  thought, 
From  that  fair  neck,  that  world  of  beauty,  fall, 
And  roll  along  the  dust,  a  ghastly  ball! 

Oh!  let  those  tremble  who  are  greatly  blessed! 
For  who  but  Guilford  could  be  thus  distressed? 
Come  hither  all  you  happy !  all  you  great ! 
From  flowery  meadows,  and  from  rooms  of  state; 
Nor  think  I  call  your  pleasures  to  destroy, 
But  to  refine,  ancj  to  exalt,  your  joy: 


Weep  not ;  but  smiling,  fix  your  ardent  care 
On  nobler  titles  than  the  brave  or  fair. 

Was  ever  such  a  mournful,  moving  sight  1 
See,  if  you  can,  by  that  dull,  trembling,  light : 
Now  they  embrace ;  and,  mixed  with  bitter  wo, 
Like  Isis  and  her  Thames,  one  stream  they  flow: 
Now  they  start  wide;  fixed  in  benumbing  care, 
They  stiffen  into  statues  of  despair : 
Now,  tenderly  severe,  and  fiercely  kind, 
They  rush  at  once ;  they  fling  their  cares  behind, 
And  clasp,  as  if  to  death;  new  vows  repeat, 
And  quite  wrapped  up  in  love,  forget  their  fate. 
A  short  delusion !  for  the  raging  pain 
Returns,  and  their  poor  hearts  must  bleed  again. 

Meantime  the  queen  new  cruelty  decreed ; 
But  ill  content  that  they  should  only  bleed, 
A  priest  is  sent,  who,  with  insidious  art, 
Instils  his  poison  into  Suffolk's  heart; 
And  Guilford  drank  it,  hanging  on  the  breast, 
He  from  his  childhood  was  with  Rome  possessed 
When  now  the  ministers  of  Death  draw  nigh, 
And  in  her  dearest  lord  she  first  must  die, 
The  subtle  priest,  who  long  had  watched  to  find 
The  most  unguarded  passes  of  her  mind, 
Bespoke  her  thus :  "  Grieve  not ;  'tis  in  your  powei 
Your  lord  to  rescue  from  this  fatal  hour." 
Ber  bosom  pants;  slie  draws  her  breath  with  pain ; 
A  sudden  horror  thrills  through  every  vein ; 
Life  seems  suspended,  on  his  words  intent, 
And  her  soul  trembles  for  the  great  event. 

The  priest  proceeds:  "Embrace  the  faith  of 

Rome, 
And  ward  your  own,   your  lord's,  and  father's 

doom/' 

Ye  blessed  Spirits !  now  your  charge  sustain ; 
The  past  was  ease ;  now  first  she  suffers  pain: 
Must  she  pronounce  her  father's  death  ?  must  she 
Bid  Guilford  bleed? — It  must  not,  can  not,  be. 
t  can  not  be!  but  'tis  the  Christian  praise, 
Above  impossibilities  to  raise 
The  weakness  of  our  nature,  and  deride 
Of  vain  philosophy  the  boasted  pride. 
What  though  our  feeble  sinews  scarce  impart 
A  moment's  swiftness  to  the  feathered  dart; 
Though  tainted  air  our  vigorous  youth  can  break, 
And  a  chill  blast  the  hardy  warrior  shake? 
Yet  are  we  strong :  hear  the  loud  tempest  roar 
From  east  to  west,  and  call  us  weak  no  more : 
The  lightning's  unresisted  force  proclaims 
Our  might ;  and  thunders  raise  our  humble  names; 
'Tis  our  Jehovah  fills  the  heavens;  as  long 
As  he  shall  reign  Almighty,  we  are  strong: 
We,  by  devotion,  borrow  from  his  throne; 
And  almost  make  Omnipotence  our  own  : 
We  force  the  gates  of  heaven,  by  fervent  prayer; 
And  call  forth  triumph  out  of  man's  despair. 
Our  lovely  mourner,  kneeling,  lifts  her  eyes 
And  bleeding  heart,  in  silence,  to  the  skies, 


THE  FORCE  OP  RELIGION. 


105 


Devoutly  sad— Then,  brightening,  like  the  day, 
When  sudden  winds  sweep  scattered  clouds  away, 
Shining  in  majesty,  till  now  unknown ; 
And  breathing  life  and  spirit  scarce  her  own; 

She,  rising,  speaks :  "  If  these  the  terras 1" 

Here  Guilford,  cruel  Guilford,  (barbarous  man ! 
Is  this  thy  love  ?)  as  swift  as  lightning  ran ; 
O'erwhelmed  her  with  tempestuous  sorrow  fraught, 
And  stifled,  in  its  birth,  the  mighty  thought ; 
Then  bursting  fresh  into  a  flood  of  tears; 
Fierce,  resolute,  delirious  with  his  fears ; 
His  fears  for  her  alone:  he  beat  his  breast, 
And  thus  the  fervour  of  his  soul  exprest : 
"  Oh !  let  thy  thought  o'er  our  past  converse  rove, 
And  show  one  moment  uninflamed  with  love ! 
Oh!  if  thy  kindness  can  no  longer  last, 
In  pity  to  thyself,  forget  the  past ! 
Else  wilt  thou  never,  void  of  shame  and  fear, 
Pronounce  his  doom  whom  thou  hast  held  so  dear, 
Thou  who  hast  took  me  to  thy  arms,  and  swore 
Empires  were  vile,  and  Fate  could  give  no  more ; 
That  to  continue  was  its  utmost  power, 
And  make  the  future  like  the  present  hour; 
Now  call  a  ruffian,  bids  his  cruel  sword 
Lay  wide  the  bosom  of  thy  worthless  lord  1 
Transfix  his  heart  (since  you  its  love  disclaim) 
And  stain  his  honour  with  a  traitor's  name. 
This  might  perhaps  be  borne  without  remorse, 
But  sure  a  father's  pangs  will  have  their  force! 
Shall  his  good  age,  so  near  its  journey's  end, 
Through  cruel  torment  to  the  grave  descend? 
His  shallow  blood  all  issue  at  a  wound, 
Wash  a  slave's  feet,  and  smoke  upon  the  ground? 
But  he  to  you  has  ever  been  severe; 
Then  take  your  vengeance."— Suffolk  now  drew 

near, 

Bending  beneath  the  burden  of  his  care, 
His  robes  neglected,  and  his  head  was  bare : 
Decrepit  Winter,  in  the  yearly  ring, 
Thus  slowly  creeps  to  meet  the  blooming  spring : 
Downward  he  cast  a  melancholy  look, 
Thrice  turned  to  hide  his  grief,  then  faintly  spoke. 
"  Now  deep  in  years,  and  forward  in  decay, 
That  axe  can  only  rob  me  of  a  day: 
For  thee,  my  soul's  desire !  I  can't  refrain ; 
And  shall  my  tears,  my  last  tears,  flow  in  vain? 
When  you  shall  know  a  mother's  tender  name, 
My  heart's  distress  no  longer  will  you  blame." 
At  this,  afar  his  bursting  groans  were  heard ; 
The  tears  ran  trickling  down  his  silver  beard : 
He  snatched  her  hand,  which  to  his  lips  he  pressed, 
And  bid  her  plant  a  dagger  in  his  breast; 
Then  sinking,  called  her  piety  unjust, 
And  soiled  his  hoary  temples  in  the  dust. 

Hard-hearted  men !  will  you  no  mercy  know! 
Has  the  queen  bribed  you  to  distress  her  foe? 


0  weak  deserters  to  Misfortune's  part, 
By  false  affection  thus  to  pierce  her  heart ! 
When  she  had  soared,  to  let  your  arrows  fly, 
And  fetch  her  bleeding  from  Jhe  middle  sky. 
And  can  her  virtue,  springing  from  the  ground, 
Her  flight  recover,  and  disdain  the  wound, 
When  cleaving  love,  and  human  interest,  bind 
The  broken  force  of  her  aspiring  mind! 

As  round  the  generous  eagle,  which  in  vain 
Exerts  her  strength,  the  serpent  wreathes  his  train, 
Her  struggling  wings  entangles,  curling  plies 
His  poisonous  tail  and  stings  her  as  she  flies. 

While  yet  the  blow's  first  dreadful  weight  she 

feels, 

And  with  its  force  her  resolution  reels, 
Large  doors,  unfolding  with  a  mournful  sound, 
To  view  discover,  weltering  on  the  ground, 
Three  headless  trunks  of  those  whose  arms  main- 
tained, 

And  in  her  wars  immortal  glory  gained : 
The  lifted  axe  assured  her  ready  doom, 
And  silent  mourners  saddened  all  the  room. 
Shall  I  proceed,  or  here  break  off  my  tale, 
Nor  truths  to  stagger  human  faith  reveal  ? 

She  met  this  utmost  malice  of  her  fate 
With  Christian  dignity  and  pious  state ; 
The  beating  storm's  propitious  rage  she  blessed, 
And  all  the  martyr  triumphed  in  her  breast. 
Her  lord,  and  father,  for  a  moment's  space, 
She  strictly  folded  in  her  soft  embrace  ! 
Then  thus  she  spoke,  while  angels  heard  on  high, 
And  sudden  gladness  smiled  along  the  sky. 

"  Your  over-fondness  has  not  moved  my  hate ; 

1  am  well  pleased  you  make  my  death  so  great : 
I  joy  I  can  not  save  you ;  and  have  given 
Two  lives  much  dearer  than  my  own  to  heaven, 
If  so  the  queen  decrees.* — But  I  have  cause 
To  hope  my  blood  will  satisfy  the  laws ; 

And  there  is  mercy,  still  for  you  in  store : 
With  me  the  bitterness  of  death  is  o'er ; 
He  shot  his  sting  in  that  farewell  embrace, 
And  all  that  is  to  come  is  joy  and  peace. 
Then  let  mistaken  sorrow  be  supprest, 
Nor  seem  to  envy  my  approaching  rest." 
Then,  turning  to  the  ministers  of  fate, 
She,  smiling,  said,  "  My  victory's  complete ; 
And  tell  your  queen  I  thank  her  for  the  blow, 
And  grieve  my  gratitude  I  can  not  show. 
A  poor  return  I  leave  in  England's  crown 
For  everlasting  pleasure  and  renown : 
Her  guilt  alone  allays  this  happy  hour ; 
Her  guilt,  the  only  vengeance  in  her  power." 
Not  Rome,  untouched  with  sorrow,  heard  her 

fate, 
And  fierce  Maria  pityed  her  too  late. 


*  Here  she  embraces  them. 


106 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


ILofoe  of 


THE  UNIVERSAL  PASSION, 


IN  SEVEN  CHARACTERISTICAL  SATIRES. 


Fulgente  trahit  constrictos  gloria  curru 

Non  minus  ignotoe  generosis. — HOT. 


an  unity  of  design  which  has  not,  I  think,  in  a  set 
of  satires,  been  attempted  before. 

Laughing  at  the  misconduct  of  the  world  will, 
in  a  great  measure,  ease  us  of  any  more  disagreea- 
ble passion  about  it.  One  passion  is  more  effectu- 
ally driven  out  by  another  than  by  reason,  what- 
ever some  may  teach ;  for  to  reason  we  owe  our 
passions.  Had  we  not  reason,  we  should  not  be 
offended  at  what  we  find  amiss:  and  the  cause 
seems  not  to  be  the  natural  cure  of  any  effect. 

Moreover,  laughing  satire  bids  the  fairest  for 
success.  The  world  is  too  proud  to  be  fond  of  a 
serious  tutor ;  and  when  an  author  is  in  a  passion, 
the  laugh,  generally,  as  in  conversation,  turns 
against  him.  This  kind  of  satire  only  has  any 
delicacy  in  it.  Of  this  delicacy  Horace  is  the  best 
master :  he  appears  in  good  humour  while  he  cen- 
sures; and,  therefore,  his  censure  has  the  more 
weight,  as  supposed  to  proceed  from  judgment,  not 
from  passion.  Juvenal  is  ever  in  a  passion :  he 
has  but  little  valuable  but  his  eloquence  and  moral- 
ity ;  the  last  of  which  I  have  had  in  my  eye,  but 
rather  for  emulation  than  imitation,  through  my 
whole  work. 

But  though  I  comparatively  condemn  Juvenal, 
in  part  of  the  Sixth  Satire,  (where  the  occasion 
most  required  it)  I  endeavoured  to  touch  on  his 
manner,  but  wras  forced  to  quit  it  soon,  as  disagreea- 
ble to  the  writer  and  reader  too.  Boileau  has  join- 
ed both  the  Roman  satirists  with  great  success,  but 

Satires  will  be  the  more  easily  pardoned  that  mis-  'has  too  much  of  Juvenal  in  his  very  serious  '  Sa- 
tire on  Woman,'  which  should  have  been  the  gay- 
est of  all.  An  excellent  critic  of  our  own  com- 
mends Boileau's  closeness,  or,  as  he  calls  it,  press- 


PREFACE. 

THESE  Satires  have  been  favourably  received  at 
home  and  abroad.  I  am  not  conscious  of  the  least 
malevolence  to  any  particular  person  through  all 
the  characters,  though  some  persons  may  be  so 
selfish  as  to  engross  a  general  application  to  them- 
selves. A  writer  in  polite  letters  should  be  con- 
tent with  reputation,  the  private  amusement  he 
finds  in  his  compositions,  the  good  influence  they 
have  on  his  severer  studies,  that  admission  they 
give  him  to  his  superiors,  and  the  possible  good 
effect  they  may  have  on  the  public;  or  else  he 
should  join  to  his  politeness  some  more  lucrative 
qualification, 

But  it  is  possible  that  satire  may  not  do  much 
good.  Men  may  rise  in  their  affections  to  their 
follies,  as  they  do  to  their  friends,  when  they  are 
abused  by  others.  It  is  much  to  be  feared  that 
misconduct  will  never  be  chased  out  of  the  world 
by  satire :  all,  therefore,  that  is  to  be  said  for  it  is, 
that  misconduct  will  certainly  be  never  chased  out 
of  the  world  by  satire,  if  no  satires  are  written. 
Nor  is  that  term  inapplicable  to  graver  composi- 
tions; ethics,  heathen  and  Christian,  and  the  Scrip- 
tures themselves,  are,  in  a  great  measure,  a  satire 
on  the  weakness  and  iniquity  of  men ;  and  some 
part  of  that  satire  is  in  verse  too ;  nay,  in  the  first 
ages,  philosophy  and  poetry  were  the  same  thing ; 
wisdom  wore  no  other  dress :  so  that,  I  hope,  these 


fortune  by  the  severe.  Nay,  historians  themselves 
may  be  considered  as  satirists,  and  satirists  most 
severe ;  since  such  are  most  human  actions,  that 
to  relate  is  to  expose  them. 

No  man  can  converse  much  in  the  world,  but, 
at  what  he  meets  with,  he  must  either  be  insensi- 
ble, or  grieve,  or  be  angry,  or  smile.  Some  passion 
(if  we  are  not  impassive)  must  be  moved ;  for  the 


ness,  particularly ;  whereas,  it  appears  to  me.  that 
repetition  is  his  fault,  if  any  fault  should  be  im- 
puted to  him. 

There  are  some  prose  satirists  of  the  greatest 
delicacy  and  wit,  the  last  of  which  can  never,  or 


general  conduct  of  mankind  is  by  no  means  a  thing  should  never  succeed,  without  the  former.  An 
indifferent  to  a  reasonable  and  virtuous  man.  Now,  I  author  without  it  betrays  too  great  a  contempt  for 
to  smile  at  it,  and  turn  it  into  ridicule,  1  think  most '  mankind,  and  opinion  of  himself;  which  are  bad 
eligible,  as  it  hurts  ourselves  least,  and  gives  vice  j  advocates  for  reputation  and  success.  What  a  dif- 
and  folly  the  greatest  offence :  and  that  for  this  ference  is  there  between  the  merit,  if  not  the  wit, 
reason,  because  what  men  aim  at  by  them  is,  ge- !  of  Cervantes  and  Rabelais  ?  the  last  has  a  parti- 
nerally,  public  opinion  and  esteem ;  which  truth  is  'cular  art  of  throwing  a  great  deal  of  genius  and 
the  subject  of  the  following  Satires;  and  joins  them  j  learning  into  frolic  and  jest,  but  the  genius  and 
together,  as  several  branches  from  the  same  root:, the  scholar  is  all  you  can  admire:  you  want  the 


LOVE  OP  FAME. 


107 


gentleman  to  converse  with  in  him :  he  is  like  a 
criminal  who  receives  his  life  for  some  services ; 
you  commend,  but  you  pardon  too.  Indecency  of- 
fends our  pride,  as  men,  and  our  unaffected  taste, 
as  judges  of  composition :  Nature  has  wisely  form- 
ed us  with  an  aversion  to  it,  and  he  that  succeeds 
in  spite  of  it  is  aliena  venia,  quam  sud  providen- 
tia  tutior* 

Such  wits,  like  false  oracles  of  old,  (which  were 
wits  and  cheats)  should  set  up  for  reputation 
among  the  weak  in  some  Boeotia,  which  was  the 
land  of  oracles;  for  the  wise  will  hold  them  in  con- 
tempt. Some  wits,  too,  like  oracles,  deal  in  am- 
biguities, but  not  with  equal  success;  for  though 
ambiguities  are  the  first  excellence  of  an  impostor, 
they  are  the  last  of  a  wit. 

Some  satirical  wits  and  humourists,  like  their 
lather  Lucian,  laugh  at  every  thing  indiscrimi- 
nately, which  betrays  such  a  poverty  of  wit  as  can 
not  afford  to  part  with  any  thing,  and  such  a  want 
of  virtue  as  to  postpone  it  to  a  jest.     Such  writers 
encourage  vice  and  folly,  which  they  pretend  to 
combat,  by  setting  them  on  an  equal  foot  with  bet- 
ter things ;  and  while  they  labour  to  bring  every 
thing  into  contempt,  how  can  they  expect  their 
own  parts  should  escape  7   Some  French  writers 
particularly,  are  guilty  of  this  in  matters  of  the  last 
consequence,  and  some  of  our  own:  they  that  are 
for  lessening  the  true  dignity  of  mankind,  are  no 
sure  of  being  successful,  but  with  regard  to  one 
individual  in  it.     It  is  this  conduct  that  justly 
makes  a  wit  a  term  of  reproach :  which  puts  me  in 
mind  of  Plato's  fable  of  the  birth  of  Love,  one  o 
the  prettiest  fables  of  all  antiquity;  which  will  hok 
likewise  with  regard  to  modern  poetry.     '  Lov 
(says  he)  is  the  son  of  the  goddess  Poverty  an 
the  god  of  Riches:  he  has  from  his  father  his  dar 
ing  genius,  his  elevation  of  thought,  his  buildin 
castles  in  the  air,  his  prodigality,  his  neglect  o 
things  serious  and  useful,  his  vain  opinion  of  his 
own  merit,  and  his  affectation  of  preference  an 
distinction :  from  his  mother  he  inherits  his  indi 
gence,  which  makes  him  a  constant  beggar  of  fa 
vours,  that  importunity  witff^which  he  begs,  his 
flattery,  his  servility,  his  fear  of  being  despised 
which  is  inseparable  from  him.'     This  additio 
may  be  made,  viz.  that  Poetry,  like  Love,  is 
little  subject  to  blindness,  which  makes  her  way  t 
preferments  and  honours;  that  she  has  her  satirica 
quiver  ;  and  lastly,  that  she  retains  a  dutiful  ax 
miration  of  her  father's  family,  but  divides  her  fi 
vours,  and  generally  lives  with  her  mother's  reh 
tions.     However,  this  is  not  necessity,  but  choice 
were  Wisdom  her  governess,  she  might  have  muc 
more  of  the  father  than  the  mother;  especially  i 
such  an  age  as  this,  which  shows  a  due  passion  fo 
her  charms. 


Val.  Max. 


SATIRE  I. 


TO  HIS  GRACE  THE  DUKE  OF  DORSET. 

Tanto  major  Famae  sitis  e«,  quam 

Virtutis.  JUV.  SaL  10. 

vly  verse  is  satire ;  Dorset!  lend  your  ear, 
^.nd  patronise  a  Muse  you  can  not  fear, 
o  poets  sacred  is  a  Dorset's  name, 
heir  wonted  passport  through  the  gates  of  Fame: 

bribes  the  partial  reader  into  praise, 
\.nd  throws  a  glory  round  the  shelter'd  lays : 
^he  dazzled  judgment  fewer  faults  can  see, 

nd  gives  applause  to  Blackmore,  or  to  me, 
Jut  you  decline  the  mistress  we  pursue ; 
)thers  are  fond  of  Fame,  but  Fame  of  you. 

Instructive  Satire !  true  to  Virtue's  cause ! 
Thou  shining  supplement  of  public  laws! 
When  flattered  crimes  of  a  licentious  age 
leproach  our  silence,  and  demand  our  rage ; 
When  purchased  follies,  from  each  distant  land, 
jike  arts,  improve  in  Britain's  skilful  hand ; 
When  the  Law  shows  her  teeth,  but  dares  not 

bite, 

And  South-Sea  treasures  are  not  brought  to  light; 
When  churchmen  Scripture  for  the  classics  quit, 
3olite  apostates  from  God's  grace  to  wit  :* 
When  men  grow  great  from  their  revenue  spent, 
And  fly  from  bailifls  into  parliament ; 
When  dying  sinners,  to  blot  out  their  score, 
Bequeath  the  Church  the  leavings  of  a  whore ; 
To  chafe  our  spleen,  when  themes  like  these  in- 
crease, 
Shall  panegyric  reign  and  censure  cease? 

Shall  poesy,  like  law,  turn  wrong  to  right, 
And  dedications  wash  an  Ethiop  white  1 
Set  up  each  senseless  wretch  for  Nature's  boast,. 
On  whom  praise  shines,  as  trophies  on  a  post! 
Shall  funeral  Eloquence  her  colours  spread, 
And  scatter  roses  on  the  wealthy  dead  1 
Shall  authors  smile  on  such  illustrious  days, 
And  satirize  with  nothing— but  their  praise? 

"Why  slumbers  Pope,  who  leads  the  tuneful  train, 
Nor  hears  that  virtue  which  he  loves  complain  1 
Donne,  Dorset,  Dryden,  Rochester,  are  dead, 
And  guilt's  chief  foe  in  Addison  is  fled ; 
Congreve,  who,  crowned  with  laurels  fairly  won,. 
Sits  smiling  at  the  goal  while  others  run, 
He  will  not  write ;  and  (more  provoking  still) 
Ye  gods !  he  will  not  write,  and  Msevius  will. 

Doubly  distressed,  what  author  shall  we  find 
Discreetly  daring,  and  severely  kind, 
The  courtly  Roman'st  shining  path  to  tread, 
And  sharply  smile  prevailing  folly  dead ! 


•  Many  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  classics  had  been  edited  by 
English  divines, 
tllorace. 


108 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Will  no  superior  genius  snatch  the  quill, 
And  save  me,  on  the  brink,  from  writing  ill  1 
Though  vain  the  strife,  I'll  strive  my  voice  to  raise 
What  will  not  men  attempt  for  sacred  praise  1 
The  love  of  praise,  howe'er  concealed  by  art, 
Reigns,  more  or  less,  and  glows  in  every  heart ; 
The  proud,  to  gain  it,  toils  on  toils  endure ; 
The  modest  shun  it,  but  to  make  it  sure. 
O'er  globes  and  sceptres,  now  on  thrones  it  swells, 
Now  trims  the  midnight  lamp  in  college  cells : 
'Tis  tory,  whig;  it  plots,  prays,  preaches,  pleads, 
Harangues  in  senates,  squeaks  in  masquerades. 
Here  to  Steele's  humour  makes  a  bold  pretence, 
There,  bolder,  amis  at  Pulteney's*  eloquence: 
It  aids  the  dancer's  heel,  the  writer's  head, 
And  heaps  the  plain  with  mountains  of  the  dead; 
Nor  ends  with  life,  but  nods  in  sable  plumes, 
Adorns  our  hearse,  and  flatters  on  our  tombs. 

What  is  not  proud!  the  pimp  is  proud  to  see 
So  many  like  himself  in  high  degree : 
The  whore  is  proud  her  beauties  are  the  dread 
Of  peevish  virtue  and  the  marriage-bed ; 
And  the  bribed  cuckold,  like  crowned  victims  borne 
To  slaughter,  glories  in  his  gilded  horn. 

Some  go  to  church,  proud  humbly  to  repent, 
And  come  back  much  more  guilty  than  they  went, 
One  way  they  look,  another  way  they  steer, 
Pray  to  the  gods,  but  would  have  mortals  hear; 
And  when  their  sins  they  set  sincerely  down, 
They'll  find  that  their  religion  has  been  one. 

Others  with  wishful  eyes  on  glory  look, 
When  they  have  got  their  picture  towards  a  book, 
Or  pompous  title,  like  a  gaudy  sign, 
Meant  to  betray  dull  sots  to  wretched  wine. 
If  at  his  title  Trappt  had  dropped  his  quill, 
Trapp  might  have  passed  for  a  great  genius  still. 
But  Trapp,  alas !  (excuse  him  if  you  can) 
Is  now  a  scribbler,  who  was  once  a  man. 
Imperious,  some  a  classic  fame  demand, 
For  heaping  up,  with  a  laborious  hand, 
A  wagon-load  of  meanings  for  one  word, 
While  A's  deposed,  and  B's  with  pomp  restored.? 

Some,  for  renown,  on  scraps  of  learning  dote, 
And  think  they  grow  immortal  as  they  quote. 
To  patch- work  learned  quotations  are  allied; 
Both  strive  to  make  our  poverty  our  pride. 

On  glass  how  witty  is  a  noble  peer? 
Did  ever  diamond  cost  a  man  so  dear  1 

Polite  diseases  make  some  idiots  vain, 
Which,  if  unfortunately  well,  they  feign. 

Of  folly,  vice,  disease,  men  proud  we  see; 
And  (stranger  still!)  of  blockheads'  flattery, 
Whose  praise  defames ;  as  if  a  fool  should  mean, 
By  spitting  on  your  face  to  make  it  clean. 


*  Afterwards  Earl  of  Bath. 

t  Dr.  Trapp  had  been  Professor  of  poetry  in  the  University 
of  Oxford. 
J  This  alludes  to  Theobald's  "Shakspcare  Restored." 


Nor  is't  enough  all  hearts  are  swoln  with  Pride, 
Her  power  is  mighty,  aa  her  realm  is  wide. 
What  can  she  not  perform?  the  love  of  Fame 
Made  bold  Alphonsus  his  Creator  blame ; 
Empedocles  hurled  down  the  burning  steep; 
And  (stronger  still)  made  Alexander  weep ; 
Nay,  it  holds  Delia  from  a  second  bed, 
Though  her  loved  lord  has  four  half  months  been 
dead. 

This  passion  with  a  pimple  have  I  seen 
Retard  a  cause,  and  give  a  judge  the  spleen. 
By  this  inspired  (O  ne'er  to  be  forgot !) 
Some  lords  have  learned  to  spell,  and  some  to  knot. 
It  makes  Globose  a  speaker  in  the  House  ; 
He  hems,  and  is  delivered  of  his  mouse: 
It  makes  dear  self  on  well-bred  tongues  prevail, 
And  /  the  little  hero  of  each  tale. 

Sick  with  the  love  of  Fame,  what  throngs  pour  in, 
Unpeople  court,  and  leave  the  senate  thin  ? 
My  grpwing  subject  seems  but  just  begun, 
And,  chariot-like,  I  kindle  as  I  run.    • 

Aid  me,  great  Homer!  with  thy  epic  rules, 
To  take  a  catalogue  of  British  fools. 
Satire !  had  I  thy  Dorset's  force  divine, 
A  knave  or  fool  should  perish  in  each  line ; 
Though  for  the  first  all  Westminster  should  plead, 
And  for  the  last  all  Gresham  intercede. 

Begin.    Who  first  the  catalogue  shall  grace? 
To  quality  belongs  the  highest  place. 
My  lord  comes  forward ;  forward  let  him  come ! 
Ye  vulgar!  at  your  peril  give  him  room: 
He  stands  for  fame  on  his  forefathers'  feet, 
By  heraldry  proved  valiant  or  discreet. 
With  what  a  decent  pride  he  throws  his  eyes 
Above  the  man  by  three  descents  less  wise? 
If  virtues  at  his  noble  hands  you  crave, 
You  bid  him  raise  his  fathers  from  the  grave. 
Men  should  press  forward  in  Fame's  glorious 

chase; 
Nobles  look  backward,  and  so  lose  the  race. 

Let  high  birth  triumph!   what  can  be  more 

great? 

Nothing — but  merit  in  a  low  estate. 
To  Virtue's  humblest  son  let  none  prefer 
Vice,  though  descended  from  the  Conqueror. 
Shall  men,  like  figures,  pass  for  higher  base, 
Slight  or  important,  only  by  their  place? 
Titles  are  marks  of  honest  men,  and  wise ; 
The  fool  or  knave  that  wears  a  title,  lies. 

They  that  on  glorious  ancestors  enlarge, 
Produce  their  debt  instead  of  their  discharge. 
Dorset !  let  those  who  proudly  boast  their  line, 
Like  thee  in  worth  hereditary  shine. 

Vain  as  false  greatness  is,  the  muse  must  own 
We  want  not  fools  to  buy  that  Bristol  stone : 
Mean  sons  of  Earth,  who,  on  a  South-Sea  tide 
Of  full  success,  swam  into  wealth  and  pride, 
Knock  with  a  purse  of  gold  at  Anstis'  gate, 
And  beg  to  be  descended  from  the  great, 


LOVE  OF  FAME. 


109 


When  men  of  infamy  to  grandeur  soar, 
They  light  a  torch  to  show  their  shame  the  more 
Those  governments,  which  curb  not  evils,  cause; 
And  a  rich  knave's  a  libel  on  our  laws. 

Belus  with  solid  glory  will  be  crowned ; 
He  buys  no  phantom,  no  vain  empty  sound ; 
But  builds  himself  a  name;  and,  to  be  great, 
Sinks  in  a  quarry  an  immense  estate ! 
In  cost  and  grandeur  Chandos  he'll  outdo ; 
And,  Burlington,  thy  taste  is  not  so  true. 
The  pile  is  mushed,  every  toil  is  passed, 
And  full  perfection  is  arrived  at  last ; 
When,  lo!  my  lord  to  some  small  corner  runs, 
And  leaves  state-rooms  to  strangers  and  to  duns. 

The  man  who  builds,  and  wants  wherewith  to 

pay, 

Provides  a  home  from  which  to  run  away. 
In  Britain,  what  is  many  a  lordly  seat, 
But  a  discharge  in  full  for  an  estate  ? 

In  smaller  compass  lies  Pygmalion's  fame; 
Not  domes,  but  antique  statues,  are  his  flame: 
Not  Fountaine's  self  more  Parian  charms  has 

known, 

Nor  is  good  Pembroke*  more  in  love  with  stone. 
The  bailiff's  come  (rude  men,  profanely  bold !) 
And  bid  him  turn  his  Venus  into  gold. 
'  No,  sirs,'  he  cries ;  Til  sooner  rot  in  gaol: 
Shall  Grecian  arts  be  trucked  for  English  bai!7' 
Such  heads  might  make  their  verybustos  laugh: 
His  daughter  starves ;  but  Cleopatra's  safe.t 

Men  overloaded  with  a  large  estate, 
May  spill  their  treasure  in  a  nice  conceit: 
The  rich  n.ay  be  polite;  but  oh!  'tis  sad 
To  say  you're  curious,  when  we  swear  you're  mad 
By  your  revenue  measure  your  expense, 
And  to  your  funds  and  acres  join  your  sense. 
No  mar*  is  blessed  by  accident  or  guess; 
True  wisdom  is  the  price  of  happiness: 
Yet  few  without  long  discipline  are  sage, 
And  our  youth  only  lays  up  sighs  for  age. 
But  how,  my  Muse!  canst  thou  resist  so  long 
The  bright  temptation  of  the  courtly  throng, 
Thy  most  inviting  theme"?  the  court  affords 
Much  food  for  satire;— it  abounds  in  lords. 
'  What  lords  are  those  saluting  with  a  grinl' 
One  is  just  out,  and  one  as  lately  in. 
'  How  comes  it,  then,  to  pass,  we  see  preside 
On  both  their  brows  an  equal  share  of  pride  V 
Pride,  that  impartial  passion,  reigns  through  all, 
Attends  our  glory,  nor  deserts  our  fall. 
As  in  its  home  it  triumphs  in  high  place, 
And  frowns,  a  haughty  exile,  in  disgrace. 
Som«  lords  it  bids  admire  their  wands  so  white, 
Which  bloom,  like  Aaron's  to  their  ravished  sight: 


*  Sir  Andrew  Fountaine  and  the  Earl  of  Pembroke  were 
real  admirers  of  antique  statues, 
t  A  famous  statue. 


Some  lords  it  bids  resign,  and  turn  their  wands, 
Like  Moses',  into  serpents  in  their  hands. 
These  sink,  as  divers,  for  renown,  and  boast, 
With  pride  inverted,  of  their  honours  lost : 
But  against  reason  sure  'tis  equal  sin, 
To  boast  of  merely  being  out  or  in. 
What  numbers  here,  through  odd  ambition, 

strive 

To  seem  the  most  transported  things  alive? 
As  if  by  joy  desert  was  understood, 
And  all  the  fortunate  were  wise  and  good : 
Hence  aching  bosoms  wear  a  visage  gay, 
And  stifled  groans  frequent  the  ball  and  play : 
Completely  dressed  by  Monteuil*  and  grimace, 
They  take  their  birth-day  suit  and  public  face : 
Their  smiles  are  only  part  of  what  they  wear, 
Put  off  at  night  with  Lady  Bristol's  hair: 
What  bodily  fatigue  is  half  so  bad  1 
With  anxious  care  they  labour  to  be  glad. 

What  numbers,  here,  would  into  fame  advance, 
Conscious  of  merit  in  the  coxcomb's  dance  1 
The  tavern,  park,  assembly,  mask,  and  play, 
Those  dear  destroyers  of  the  tedious  day; 
That  wheel  of  fops ;  that  saunter  of  the  town  : 
Call  it  diversion,  and  the  pill  goes  down. 
Fools  grin  on  fools,  and  stoic-like,  support, 
Without  one  sigh,  the  pleasures  of  a  court. 

ourts  can  give  nothing  to  the  wise  and  good 
But  scorn  of  pomp  and  love  of  solitude. 
High  stations  tumult,  but  not  bliss,  create : 
None  think  the  great  unhappy  but  the  great: 
Fools  gaze,  and  envy;  envy  darts  a  sting, 
Which  makes  a  swain  as  wretched  as  a  king. 

envy  none  their  pageantry  and  showj 
[  envy  none  the  gilding  of  their  wo. 
Give  me,  indulgent  gods !  with  mind  serene 
And  guiltless  heart,  to  range  the  silvan  scene. 
So  splendid  poverty,  no  smiling  care, 
tfo  well-bred  hate,  or  servile  grandeur  there ; 
There  pleasing  objects  useful  thoughts  suggest, 
The  sense  is  ravished,  and  the  soul  is  blessed ; 
On  every  thorn  delightful  wisdom  grows, 
n  every  rill  a  sweet  instruction  flows : 
But  some,  untaught,  o'erhear  the  whispering  rill, 
n  spite  of  sacred  leisure  blockheads  still ; 
Nor  shoots  up  Folly  to  a  nobler  bloom 
n  her  own  native  soil,  the  drawing-room. 

The  squire  is  proud  to  see  his  coursers  strain, 
)r  well-breath'd  beagles  sweep  along  the  plain. 
Say,  dear  Hippolitus !  (whose  drink  is  ale, 
Vhose  erudition  is  a  Christmas-tale, 
Vhose  mistress  is  saluted  with  a  smack, 
And  friend  received  with  thumps  upon  the  back) 
Vhen  thy  sleek  gelding  nimbly  leaps  the  mound, 
And  Ringwood  opens  on  the  tainted  ground, 

that  thy  praise  ?  let  Ringwood's  fame  alone ; 
ust  Ringwood  leaves  each  animal  his  own, 


A  famous  tailor. 


110 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Nor  envies  when  a  gipsy  you  commit, 
And  shake  the  clumsy  bench  with  country  wit ; 
When  you  the  dullest  of  dull  things  have  said, 
And  then  ask  pardon  for  the  jest  you  made. 

Here  breathe,  my  Muse!  and  then  thy  task  re- 
new; 

Ten  thousand  fools  unsung  are  still  in  view. 
Fewer  lay-atheists  made  by  church  debates, 
Fewer  great  beggars  famed  for  large  estates, 
Ladies,  whose  love  is  constant  as  the  wind, 
Cits,  who  prefer  a  guinea  to  mankind ; 
Fewer  grave  lords  to  Scroope*  discreetly  bend, 
And  fewer  shocks  a  statesman  gives  his  friend. 

Is  there  a  man  of  an  eternal  vein, 
Who  lulls  the  town  in  winter  with  his  strain, 
At  Bath,  in  summer,  chants  the  reigning  lass, 
And  sweetly  whistles  as  the  waters  pass  1 
Is  there  a  tongue  like  Delia's  o'er  her  cup, 
That  runs  for  ages  without  winding  up  1 
Is  there  whom  his  tenth  epic  mounts  to  fame  ? 
Such,  and  such  only,  might  exhaust  my  theme; 
Nor  would  these  heroes  of  the  task  be  glad, 
For  who  can  write  so  fast  as  men  run  mad  ? 


SATIRE  II. 

My  Muse!  proceed,  and  reach  thy  destined  end. 
Though  toil  and  danger  the  bold  task  attend. 
Heroes  and  gods  make  other  poems  fine, 
Plain  satire  calls  for  sense  in  every  line : 
Then  to  what  swarms  thy  faults  I  dare  expose  1 
All  friends  to  vice  and  folly  are  thy  foes. 
When  such  the  foe,  a  war  eternal  wage, 
'Tis  most  ill  nature^to  repress  thy  rage ; 
And  if  these  strains  some  nobler  muse  excite, 
I'll  glory  in  the  verse  I  did  not  write. 

So  weak  are  human  kind  by  Nature  made, 
Or  to  such  weakness  by  their  vice  betrayed, 
Almighty  Vanity !  to  thee  they  owe 
Their  zest  of  pleasure,  and  their  balm  of  wo. 
Thou,  like  the  sun,  all  colours  dost  contain, 
Varying,  like  rays  of  light  on  drops  of  rain : 
For  every  soul  finds  reasons  to  be  proud, 
Though  hissed  and  hooted  by  the  pointing  crowd. 

Warm  in  pursuit  of  foxes  and  renown, 
Hippolitus  demands  the  silvan  crown  :t 
But  Florio's  fame,  the  product  of  a  shower, 
Grows  in  his  garden,  an  illustrious  flower ! 
Why  teems  the  earth?  why  melt  the  vernal  skies? 
Why  shines  the  sun?  to  make  Paul  Diackt  rise. 
From  morn  to  night  has  Florio  gazing  stood, 
And  wondered  how  the  gods  could  be  so  good : 


*  A  great  money-lender. 
1  This  refers  to  the  First  Satire. 
i  The  name  of  a  tulip,  and  of  a  great  stock-jobber,  from 
whom  the  flower  received  it. 


What  shape?  what  hue?  was  ever  nymph  so  fair? 
He  dotes !  he  dies !  he,  too,  is  rooted  there. 
O  solid  bliss !  which  nothing  can  destroy, 
Except  a  cat,  bird,  snail,  or  idle  boy. 
In  Fame's  full  bloom  lies  Florio  down  at  night, 
And  wakes  next  day  a  most  inglorious  wight ; 
The  tulip's  dead !  See  thy  fair  sister's  fate. 
O  C** !  and  be  kind  ere  'tis  too  late. 

Nor  are  those  enemies  I  mention'd  all: 
Beware,  O  florist !  thy  ambition's  fall. 
A  friend  of  mine  indulged  this  noble  flame, 
A  quaker  served  him,  Adam  was  his  name; 
To  one  loved  tulip  oft  the  master  went, 
Hung  o'er  it,  and  whole  days  in  rapture  spent ; 
But  came,  and  missed  it  one  ill-fated  hour : 
He  raged!  he  roared,  'What  demon  cropt  my 

flower?' 

Serene,  quoth  Adam,  '  Lo !  'twas  crushed  by  me  ; 
Fallen  is  the  Baal  to  which  thou  bowed'st  thy 
knee.' 

But  all  men  want  amusement,  and  what  crime 
In  such  a  paradise  to  fool  their  time? 
None ;  but  why  proud  of  this?  to  fame  they  soar ; 
We'll  grant  they're  idle  if  they'll  ask  no  more. 

We  smile  at  florists,  we  despise  their  joy, 
And  think  their  hearts  enamoured  of  a  toy, 
But  are  those  wiser  whom  we  most  admire, 
Survey  with  envy,  and  pursue  with  fire? 
What's  he  who  sighs  for  wealth,  or  fame,  or  power  ? 
Another  Florio  doting  on  a  flower ; 
A  short-lived  flower,  and  which  has  often  sprung 
From  sordid  arts,  as  Florio's  out  of  dung. 

With  what,  O  Codrus!  is  thy  fancy  smit? 
The  flower  of  learning,  and  the  bloom  of  wit. 
Thy  gaudy  shelves  with  crimson  bindings  glow, 
And  Epictetus  is  a  perfect  beau. 
How  fit  for  thee,  bound  up  in  crimson  too, 
Gilt,  and,  like  them,  devoted  to  the  view  ? 
Thy  books  are  furniture.     Methinks  'tis  hard 
That  science  should  be  purchased  by  the  yard ; 
And  Tonson,  turned  upholsterer,  send  home 
The  glided  leather  to  fit  up  thy  room.* 

If  not  to  some  peculiar  end  assigned, 
Study's  the  specious  trifling  of  the  mind, 
Or  is,  at  best,  a  secondary  aim, 
A  chase  for  sport  alone,  and  not  for  game. 
If  so,  sure  they  who  the  mere  volume  prize, 
But  love  the  thicket  where  the  quarry  lies. 

On  buying  books  Lorenzo  long  was  bent, 
But  found,  at  length,  that  it  reduced  his  rent; 
His  farms  were  flown :  when,  lo !  a  sale  comes  on, 
A  choice  collection !  what  is  to  be  done  ? 
He  sells  his  last,  for  he  the  whole  will  buy ; 
Sells  e'en  his  house;  nay,  wants  whereon  to  lie: 
So  high  the  generous  ardour  of  the  man 
For  Romans,  Greeks,  and  Orientals  ran. 


*  Jacob  Tonson  fitted  up  many  libraries  of  gilt  books  for 
South  Sea  coxcombs  in  1720. 


LOVE  OF  FAME. 


Ill 


When  terms  were  drawn,  and  brought  him  by  the 

clerk, 

Lorenzo  signed  the  bargain — with  his  mark. 
Unlearned  men  of  books  assume  the  care, 
As  eunuchs  are  the  guardians  of  the  fair. 

in  his  authors'  liveries  alone 
Is  Codrus'  erudite  ambition  shown : 
Editions  various,  at  high  prices  bought, 
Inform  the  world  what  Codrus  would  be  thought; 
And  to  this  cost  another  must  succeed, 
To  pay  a  sage  who  says  that  he  can  read; 
Who  titles  knows,  and  indexes  has  seen, 
But  leaves  to  Orrery*  what  lies  between; 
Of  pompous  books  who  shuns  the  proud  expense, 
And  humbly  is  contented  with  their  sense. 

Orrery  !  whose  accomplishments  make  good 
The  promise  of  a  long-illustrious  blood, 
In  arts  and  nfanners  eminently  graced, 
The  strictest  honour!  and  the  finest  taste! 
Accept  this  verse,  if  satire  can  agree 
With  so  consummate  an  humanity. 
Bv  your  example  would  Hilario  mend, 
How  would  it  grace  the  talents  of  my  friend, 
Who,  with  the  charms  of  his  own  genius  smit, 
Conceives  all  virtues  are  comprised  in  wit ! 
But  time  his  fervent  petulance  may  cool, 
For,  though  he  is  a  wit,  he  is  no  fool. 
In  time  he'll  learn  to  use,  not  waste,  his  sense ; 
Nor  make  a  frailty  of  an  excellence. 
He  spares  nor  friend  nor  foe,  but  calls  to  mind, 
Like  doomsday,  all  the  faults  of  all  mankind. 

What  though  wit  tickles,  tickling  is  unsafe, 
If  still  'tis  painful  while  it  makes  us  laugh. 
Who,  for  the  poor  renown  of  being  smart, 
Would  leave  a  sting  within  a  brother's  heart  1 

Parts  may  be  praised,  good-nature  is  adored ; 
Then  draw  your  wit  as  seldom  as  your  sword, 
And  never  on  the  weak ;  or  you'll  appear 
As  there  no  hero,  no  great  genius  here. 
As  in  smooth  oil  the  razor  best  is  whet, 
So  wit  is  by  politeness  sharpest  set : 
Their  want  of  edge  from  their  offence  is  seen; 
Both  pain  us  least  when  exquisitely  keen. 
The  fame  men  gives  is  for  the  joy  they  find ; 
Dull  is  the  jester  when  the  joke's  unkind. 

Since  Marcus,  doubtless,  thinks  himself  a  wit, 
To  pay  my  compliment  what  place  so  fit? 
Hi*  most  facetious  Letters*  came  to  hand, 
Which  my  First  Satire  sweetly  reprimand: 
If  that  a  just  offence  to  Marcus  gave, 
Say,  Marcus!  which  art  thou,  a  fool  or  knave? 
For  all  but  such  with  caution  I  forbore ; 
That  thou  wast  either  I  ne'er  knew  before : 
I  know  thee  now,  both  what  thou  art  and  who ; 
No  Mask  so  good  but  Marcus  must  shine  through 


'  Charles  Earl  of  Orrery. 
i  Letters  sent  to  the  Author,  signed  Marcus. 
•Jl 


?alse  names  are  vain,  thy  lines  their  author  tell ; 
Thy  best  concealment  had  been  writing  well : 
3ut  thou  a  brave  neglect  of  fame  hast  shown, 
Of  others'  fame,  great  genius !  and  thy  own. 
Write  on  unheeded,  and  this  maxim  know, 
The  man  who  pardons,  disappoints  his  foe. 

In  malice  to  proud  wits,  some  proudly  lull 
Their  peevish  reason,  vain  of  being  dull: 
When  some  home-joke  has  stung  their  solemn 

souls, 

[n  vengeance  they  determine — to  be  fools ; 
Through  spleen,  that  little  Nature  gave  make  less, 
duite  zealous  in  the  ways  of  heaviness ; 
To  lumps  inanimate  a  fondness  take, 
And  disinherit  sons  that  are  awake. 
These,  when  their  utmost  venom  they  would  spit, 
Most  barbarously  tell  you— ( He's  a  wit.' 
Poor  negroes  thus,  to  show  their  burning  spite 
To  cacodemons,  say— they're  devilish  white. 

Lampridius,  from  the  bottom  of  his  breast, 
Sighs  o'er  one  child,  but  triumphs  in  the  rest. 
How  just  his  grief?  one  carries  in  his  head 
A  less  proportion  of  the  father's  lead, 
And  is  in  danger,  without  special  grace, 
To  rise  above  a  justice  of  the  peace. 
The  dunghill-breed  of  men  a  diamond  scorn, 
And  feel  a  passion  for  a  grain  of  corn  ; 
Some  stupid,  plodding,  money-loving  wight, 
Who  wins  their  hearts  by  knowing  black  from 

white, 

Who  with  much  pains,  exerting  all  his  sense, 
Can  range  aright  his  shillings,  pounds,  and  pence. 

The  booby  father  craves  a  booby  son, 
And,  by  Heaven's  blessing,  thinks  himself  undone. 

Wants  of  all  kinds  are  made  to  Fame  a  plea, 
One  learns  to  lisp,  another  not  to  see : 
Miss  Duncomb,  tottering,  catches  at  your  hand ; 
Was  ever  tiling  so  pretty  born  to  stand  ? 
Whilst  these  what  Nature  gave  disown,  through 

pride, 

Others  affect  what  Nature  has  denied ; 
What  Nature  has  denied,  fools  will  pursue, 
As  apes  are  ever  walking  upon  two. 

Crassus,  a  grateful  sage,  our  awe  and  sport! 
Supports  grave  forms,  for  forms  the  sage  support : 
He  hems,  and  cries,  with  an  important  air, 
'  If  yonder  clouds  withdraw,  it  will  be  fair:' 
Then  quotes  the  Stagirite  to  prove  it  true, 
And  adds,   c  The   learned  delight  in  something 

new.' 

Is't  not  enough  the  blockhead  scarce  can  read, 
But  must  he  wisely  look,  and  gravely  plead  ? 
As  far  a  formalist  from  wisdon^Hb, 
In  judging  eyes,  as  libertines  from  wits. 

These  subtle  wights  (so  blind  are  mortal  men, 
Though  Satire  touch  them  with  her  keenest  pen) 
For  ever  will  hang  out  a  solemn  face, 
To  put  off  nonsense  with  a  better  grace ; 


112 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


As  pedlars  with  some  hero's  head  make  bold, 

Illustrious  mark !  where  pins  are  to  be  sold. 

What 's  the  bent  brow,  or  neck  in  thought  reclined  ? 

The  body's  wisdom  to  conceal  the  mind. 

A  man  of  sense  can  artifice  disdain, 

As  men  of  wealth  may  venture  to  go  plain : 

And  be  this  truth  eternal  ne'er  forgot, 

Solemnity  's  a  cover  for  a  sot. 

I  find  the  fool  when  I  behold  the  skreen, 

For  'tis  the  wise  man's  interest  to  be  seen. 

Hence,  Doddington,  that  openness  of  heart, 
And  just  disdain  for  that  poor  mimic  Art ; 
Hence  (manly  praise !)  that  manner,  nobly  free, 
Which  all  admire,  and  I  commend,  in  thee. 

With  generous  scorn  how  oft  hast  thou  surveyed 
Of  court  and  town  the  noontide  masquerade 
Where  swarms  of  knaves  the  vizor  quite  disgrace, 
And  hide  secure  behind  a  naked  face  ; 
Where  Nature's  end  of  language  is  declined, 
And  men  talk  only  to  conceal  the  mind ; 
Where  generous  hearts  the  greatest  hazard  run, 
And  he  who  trusts  a  brother  is  undone  1 

These  all  their  care  expend  .on  outward  show 
For  wealth  and  fame ;  for  fame  alone  the  beau. 
Of  late  at  White's  was  young  Florello  seen ; 
How  blank  his  look?  how  discomposed  his  mien? 
So  hard  it  proves  in  grief  sincere  to  feign ! 
Sunk  were  his  spirits,  for  his  coat  was  plain. 
Next  day  his  breast  regained  its  wonted  peace ; 
His  health  was  mended  with  a  silver  lace. 
A  curious  artist  long  inured  to  toils 
Of  gentler  sort,  with  combs,  and  fragrant  oils, 
Whether  by  chance  or  by  some  god  inspired, 
So  touched  his  curls,  his  mighty  soul  was  fired. 
The  well-swoln  ties  an  equal  homage  claim, 
And  either  shoulder  has  its  share  of  fame ; 
His  sumptuous  watchcase,  though  concealed  it  lies, 
Like  a  good  conscience,  solid  joy  supplies. 
He  only  thinks  himself  (so  far  from  vain!) 
Stanhope*  in  wit,  in  breeding  Deloraine.t 
Whene'er  by  seeming  chance,  he  throws  his  eye 
On  mirrors  that  reflect  his  Tyrian  dye, 
With  how  sublime  a  transport  leaps  his  heart  ? 
But  Fate  ordains  that  dearest  friends  must  part : 
In  active  measures,  brought  from  France,  he  wheels, 
And  triumphs  conscious  of  his  learned  heels. 
So  have  I  seen,  on  some  bright  summer's  day, 
A  calf  of  genius,  debonair  and  gay, 
Dance  on  the  bank,  as  if  inspired  by  Fame, 
Fond  of  the  pretty  fellow  in  the  stream. 

Morose  is  sunk  with  shame  whene'er  surprised 
In  linen  clean,  or  peruke  undisguised ; 
No  sublunary  chance  his  vestments  fear, 
Valued,  like  leopards,  as  their  spots  appear. 
A  famed  surtout  he  wears,  which  once  was  blue, 
And  his  foot  swims  in  a  capacious  shoe : 
One  day  his  wife  (for  who  can  wives  reclaim?) 
Levelled  her  barbarous  needle  at  his  fame ; 


Earl  Cheeterfield. 


t  Lord  Dclorainc. 


But  open  force  was  vain ;  by  night  she  went, 
And,  while  he  slept,  surprised  the  darling  rent ; 
Where  yawned  the  frieze  is  now  become  a  doubt, 
1  And  glory,  at  one  entrance,  quite  shut  out.'* 

He  scorns  Florello,  and  Florello  him ; 
This  hates  the  filthy  creature,  that  the  prim : 
Thus,  in  each  other,  both  these  fools  despise 
Their  own  dear  selves,  with  undiscernirig  eyes; 
Their  methods  various,  but  alike  their  aim ; 
The  sloven  and  the  fopling  are  the  same. 

Ye  Whigs  and  Tories !  thus  it  fares  with  you, 
When  party-rage  too  warmly  you  pursue : 
Then  both  club  nonsense,  and  impetuous  pride 
And  folly  join  whom  sentiments  divide. 
You  vent  your  spleen,  as  monkeys,  when  they  pass, 
Scratch  at  the  mimic  monkey  in  the  glass, 
While  both  are  one ;  and  henceforth  be  it  known, 
Fools  of  both  sides  shall  stand  for  fools  alone. 

'But  who  art  thou?  methinks  Florello  cries; 
'  Of  all  thy  species  art  thou  only  wise  V 
Since  smallest  things  can  give  our  sins  a  twitch, 
As  crossing  straws  retard  a  passing  witch, 
Florello !  thou  my  monitor  shall  be, 
I'll  conjure  thus  some  profit  out  of  thee. 
O  thou  myself!  abroad  our  counsels  roam, 
And,  like  ill  husbands,  take  no  care  at  home 
Thou,  too,  art  wounded  with  the  common  dart, 
And  Love  of  Fame  lies  throbbing  at  thy  heart ; 
And  what  wise  means  to  gain  it  hast  thou  chose? 
Know,  Fame  and  Fortune  both  are  made  of  prose. 
Is  thy  ambition  sweating  for  a  rhyme, 
Thou  unambitious  fool !  at  this  late  time  ? 
While  I  a  moment  name,  a  moment's  past; 
I'm  nearer  death  in  this  verse  than  the  last : 
What  then  is  to  be  done?  be  wise  with  speed : 
A  fool  at  forty  is  a  fool  indeed ! 

And  what  so  foolish  as  the  chase  of  fame  ? 
How  vain  the  prize !  how  impotent  our  aim ! 
For  what  are  men  who  grasp  at  praise  sublime, 
But  bubbles  on  the  rapid  stream  of  time, 
That  rise  and  fall,  that  swell  and  are  no  more, 
Born  and  forgot,  ten  thousand  in  an  hour? 


SATIRE  III. 

TO  THE  RIGHT  HON.  MR.  DODINGTON. 

LONG,  Dodington !  in  debt,  I  long  have  sought 
To  ease  the  burden  of  my  grateful  thought ; 
And  now  a  poet's  gratitude  you  see, 
Grant  him  two  favours,  and  he'll  ask  for  three : 
For  whose  the  present  glory  or  the  gain  ? 
You  give  protection,  I  a  worthless  strain. 
You  love  and  feel  the  poet's  sacred  flame, 
And  know  the  basis  of  a  solid  fame ; 
Though  prone  to  like,  yet  cautious  to  commend, 
You  read  with  all  the  malice  of  a  friend ; 


Milton'H  Paradise  Lost. 


LOVE  OF  FAME. 


113 


\our  my  attempts  that  way  alone. 
But  more  to  raise  my  verse,  conceal  your  own. 

An  ill-timed  modesty  I  turn  ages  o'er, 
When  wanted  Britain  bright  examples  morel 
Her  learning,  and  her  genius  too,  decays, 
And  dark  and  cold  are  her  declining  days ; 
As  if  men  now  wore  of  another  cast, 
They  meanly  live  on  alms  of  ages  past. 

till  are  men  ;  and  they  who  boldly  dare, 
Shall  triumph  o'er  the  sons  of  cold  Despair; 
Or  if  they  fail,  they  justly  still  take  place 
Of  such  who  run  in  debt  for  their  disgrace; 
Who  borrow  much,  then  fairly  make  it  known, 
And  damn  it  with  improvements  of  their  own. 
We  bring  some  new  materials,  and  what's  old 
Now  oast  with  care,  and  in  no  borrowed  mould: 
Late  times  the  verse  may  read,  if  these  refuse, 
And  from  sour  critics  vindicate  the  muse. 

:r  work  is  long;  the  critics  cry.     'Tis  true. 
And  lengthens  still,  to  take  in  fools  like  you: 
Shorten  my  lalwur,  if  its  length  you  blame  : 
row  but  wise,  you  rob  me  of  my  game; 
fAs  hunted  hags,  who,  while  the  dogs  pursue, 
Renounce  their  four  legs,  and  start  up  on  two. 
Like  the  bold  bird  upon  the  banks  of  Nile, 
That  picks  the  teeth  of  the  dire  crocodile, 
Will  I  enjoy  (dread  feast !)  the  critic's  rage, 
And  with  the  fell  destroyer  feed  my  page : 
For  what  ambitious  fools  are  more  to  blame, 

who  thunder  in  the  critic's  name  1 
authors  damned  have  their  revenge  in  this, 
what  wretches  gain  the  praise  they  miss. 
TSalbutius,  muffled  in  his  sable  cloak, 
pLike  an  old  druid  from  his  hollow  oak, 
As  ravens  solemn,  and  as  boding,  cries, 
'  Ten  thousand  worlds  for  the  three  unities!' 
Ye  doctors  sage !  who  through  Parnassus  teach, 
Or  quit  the  tub,  or  practise  what  you  preach. 

One  judges  as  the  weather  dictates :  right 
The  poem  is  at  noon,  and  wrong  at  night : 
Another  judges  by  a  surer  gage, 
An  author's  principles  or  parentage : 
Since  his  great  ancestors  in  Flanders  fell, 
The  poem,  doubtless,  must  be  written  well. 
Another  judges  by  the  writer's  look ; 
Another  judges,  for  he  bought  the  book : 
Some  judge,  their  knack  of  judging  wrong  to 

keep; 

Some  judge,  because  it  is  too  soon  to  sleep. 
Thus  all  will  judge,  and  with  one  single  aim, 

ilive  the  writer,  fame; 
The  very  U-st  ambitiously  advise, 
Half  to  >er\x-  you,  and  half  to  pass  for  wise. 

Critics  on  \  ,  :ibs  on  triumphs  wait, 

Proclaim  the  glory,  and  augment  the  state : 
Hot,  envious,  noisy,  proud,  the  scribbling  fry 
Burn,  hiss,  and  bounce,  waste  paper,  stink,  and 
die. 


Rail  on,  my  friends !  what  more  my  verse  can  crown 
Than  Compton's*  smile,  and  your  obliging  frown  1 

Not  all  on  books  their  criticism  waste  ; 
The  genius  of  a  dish  some  justly  taste, 
And  eat  their  way  to  fame.  With  anxious  thought 
The  salmon  is  refused,  the  turbot  bought. 
Impatient  Art  refmkes  the  sun's  delay, 
And  bids  December  yield  the  fruits  of  May: 
Their  various  cares  in  one  great  point  combine 
The  business,  of  their  lives,  that  is — to  dine ! 
Half  of  their  precious  day  they  give  the  feast, 
And  to  a  kind  digestion  spare  the  rest : 
Abicius,  here,  the  taster  of  the  town, 
Feeds  twice  a  week  to  settle  their  renown, 

These  worthies  of  the  palate  guard  with  care 
The  sacred  annals  of  their  bills  of  fare ; 
In  those  choice  books  their  panegyrics  read, 
And  scorn  the  creatures  that  for  hunger  feed. 
If  man  by  feeding  well  commences  great, 
Much  more  the  worm  to  whom  that  man  is  meat. 

To  glory  some  advance  a  lying  claim, 
Thieves  of  renown,  and  pilferers  of  fame : 
Their  front  supplies  what  their  ambition  lacks ; 
They  know  a  thousand  lords  behind  their  backs. 
Cottil  is  apt  to  wink  upon  a  peer, 
When  turned  away,  with  a  familiar  leer  ; 
And  Hervey's*  eyes,  unmercifully  keen, 
Have  murdered  fops,  by  whom  she  ne'er  was  seen. 
Niger  adopts  stray  libels,  wisely  prone 
To  covet  shame  still  greater  than  his  own. 
Bathyllus,  in  the  winter  of  threescore, 
Belies  his  innocence,  and  keeps  a  whore. 
Absence  of  mind  Brabantio  turns  to  fame, 
Learns  to  mistake,  nor  knows  his  brother's  name  j 
Has  words  and  thoughts  in  nice  disorder  set, 
And  takes  a  memorandum  to  forget. 
Thus  vain,  not  knowing  what  adonis  or  blots, 
Men  forge  the  patents  that  create  them  sots. 

As  love  of  pleasure  into  pain  betrays, 
So  most  grow  infamous  through  love  of  praise. 
But  whence  for  praise  can  such  an  ardour  rise, 
When  those  who  bring  that  incense  we  despise  1 
For  such  the  vanity  of  great  and  small, 
Contempt  goes  round,  and  all  men  laugh  at  all. 
Nor  can  e'en  satire  blame  them;  for  'tis  true 
They  have  most  ample  cause  for  what  they  do. 
0  fruitful  Britain !  doubtless  thou  wast  meant 
A  nurse  of  fools  to  stock  the  continent. 
Though  Phoebus  and  the  Nine  for  ever  mow, 
iank  folly  underneath  the  scythe  will  grow: 
The  plenteous  harvest  calls  me  forward  still, 
Till  I  surpass  in  length  my  lawyer's  bill, 
A  Welch  descent,  which  well-paid  heralds  damn; 
Or,  longer  still,  a  Dutchman's  epigram. 
When,  cloy'd,  in  fury  1  throw  down  my  pen, 
n  comes  a  coxcomb,  and  I  write  again. 


•  Sir  Spencer  Compton. 


ILadyHervey. 


114 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


See  Tityrus,  with  merriment  possessed, 
Is  burst  with  laughter  ere  he  hears  the  jest: 
What  need  he  stay  1  for  when  the  joke  is  o'er, 
His  teeth  will  be  no  whiter  than  before. 
Is  there  of  these,  ye  fair!  so  great  a  dearth, 
That  you  need  purchase  monkeys  for  your  mirth? 

Some,  vain  of  paintings,  bid  the  world  admire; 
Of  houses  some;  nay,  houses  that  they  hire: 
Some  (perfect  wisdom !)  of  a  beauteous  wife, 
And  boast,  like  Cordeliers,  a  scourge  for  life. 

Sometimes,  through  pride,  the   sexes  change 

their  airs, 

My  lord  has  vapours,  and  my  lady  swears; 
Then,  (stranger  still !)  on  turning  of  the  wind, 
My  lord  wears  breeches,  arid  my  lady's  kind. 

To  show  the  strength  and  infamy  of  pride, 
By  all  'tis  followed,  and  by  all  denied. 
What  numbers  are  there  which  at  once  pursue 
Praise,  and  the  glory  to  contemn  11100*? 
Vincenna  knows  self-praise  betrays  to  shame, 
And  therefore  lays  a  stratagem  for  fame; 
Makes  his  approach  in  Modesty's  disguise, 
To  win  applause,  and  takes  it  by  surprise. 

1  To  err,'  says  he, '  in  small  things,  is  my  fate.' 
You  know  your  answer,  '  He's  exact  in  great.' 
1  My  style,'  says  he,  <  is  rude  and  full  of  faults,'— 
'But,  oh!  what  sense!  what  energy  of  thoughts !' 
That  'he  wants  algebra  he  must  confess; — 
But  not  a  soul  to  give  our  arms  success.' 
(Ah!  that's  a  hit  indeed.)    Vincenna  cries; 
'  But  who  in  heat  of  blood  was  ever  wise! 
I  own  'twas  wrong  when  thousands  called  me  back, 
To  make  that  hopeless,  ill-advised  attack ; 
All  say  'twas  madness,  nor  dare  I  deny: 
Sure  never  fool  so  well  deserved  to  die.' 
Could  this  deceive  in  others,  to  be  free, 
It  ne'er,  Vincenna !  could  deceive  in  thee, 
Whose  conduct  is  a  comment  to  thy  tongue, 
So  clear,  the  dullest  can  not  take  thee  wrong: 
Thou  on  one  sleeve  wilt  thy  revenue  wear, 
And  haunt  the  court,  without  a  prospect  there. 
Are  these  expedients  for  renown  1  confess 
Thy  little  self,  that  I  may  scorn  thee  less. 

Be  wise,  Vincenna,  and  the  court  forsake; 
Our  fortunes  there  nor  thou,  nor  I,  shall  make. 
E'en  men  of  merit,  ere  their  point  they  gain, 
In  hardy  service  make  a  long  campaign; 
Most  manfully  besiege  their  patron's  gate, 
And  oft  repulsed,  as  oft  attack  the  great 
With  painful  art,  and  application  warm, 
And  take,  at  last,  some  little  place  by  storm ; 
Enough  to  keep  two  shoes  on  Sunday  clean, 
And  starve  upon  discreetly  in  Sheer  Lane. 
Already  this  thy  fortune  can  afford, 
Then  starve  without  the  favour  of  my  lord. 
'Tis  true  great  fortunes  some  great  men  confer, 
But  often,  e'en  in  doing  right,  they  err: 
From  caprice,  not  from  choice,  their  favours  come 
They  give,  but  think  it  toil  to  know  to  whom: 


The  man  that's  nearest,  yawning,  they  advance: 
'Tis  inhumanity  to  bless  by  chance. 
If  Merit  sues,  and  Greatness  is  so  loth 
To  break  its  downy  trance,  I  pity  both. 

I  grant  at  court  Philander,  at  his  need, 
(Thanks  to  his  lovely  wife)  finds  friends  indeed: 
Of  every  charm  and  virtue  she's' possessed : 
Philander !  thou  art  exquisitely  blessed ; 
The  public  envy!  Now,  then,  'tis  allowed 
The  man  is  found  who  may  be  justly  proud : 
But,  see!  how  sickly  is  Ambition's  taste  1 
Ambition  feeds  on  trash,  and  loaths  a  feast; 
For,  lo!  Philander,  of  reproach  afraid, 
[n  secret  loves  his  wife,  but  keeps  her  maid. 

Some  nymphs  sell  reputation,  others  buy, 
And  love  a  market  where  the  rates  run  high. 
Italian  music's  sweet,  because  'tis  dear; 
Their  vanity  is  tickled,  not  their  ear: 
Their  tastes  would  lessen  if  the  prices  fell, 
And  Shakspeare's  wretched  stuffdo  quite  as  well : 
Away  the  disinchanted  fair  would  throng, 
And  own  that  English  is  their  mother-tongue. 

To  show  how  much  our  northern  tastes  refine, 
Imported  nymphs  our  peeresses  outshine: 
While  tradesmen  starve,  these  Philomels  are  gay ; 
For  generous  lords  had  rather  give  than  pay. 

Behold  the  masquerade's  fantastic  scene ! 
The  Legislature  joined  with  Drury  Lane! 
When  Briton  calls,  the  embroidered  patriots  run, 
And  serve  their  country — if  the  dance  is  done. 

'  Are  we  not  then  allowed  to  be  polite?' — 
Yes,  doubtless;  but  first  set  your  notions  right. 
Worth  of  politeness  is  the  needful  ground ; 
Where  that  is  wanting,  this  can  ne'er  be  found. 
Triflers  not  e'en  in  trifles  can  excel ; 
'Tis  solid  bodies  only  polish  well. 

Great,  chosen  prophet !  for  these  latter  days, 
To  turn  a  willing  world  from  righteous  ways ! 
Well,  Heidegger,*  dost  thou  thy  master  serve; 
Well  has  he  seen  his  servant  should  not  starve: 
Thou  to  his  name  hast  splendid  temples  raised, 
In  various  forms  of  worship  seen  him  praised ; 
Gaudy  devotion,  like  a  Roman,  shown, 
And  sung  sweet  anthems  in  a  tongue  unknown. 
Inferior  offerings  to  thy  god  of  Vice 
Are  duly  paid  in  fiddles,  cards,  and  dice ; 
Thy  sacrifice  supreme,  an  hundred  maids; 
That  solemn  rite  of  midnight  masquerades! 
If  maids  the  quite  exhausted  town  denies, 
A  hundred  head  of  cuckolds  may  suffice. 
Thou  smil'st,  well  pleased  with  the  converted  land, 
To  see  the  fifty  churchest  at  a  stand. 

And  that  thy  minister  may  never  fail, 
But  what  thy  hand  has  planted  still  prevail, 


*  Director  of  the  masquerades. 

t  Fifty  new  churches,  in  and  about  London  and  Westmin- 
ster, were  voted  by  the  House  of  Commons  to  be  built  in  171 1, 
on  a  recommendation  of  Queen  Anne. 


LOVE  OF  FAME. 


115 


Of  minor  prophets,  a  succession  sure, 
The  propagation  of  thy  zeal  secure. 

See  Commons,  Peers,  and  Ministers  of  State, 
In  solemn  council  met,  and  deep  debate ! 
What  godlike  enterprise  is  taking  birth? 
What  wonder  opens  on  the  expecting  earth? 
'Tis  done !  with  loud  applause  the  council  rings! 
Fixed  is  the  fate  of  whores  and  fiddle-strings! 

Though  bold  these  truths,  thou,  Muse!  with 

truths  like  these 

Wilt  none  offend  whom  'tis  a  praise  to  please: 
Let  others  flatter  to  be  flattered,  thou, 
Like  just  tribunals,  bend  an  awful  brow. 
How  terrible  it  were  to  common  sense 
To  write  a  satire  which  gave  none  offence? 
And  since  from  life  I  take  the  draughts  you  see, 
If  men  dislike  them,  do  they  censure  me? 
The  fool  and  knave  'tis  glorious  to  offend, 
And  godlike  an  attempt  the  world  to  mend; 
The  world,  where  lucky  throws  to  blockheads  fall 
Knaves  know  the  game,  and  honest  men  pay  all. 

How  hard  for  real  worth  to  gain  its  price  1 
A  man  shall  mak«  his  fortune  in  a  trice, 
If  blessed  with  pliant,  though  but  slender  sense, 
Feigned  modesty,  and  real  impudence, 
A  supple  knee,  smooth  tongue,  an  easy  grace, 
A  curse  within,  a  smile  upon  his  face. 
A  beauteous  sister,  or  convenient  wife, 
Are  prizes  in  the  lottery  of  life; 
Genius  and  virtue  they  will  soon  defeat, 
And  lodge  you  in  the  bosom  of  the  great. 
To  merit  is  but  to  provide  a  pain, 
From  men's  refusing  what  you  ought  to  gain. 

May,  Dodington !  this  maxim  fail  in  you, 
Whom  my  presaging  thoughts  already  view, 
By  Walpole's  conduct  fired,  and  friendship  graced, 
Still  higher  in  your  prince's  favour  placed, 
And  lending,  here,  those  awful  councils  aid, 
Which  you,  abroad,  with  such  success  obeyed  ; 
Bear  this  from  one  who  holds  your  friendship  dear; 
What  most  we  wish,  with  ease  we  fancy  near. 


SATIRE  IV. 

TO  THE  RIGHT  HON.  SIR  SPENCER  COMPTON.* 

ROUND  some  fair  tree  the  ambitious  woodbine 

grows, 

And  breathes  her  sweets  on  the  supporting  boughs: 
So  sweet  the  verse,  the  ambitious  verse,  should  be, 
(O!  pardon  mine)  that  hopes  support  from  thee; 
Thee,  Compton!  bora  o'er  senates  to  preside, 
Their  dignity  to  raise,  their  councils  guide ; 
Deep  to  discern,  and  widely  to  survey, 
And  kingdoms'  fates,  without  ambition  weigh ; 


*  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Common;  afterwards  created 
Viacount  Peveney,  and  Earl  of  Wilmington. 


Of  distant  virtues  nice  extremes  to  blend, 
The  crown's  assertor,  and  the  people's  friend 
Nor  dost  thou  scorn,  amidst  sublimer  views, 
To  listen  to  the  labours  of  the  Muse ; 
Thy  smiles  protect  her,  while  thy  talents  fire, 
And  'tis  but  half  thy  glory  to  inspire. 

Vexed  at  a  public  fame  so  justly  won, 
The  jealous  Chremes  is  with  spleen  undone ; 
Chremes,  for  airy  pensions  of  renown, 
Devotes  his  service  to  the  state  and  crown : 
All  schemes  he  knows,  and,  knowing,  all   im- 
proves; 

Though  Britain's  thankless,  still  this  patriot  loves : 
But  patriots  differ;  some  may  shed  their  blood, 
He  drinks  his  coffee,  for  the  public  go«d ; 
Consults  the  sacred  steam,  and  there  foresees 
What  storms  or  sunshine  Providence  decrees; 
Knows  for  each  day  the  weather  of  our  fate : 
A  quidnunc  is  an  almanack  of  state. 

You  smile,  and  think  this  statesman  void  of  use; 
Why  may  not  time  his  secret  worth  produce  1 
Since  apes  can  roast  the  choice  Castanian  nut 
Since  steeds  of  genius  are  expert  at  putt, 
Since  half  the  senate  Not  Content  can  say, 
Geese  nations  save,  and  puppies  plots  betray. 

What  makes  him  model  realms  and  counsel 

kings'?— 

An  incapacity  for  smaller  things. 
Poor  Chremes  can't  conduct  his  own  estate, 
And  thence  has  undertaken  Europe's  fate. 

Gehenno  leaves  the  realms  to  Chremes'  skill, 
And  boldly  claims  a  province  higher  still : 
To  raise  a  name,  the  ambitious  boy  has  got 
At  once,  a  Bible,  and  a  shoulder-knot: 
Deep  in  the  secret,  he  looks  through  the  whole, 
And  pities  the  dull  rogue  that  saves  his  soul : 
To  talk  with  reverence  you  must  take  good  heed, 
Nor  shock  his  tender  reason  with  the  creed: 
Howe'er  well-bred,  in  public  he  complies, 
Obliging  friends  alone  with  blasphemies. 

Peerage  is  poison ;  good  estates  are  bad 
For  this  disease ;  poor  rogues  run  seldom  mad. 
Have  not  attainders  brought  unhoped  relief, 
And  falling  stocks  quite  cured  an  unbelief? 
While  the  sun  shines,  Blunt  talks  with  wondrous 

force; 

But  thunder  mars  small  beer  and  weak  discourse: 
Such  useful  instruments  the  weather  show, 
Just  as  their  mercury  is  high  or  low. 
Health  chiefly  keeps  an  atheist  in  the  dark, 
A  fever  argues  better  than  a  Clarke: 
Let  but  the  logic  in  his  pulse  decay, 
The  Grecian  hell  renounce,  and  learn  to  pray: 
While  Collins*  mourns,  with  an  unfeigned  zeal, 
The  apostate  youth  who  reasoned  once  so  well. 
Collins,  who  makes  so  merry  with  the  creed, 
3e  almost  thinks  he  disbelieves  indeed  ; 


Anthony  Coffins,  founder  of  the  sect  of  Free-thinkers. 


116 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


But  only  thinks  so:  to  give  both  their  due, 
Satan  and  he  believe,  and  tremble  too. 
Of  some  for  glory  such  the  boundless  rage, 
That  they're  the  blackest  scandal  of  their  age. 

Narcissus  the  Tartarian  club  disclaims ; 
Nay,  a  free-mason  with  some  terror  names ; 
Omits  no  duty ;  nor  can  Envy  say 
He  missed,  these  many  years,  the  church  or  play : 
He  makes  no  noise  in  parliament,  'tis  true, 
But  pays  his  debts,  and  visit,  when  'tis  due ; 
His  character  and  gloves  are  ever  clean, 
And  then  he  can  outbow  the  bowing  Dean: 
A  smile  eternal  on  his  lip  he  wears, 
Which  equally  the  wise  and  worthless  shares. 
In  gay  fatigues,  this  most  undaunted  chief, 
Patient  of  idleness  beyond  belief, 
Most  charitably  lends  the  town  his  face, 
For  ornament  in  every  public  place : 
As  sure  as  cards  he  to  the  assembly  comes, 
And  is  the  furniture  of  drawing-rooms : 
When  ombre  calls,  his  hand  and  heart  are  free, 
And,  joined  to  two,  he  fails  not — to  make  three. 
Narcissus  is  the  glory  of  his  race, 
For  who  does  nothing  with  a  better  grace  ? 

To  deck  my  list  by  Nature  were  designed 
Such  shining  expletives  of  human  kind, 
Who  want,  while  through  blank  life  they  dream 

along, 
Sense  to  be  right,  and  passion  to  be  wrong. 

To  counterpoise  this  hero  of  the  mode, 
Some  for  renown  are  singular  and  odd  ;^ 
What  other  men  dislike  is  sure  to  please, 
Of  all  mankind,  these  dear  antipodes: 
Through  pride,  not  malice,  they  run  counter  still, 
And  birth-days  are  their  days  of  dressing  ill. 
Arbuthnot  is  a  fool,  and  Foe  a  sage, 
Sedley  will  fright  you,  Etherege  engage  : 
By  Nature  streams  run  backward,  flame  descends, 
Stones  mount,  and  Sussex  is  the  worst  of  friends. 
They  take  their  rest  by  day,  and  wake  by  night, 
And  blush  if  you  surprise  them  in  the  right 
1  f  they  by  chance  blurt  out,  ere  well  aware 
A  swan  is  white,  or  Glueensberry*  is  fair. 

Nothing  exceeds  in  ridicule,  no  doubt, 
A  fool  in  fashion,  but  a  fool  that's  out ; 
His  passion  for  absurdity's  so  strong, 
He  can  not  bear  a  rival  in  the  wrong. 
Though  wrong  the  mode,  comply :  more  sense  is 

shown 

In  wearing  others'  follies  than  your  own. 
If  what  is  out  of  fashion  most  you  prize, 
Methinks  you  should  endeavour  to  be  wise. 
But  what  in  oddness  can  be  more  sublime 
Than  Sloane,t  the  foremost  toyman  of  his  time? 
His  nice  ambition  lies  in  curious  fancies, 
His  daughter's  portion  a  rich  shell  enhances, 


And  Ashmole's  baby-house*  is,  in  his  view, 

Britannia's  golden  mine,  a  rich  Peru ! 

How  his  eyes  languish !  how  his  thoughts  adore 

That  painted  coat  which  Joseph  never  wore ! 

He  shows,  on  holidays,  a  sacred  pin 

That  touched  the  ruff  that  touched  dueen  Bees's 

chin. 

'  Since  that  great  dearth   our  chronicles  de- 
plore, 

Since  the  great  plague  that  swept  as  many  more, 
Was  ever  year  unblessed  as  this  V  he'll  cry 
It  has  not  brought  us  one  new  butterfly !' 
tn  times  that  suffer  such  learned  men  as  these, 
Unhappy  Jersey !  how  came  you  to  please  ? 

Not  gaudy  butterflies  are  Lico's  game, 
But  in  effect  his  chase  is  much  the  same : 
Warm  in  pursuit,  he  levees  all  the  great, 
Staunch  to  the  foot  of  title  and  estate: 
Where'er  their  lordships  go,  they  never  find 
Or  Lico,  or  their  shadows,  lag  behind ; 
:Ie  sets  them  sure,  where'er  their  lordships  run, 

lose  at  their  elbows,  as  a  morning-dun  ; 
As  if  their  grandeur  by  contagion  wrought, 
And  fame  was,  like  a  fever,  to  be  caught : 
And  after  seven  years'  dance  from  place  to  place, 
The  Danet  is  more  familiar  with  his  Grace. 

Who'd  be  a  crutch  to  prop  a  rotten  peer, 
3r  living  pendent  dangling  at  his  ear, 
or  ever  whispering  secrets,  which  were  blown 
or  months  before,   by  trumpets,   through  the 

Town? 

Who'd  be  a  glass,  with  flattering  grimace, 
Still  to  reflect  the  temper  of  his  face  1 
Or  happy  pin  to  stick  upon  his  sleeve, 
When  my  lord's  gracious,  and  vouchsafes  it  leave  1 
Or  cushion,  when  his  heaviness  shall  please 
To  loll  or  thump  it,  for  his  better  ease  1 
3r  a  vile  butt,  for  noon  or  night  bespoke, 
When  the  peer  rashly  swears  he'll  club  his  joke! 
Who'd  shake  with  laughter,  though  he  could  not 

find 

3Lis  lordship's  jest,  or,  if  his  nose  broke  wind, 
?or  blessing  to  the  gods  profoundly  bow  ? 
That  can  cry  chimney-sweep,  or  drive  a  plough? 
With  terms  like  these  how  mean  the  tribe  that 

close  1 

Scarce  meaner  they  who  terms  like  these  im- 
pose. 

But  what's  the  tribe  most  likely  to  comply  ? 
The  men  of  ink,  or  ancient  authors,  lie; 
The  writing  tribe,  who,  shameless  auctions  hold 
Of  praise,  by  inch  of  candle  to  be  sold ; 
A.I1  men  they  flatter,  but  themselves  the  most, 
With  deathless  fame  their  everlasting  boast : 
'or  Fame  no  cully  makes  so  much  her  jest, 
A.S  her  old  constant  spark,  the  bard  professed. 


"  The  Dutches*  of  Queensberry,  a  celebrated  toast. 

t  Sir  Hans  SUnne,  whose  collections  enrich  our  Museum. 


"The  Ashmolean  Museum  at  Oxford. 

t  A  Danish  dog  belonging  to  the  Duke  of  Argyle, 


THE  LOVE  OP  FAME. 


117 


Boyle*  shines  in  council,  Mordauntt  in  the  fight, 
Pelham's?  magnificent, but  I  can  write; 
And  what  to  my  great  soul  like  glory  dear  ? 
Till  some  god  whispers  in  his  tingling  ear, 
That  fame's  unwholesome  taken  without  meat, 
And  life  is  best  sustained  by  what  is  eat: 
Grown  lean  and  wise,  he  curses  what  he  writ, 
And  wishes  all  his  wants  were  in  his  wit. 

Ah!  what  avails  it,  when  his  dinner's  lost 
That  his  triumphant  name  adorns  a  post  1 
Or  that  his  shining  page  (provoking  fate)   •'"< 
Defends  surloins,  which  sons  of  Dulness  eat1? 

What  foe  to  verse  without  compassion  hears, 
What  cruel  prose-man  can  refrain  from  tears, 
When  the  poor  Muse,  for  less  than  half  a  crown, 
A  prostitute  on  every  bulk  in  town, 
With  other  whores  undone,  though  not  in  print, 
Clubs  credit  for  geneva  in  the  Mint  1 

Ye  bards!  why  will  you  sing,  though  unin- 
spired ? 

Ye  bards !  why  will  you  starve  to  be  admired  7 
Defunct  by  Phoebus'  laws,  beyond  redress, 
Why  will  your  spectres  haunt  the  frighted  press  ? 
Bad  metre,  that  excrescence  of  the  head, 
Like  hair,  will  sprout,  although  the  poet's  dead. 

All  other  trades  demand,  verse-makers  beg: 
A  dedication  is  a  wooden  leg ; 
A  barren  Labeo,  the  true  mumper's  fashion, 
Exposes  borrowed  brats  to  move  compassion. 
Though  such  myself,  vile  bards  I  discommend ; 
Nay  more,  though  gentle  Damon  is  my  friend. 
'  Is't  then  a  crime  to  write  ?' — If  talent  rare 
Proclaim  the  god,  the  crime  is  to  forbear : 
For  some,  though  few,  there  are,  large-minded  men, 
Who  watch  unseen  the  labours  of  the  pen ; 
Who  know  the  Muse's  worth,  and  therefore  court, 
Their  deeds  her  theme,  their  bounty  her  support ; 
Who  serve,  unasked,  the  least  pretence  to  wit, 

'le  excuse,  alas !  for  having  writ. 
Argyle  true  wit  is  studious  to  restore, 
And  Dorset  smiles,  if  Phoebus  smiled  before; 
Pembroke  in  years  the  long-loved  arts  admires, 
And  Henrietta§  like  a  Muse  inspires. 

But,  ah !  not  inspiration  can  obtain 
That  fame  which  poets  languish  for  in  vain. 
How  mad  their  aim  who  thirst  for  glory,  strive 
To  grasp  what  no  man  can  possess  alive  1 
Fame's  a  reversion,  in  which  men  take  place 
(O  late  reversion!)  at  their  own  decease: 
This  truth  sagacious  Lintot  knows  so  well, 
He  starves  his  authors  that  their  works  may  sell. 

That  fame  is  wealth,  fantastic  poets  cry; 
That  wealth  is  fame,  another  can  reply, 
Who  knows  no  guilt,  no  scandal  but  in  raga, 
And  swell  in  just  proportion  to  their  bags. 


TEarlofPetersborough. 


'  Earl  of  Orrery. 

J  Duke  of  Newcastle. 

'  lady  Henrietta  Cavendish  Holies  Harley. 


Nor  only  the  low-born,  deformed  and  old, 
Think  glory  nothing  but  the  beams  of  gold : 
The  first  young  lord  which  in  the  Mall  you  meet, 
Shall  match  the  veriest  hunks  in  Lombard  street, 
From  rescued  candles'  ends  who  raised  a  sum, 
And  starves,  to  join  a  penny  to  a  plum. 
A  beardless  miser !  :tis  a  guilt  unknown 
To  former  times,  a  scandal  all  our  own. 

Of  ardent  lovers,  the  true  modern  band 
Will  mortgage  Gelia  to  redeem  their  land. 
For  love,  young,  noble,  rich  Castalio  dies ; 
Name  but  the  fair,  love  swells  into  his  eyes. 
Divine  Monimia,  thy  fond  fears  lay  down, 
No  rival  can  prevail, — but  half  a  crown. 
He  glories  to  late  tunes  to  be  conveyed, 
Not  for  the  poor  he  has  relieved,  but  made : 
Not  such  ambition  his  great  fathers  fired, 
When  Harry  conquered,  and  half  France  expired: 
He'd  be  a  slave,  a  pimp,  a  dog,  for  gain ; 
Nay,  a  dull  sheriff  for  his  golden  chain. 

'  Who'd  be  a  slave?'  the  gallant  colonel  cries, 
While  love  of  glory  sparkles  from  his  eyes : 
To  deathless  fame  he  loudly  pleads  his  right, — 
Just  is  his  title, — for  he  will  not  fight. 
All  soldiers  valour,  all  divines  have  grace, 
As  maids  of  honour  beauty, — by  their  place : 
But  when,  indulging  on  the  last  campaign, 
His  lofty  terms  climb  o'er  the  hills  of  slain, 
He  gives  the  foes  he  slew,  at  each  vain  word, 
A  sweet  revenge,  and  half  absolves  his  sword. 

Of  boasting  more  than  of  a  bomb  afraid, 
A  soldier  should  be  modest  as  a  maid. 
Fame  is  a  bubble  the  reserved  enjoy ; 
Who  strive  to  grasp  it,  as  they  touch,  destroy: 
'Tis  the  world's  debt  to  deeds  of  high  degree, 
But  if  you  pay  yourself,  the  world  is  free. 

Were  there  no  tongue  to  speak  them  but  his 

own, 

Augustus'*  deeds  in  arms  had  ne'er  been  known; 
Augustus'  deeds,  if  that  ambiguous  name 

onfbunds  my  reader,  and  misguides  his  aim, 
Such  is  the  prince's  worth  of  whom  I  speak, 
The  Roman  would  not  blush  at  the  mistake, 


SATIRE  V. 

ON  WOMEN. 

O  fairest  of  creation !  last  and  best 
Of  all  God's  works !  creature  in  whom  excelled 
Whatever  can  to  sight  or  thought  be  formed 
Holy,  dirine,  good,  amiable,  or  sweet, 
How  art  thou  lost  ? Milton. 

tf  OR  reigns  ambition  in  bold  man  alone ; 
Soft  female  hearts  the  rude  invader  own : 
But  there,  indeed,  it  deals  in  nicer  things 
Than  routing  armies  and  dethroning  kings. 


•  Applied  to  George  the  First. 


US- 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Attend,  and  you  discern  it  in  the  fair 
Conduct  a  finger,  or  reclaim  a  hair, 
Or  roll  the  lucid  orbit  of  an  eye, 
Or  in  full  joy  elaborate  a  sigh. 

The  sex  we  honour,  though  their  faults  we 

blame, 

Nay,  thank  their  faults  for  such  a  fruitful  theme : 
A  theme  fair  **** !  doubly  kind  to  me, 
Since  satirizing  those  is  praising  thee ; 
Who  would'st  not  bear,  too  modestly  refined, 
A  panegyric  of  a  grosser  kind. 

Britannia's  daughters,  much  more  fair  than  nice, 
Too  fond  of  admiration,  lose  their  price ; 
Worn  in  the  public  eye,  give  cheap  delight 
To  throngs,  and  tarnish  to  the  sated  sight : 
As  unreserved  and  beauteous  as  the  sun, 
Through  every  sign  of  vanity  they  run ; 
Assemblies,  parks,  course  feasts  in  city-halls, 
Lectures  and  trials,  plays,  committees,  balls  ; 
Wells,  bedlams,  executions,  Smithfield  scenes, 
And  fortune-tellers'  caves  and  lions'  dens ; 
Taverns,  exchanges,  bridewells,  drawing-rooms, 
Instalments,  pillories,  coronations,  tombs, 
Tumblers  and  funeral,  puppet-shows,  reviews, 
Sales,  races,  rabbets,  (and,  still  stranger !)  pews. 

Clarinda's  bosom  burns,  but  burns  for  fame, 
And  love  lies  vanquished  in  a  nobler  flame ; 
Warm  gleams  of  hope  she  now  dispenses;  then, 
Like  April  suns,  dives  into  clouds  again : 
With  all  her  lustre  now  her  lover  warms, 
Then,  out  of  ostentation,  hides  her  charms. 
'Tis  next  her  pleasure  sweetly  to  complain, 
And  to  be  taken  with  a  sudden  pain ; 
Then  she  starts  up,  all  ecstacy  and  bliss, 
And  is,  sweet  soul !  just  as  sincere  in  this: 
O  how  she  rolls  her  charming  eyes,  in  spite ! 
And  looks  delightfully,  with  all  her  might ! 
But,  like  our  heroes,  much  more  brave  than  wise, 
She  conquers  for  the  triumph,  not  the  prize. 

Zara  resembles  ./Etna  crowned  with  snows, 
Without  she  freezes,  and  within  she  glows : 
Twice  ere  the  sun  descends,  with  zeal  inspired, 
From  the  vain  converse  of  the  world  retired, 
She  reads  the  psalms  and  chapters  for  the  day, 

In Cleopatra,  or  the  last  new  play. 

Thus  gloomy  Zara,  with  a  solemn  grace, 
Deceives  mankind,  and  hides  behind  her  face 

Nor  far  beneath  her  in  renown  is  she 
Who,  through  good-breeding,  is  ill  company ; 
Whose  manners  will  not  let  her  larum  cease, 
Who  thinks  you  are  unhappy  when  at  peace ; 
To  find  you  news  who  racks  her  subtle  head, 
And  vows — that  her  greatgrandfather  is  dead. 

A  dearth  of  words  a  woman  need  not  fear, 
But  'tis  a  task  indeed  to  learn — to  hear ; 
In  that  the  skill  of  conversation  lies ; 
That  shows,  and  makes,  you  both  polite  and  wise. 

Xantippe  cries, '  Let  nymphs  who  nought  can  say 
Be  lost  i-u  silence,  and  resign  the  day; 


And  let  the  guilty  wife  her  guilt  confess 

By  tame  behaviour,  and  a  soft  address.' 

Through  virtue,  she  refuses  to  comply 

With  all  the  dictates  of  humanity ; 

Through  wisdom,  she  refuses  to  submit 

To  wisdom's  rules,  and  raves  to  prove  her  wit ; 

Then,  her  unblemished  honour  to  maintain, 

Rejects  her  husband's  kindness  with  disdain ; 

But  if,  by  chance,  an  ill-adapted  word 

Drops  from  the  lip  of  her  unwary  lord, 

Her  darling  china,  in  a  whirlwind  sent, 

Just  intimates  the  lady's  discontent. 

Wine  may  indeed  excite  the  meekest  dame, 

But  keen  Zantippe,  scorning  borrowed  flame, 

Can  vent  her  thunders,  and  her  lightning  play, 

O'er  cooling  gruel,  and  composing  tea ; 

Nor  rests  by  night,  but  more  sincere  than  nice, 

She  shakes  the  curtains  with  her  kind  advice : 

Doubly,  like  echo,  sound  is  her  delight, 

And  the  last  word  is  her  eternal  right. 

Is 't  not  enough  plagues,  wars,  and  famines,  rise 

To  lash  our  crimes, — but  must  our  wives  be  wise? 

Famine,  plague,  war,  and  an  unnumbered  throng 
Of  guilt-avenging  ills,  to  man  belong. 
What  black,  what  ceaseless  cares  besiege  our  state  ? 
What  strokes  we  feel  from  Fancy  and  from  Fate? 
If  Fate  forbears  us,  Fancy  strikes  the  blow ; 
We  make  misfortune ;  suicides  in  wo. 
Superfluous  aid !  unnecessary  skill  ? 
Is  Nature  backward  to  torment  or  kill ! 
How  oft  the  noon,  how  oft  the  midnight  bell, 
(That  iron  tongue  of  Death!)  with  solemn  knell, 
On  Folly's  errands,  as  we  vainly  roam, 
Knocks  at  our  hearts,  and  finds  our  thoughts  from 

home? 

Men  drop  so  fast,  ere  life's  mid  stage  we  tread, 
Few  know  so  many  friends  alive  as  dead ; 
Yet,  as  immortal,  in  our  up-hill  chase 
We  press  coy  Fortune  with  unslackened  pace ; 
Our  ardent  labours  for  the  toys  we  seek, 
Join  night  to  day,  and  Sunday  to  the  week  : 
Our  very  joys  are  anxious,  and  expire 
Between  satiety  and  fierce  desire. 
Now  what  reward  for  all  this  grief  and  toil? 
But  one ;  a  female  friend's  endearing  smile ; 
A  tender  smile,  our  sorrows'  only  balm, 
And  in  life's  tempest  the  sad  sailor's  calm. 

How  have  I  seen  a  gentle  nymph  draw  nigh, 
Peace  in  her  air,  persuasion  in  her  eye  ; 
Victorious  tenderness !  it  all  o'ercame, 
Husbands  looked  mild,  and  savages  grew  tame. 

The  sylvan  race  our  active  nymphs  pursue, 
Man  is  not  all  the  game  they  have  in  view ; 
In  woods  and  fields  their  glory  they  complete 
There  Master  Betty  leaps  a  five  barred  gate : 
While  fair  Miss  Charles  to  toilettes  is  confined, 
Nor  rashly  tempts  the  barbarous  sun  and  wind. 
Some  nymphs  affect  a  more  heroic  breed, 
And  vault  from  hunters  to  the  managed  steed ; 


THE  LOVE  OF  FAME. 


119 


Command  his  prancings  with  a  martial  air, 
And  Fobert*  has  the  forming  of  the  fair. 

More  than  one  steed  must  Delia's  empire  feel, 
Who  sits  triumphant  o'er  the  flying  wheel. 
And  as  she  guides  it  through  the  admiring  throng, 
With  what  an  air  she  smacks  the  silken  thong? 
Graceful  as  John,  she  moderates  the  reins, 
And  whistles  sweet  her  diuretic  strains : 
Sesostris-like,  such  charioteers  as  these 
May  drive  six  harnessed  monarchs  if  they  please: 
They  drive,  row,  run,  with  love  of  glory  smit, 
Leap,  swim,  shoot  flying,  and  pronounce  on  wit. 

O'er  the  belle-lettres  lovely  Daphne  reigns; 
Again  the  god  Apollo  wears  her  chains ; 
With  legs  tossed  high,  on  her  sophee  she  sits, 
Vouchsafing  audience  to  contending  wits : 
Of  each  performance  she 's  the  final  test ; 
One  act  read  o'er,  she  prophecies  the  rest ; 
And  then,  pronouncing  with  decisive  air, 
Fully  convinces  all  the  town — she  's  fair. 
Had  lovely  Daphne  Hecatessa's  face, 
How  would  her  elegance  of  taste  decrease! 
Some  ladies'  judgment  in  their  features  lies, 
And  all  their  genius  sparkles  from  their  eyes. 

'  But  hold,'  she  cries, '  lampooner !  have  a  care ; 
Must  I  want  common  sense  because  I'm  fair?' 
O  no ;  see  Stella ;  her  eyes  shine  as  bright 
As  if  her  tongue  was  never  in  the  right ; 
And  yet  what  real  learning,  judgment,  fire ! 
She  seems  inspired,  and  can  herself  inspire : 
How  then  (if  malice  ruled  not  all  the  fair) 
Could  Daphne  publish,  and  could  she  forbear  1 
We  grant  that  beauty  is  no  bar  to  sense, 
Nor  is  't  a  sanction  for  impertinence. 

Sempronia  liked  her  man,  and  well  she  might ; 
The  youth  in  person  and  in  parts  was  bright : 
Possessed  of  every  virtue,  grace,  and  art, 
That  claims  just  empire  o'er  the  female  heart  : 
He  met  her  passion,  all  her  sighs  returned, 
And  in  full  rage  of  youthful  ardour  burned : 
Large  his  possessions,  and  beyond  her  own, 
Their  bliss  the  theme  and  envy  of  the  town : 
The  day  was  fixed,  when,  with  one  acre  more, 
In  stepped  deformed,  debauched,  diseased  Three- 
score! 

The  fatal  sequel  I,  through  shame,  forbear. 
Of  pride  and  avarice  who  can  cure  the  fair  ? 

Man's  rich  with  little,  were  his  judgment  true; 
Nature  is  frugal,  and  her  wants  are  few ; 
Those  few  wants  answered,  bring  sincere  delights, 
But  fools  create  themselves  new  appetites. 
Fancy  and  pride  seek  things  at  vast  expense, 
Which  relish  not  to  reason,  nor  to  sense. 
When  surfeit  or  unthankfulness  destroys, 
ure's  narrow  sphere,  our  solid  joys, 
In  Fancy's  airy  land  of  noise  and  show, 
Where  nought  but  dreams,  no  real  pleasures  grow, 


Like  cats  in  air-pumps,  to  subsist  we  strive 
On  joys  too  thin  to  keep  the  soul  alive. 

Lemira's  sick ;  make  haste ;  the  doctor  call  • 
He  comes:  but  where's  his  patient?  at  the  ball. 
The  doctor  stares ;  her  woman  curtsies  low, 
And  cries,  '  My  lady,  sir,  is  always  so: 
Diversions  put  her  maladies  to  flight; 
True,  she  can't  stand,  but  she  can  dance  all  night; 
I've  known  my  lady  (for  she  loves  a  tune) 
For  fevers  take  an  opera  in  June: 
And  though,  perhaps,  you'll 'think  the  practice 

bold, 

A  midnight  park  is  sovereign  for  a  cold  : 
With  cholics  breakfasts  of  green  fruit  agree, 
With  indigestions  supper  just  at  three.' 
'  A  strange  alternative,'  replies  Sir  Hans;* 
Must  women  have  a  doctor  or  a  dance1? 
Though  sick  to  death,  abroad  they  safely  roam, 
But  droop  and  die,  in  perfect  health,  at  home. 
For  want— but  not  of  health,  are  ladies  ill, 
And  tickets  cure  beyond  the  doctor's  bill.' 

Alas,  my  heart !  how  languishingly  fair 
Yon  lady  lolls !  with  what  a  tender  air  1 
Pale  as  a  young  dramatic  author,  when 
O'er  darling  lines  fell  Gibber  waves  his  pen. 
Is  her  lord  angry,  or  has  Venyt  chid  ? 
Dead  is  her  father,  or  the  mask  forbid  1 
Late  sitting  up  has  turned  her  roses  white. 
Why  went  she  not  to  bed  ?  '  Because  'twas  night.' 
Did  she  then  dance  or  play?  '  Nor  this  nor  that.' 
Well,  night  soon  steals  away  in  pleasing  chat. 
'  No,  all  alone  her  prayers  she  rather  chose, 
Than  be  that  wretch  to  sleep  till  morning  rose.' 
Then  lady  Cynthia,  mistress  of  the  shade, 
Goes  with  the  fashionable  owls  to  bed : 
This  her  pride  covets,  this  her  health  denies; 
Her  soul  is  silly,  but  her  body's  wise. 

Others,  with  curious  art,  dim  charms  revive, 
And  triumph  in  the  bloom  of  fifty-five. 
You,  in  the  morning,  a  fair  nymph  invite, 
To  keep  her  word,  a  brown  one  comes  at  night ; 
Next  day  she  shines  in  glossy  black,  and  then 
Revolves  into  her  native  red  again : 
Like  a  dove's  neck  she  shifts  her  transient  charms, 
And  is  her  own  dear  rival  in  your  arms. 

But  one  admirer  has  the  painted  lass, 
Nor  finds  that  one  but  in  her  looking-glass : 
Yet  Laura's  beautiful  to  such  excess, 
That  all  her  arts  scarce  makes  her  please  us  less 
To  deck  the  female  cheek  he  only  knows 
Who  paints  less  fair  the  lily  and  the  rose. 

How  gay  they  smile?  Such  blessings  Nature 

pours, 

O'erstocked  mankind  enjoy  but  half  her  stores: 
[n  distant  wilds,  by  human  eyes  unseen, 
She  rears  her  flowers,  and  spreads  her  velvet  green : 


'  A  celebrated  riding-master. 


•  Sir  Hans  Sloone,  M.  D. 


T  Her  lapdog. 


120 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Pure  gurgling  rills  the  lonely  desert  trace, 
And  waste  their  music  on  the  savage  race. 
Is  Nature  then  a  niggard  of  her  bliss  1 
Repine  we  guiltless  in  a  world  like  this?  ' 
But  our  lewd  tastes  her  lawful  charms  refuse, 
And  painted  Arts  depraved  allurements  choose. 
Such  Fulvia's  passion  for  the  town:  fresh  air 
(An  odd  effect!)  gives  vapours  to  the  fair; 
Green  fields,  and  shady  groves,  and  crystal  springs, 
And  larks,  and  nightingales,  are  odious  things ; 
But  smoke,  and  dust,  and  noise,  and  crowds  delight, 
And  to  be  pressed  to  death  transports  her  quite. 
Where  silver  rivulets  play  through  flowery  meads, 
And  woodbines  give  their  sweets,  And  limes  their 

shades, 

Black  kennels'  absent  odours  she  regrets, 
And  stops  her  nose  at  beds  of  violets.     * 
Is  stormy  life  preferred  to  the  serene : 
Or  is  the  public  to  the  private  scene  1 
Retired,  we  tread  a  smooth  and  open  way, 
Through  briars  and  brambles  in  the  world  we  stray; 
Stiff  opposition,  and  perplexed  debate, 
And  thorny  care,  and  rank  and  stinging  hate, 
Which  choke  our  passage,  our  career  control, 
And  wound  the  firmest  temper  of  our  soul, 
O  sacred  Solitude !  divine  retreat ! 
Choice  of  the  prudent :  envy  of  the  great : 
By  thy  pure  stream,  or  in  thy  waving  shade, 
We  court  fair  Wisdom,  that  celestial  maid ; 
The  genuine  offspring  of  her  loved  embrace, 
(Strangers  on  earth !)  are  Innocence  and  Peace : 
There  from  the  ways  of  men  laid  safe  ashore, 
We  smile  to  hear  the  distant  tempest  roar ; 
There  blessed  with  health,  with  business  unper- 

plexed, 

This  life  we  relish,  and  insure  the  next: 
There  too  the  Muses  sport :  these  numbers  free, 
Pierian  Eastbury!  I  owe  to  thee. 

There  sport  the  muses,  but  not  there  alone; 
Their  sacred  force  Amelia  feels  in  town. 
Nought  but  a  genius  can  a  genius  fit ; 
A  wit  herself,  Amelia  weds  a  wit : 
Both  wits ;  though  miracles  are  said  to  cease, 
Three  days,  three  wondrous  days !  they  lived  in 

peace; 

With  the  fourth  sun  a  warm  dispute  arose 
On  Durfey's  poesy,  and  Banyan's  prose: 
The  learned  war  both  wage  with  equal  force, 
And  the  fifth  morn  concluded  the  divorce. 

Phoebe,  though  she  possesses  nothing  less, 
Is  proud  of  being  rich  in  happiness ; 
Laboriously  pursues  delusive  toys, 
Content  with  pains,  since  they're  reputed  joys. 
With  what  well-acted  transport  will  she  say, 
'  Well,  sure  we  were  so  happy  yesterday ! 
And  then  that  charming  party  for  to-morrow  !' 
Though  well  she  knows  'twill  languish  into  sorrow : 
But  she  dares  never  boast  the  present  hour; 
So  gross  that  cheat,  it  is  beyond  her  power : 


For  such  is  or  our  weakness  or  our  curse. 
Or  rather  such  our  crime,  which  still  is  worse, 
The  present  moment,  like  a  wife,  we  shun, 
And  ne'er  enjoy,  because  it  is  our  own. 

Pleasures  are  few,  and  fewer  we  enjoy; 
Pleasure,  like  quicksilver,  is  bright  and  coy ; 
We  strive  to  grasp  it  with  our  utmost  skill, 
Still  it  eludes  us,  and  it  glitters  still ; 
If  seized  at  last,  compute  your  mighty  gains ; 
What  is  it  but  rank  poison  in  your  veins'] 

As  Flavia  in  her  glass  an  angel  spies, 
Pride  whispers  in  her  ear  pernicious  lies ; 
Tells  her,  while  she  surveys  a  face  so  fine, 
There's  no  satiety  of  charms  divine : 
Hence,  if  her  lover  yawns,  all  changed  appears 
Her  temper,  and  she  melts  (sweet  soul !)  in  tears : 
She,  fond  and  young,  last  week  her  wish  enjoyed, 
In  soft  amusement  all  the  night  employed  ; 
The  morning  came,  when  Strephon,  waking,  found 
(Surprising  sight!)  his  bride  in  sorrow  drowned ; 
What  miracle,'  says  Strephon, '  makes  thee  weep  ?' 
Ah,  barbarous  man,'  she  cries,  '  how  could  you — 
sleep  7' 

Men  love  a  mistress  as  they  love  a  feast ; 
How  grateful  one  to  touch,  and  one  to  taste  ? 
Yet  sure  there  is  a  certain  time  of  day 
We  wish  our  mistress  and  our  meat  away: 
But  soon  the  sated  appetites  return, 
Again  our  stomachs  crave,  our  bosoms  burn : 
Eternal  love  let  man,  then,  never  swear! 
Let  women  never  triumph  nor  despair ; 
Nor  praise  nor  blame,  too  much,  the  warm  or  chill : 
Hunger  and  love  are  foreign  to  the  will. 

There  is,  indeed,  a  passion  more  refined, 
For  those  few  nymphs  whose  charms  are  of  the 

mind; 

But  not  of  that  unfashionable  set 
Is  Phyllis ;  Phyllis  and  her  Damon  met. 
Eternal  love  exactly  hits  her  taste ; 
Phyllis  demands  eternal  love  at  least. 
Embracing  Phyllis  with  soft  smiling  eyes, 

Eternal  love  I  vow,'  the  swain  replies ; 

But  say,  my  all,  my  mistress,  and  my  friend! 
What  day  next  week  the  eternity  shall  end  V 

Some  nymphs  prefer  astronomy  to  love, 
Elope  from  mortal  man,  and  range  above. 
The  fair  philosopher  to  Rowley*  flies, 
Where,  in  a  box,  the  whole  creation  lies : 
She  sees  the  planets  in  their  turns  advance, 
And  scorns,  Poitier !  thy  sublunary  dance : 
Of  Desaguliers  she  bespeaks  fresh  air, 
And  Whiston  has  engagements  with  the  fair. 
What  vain  experiments  Sophronia  tries ! 
'Tis  not  in  air-pumps  the  gay  col'nel  dies. 
But  though  to-day  this  rage  of  science  reigns, 
(O  fickle  sex !)  soon  end  her  learned  pains. 


An  eminent  mathematical  instrument-maker. 


EOVE  OF  FAME. 


121 


Lo!  pug  from  Jupiter  her  heart  has  got, 
Turn-;  out  the  stars,  and  Newton  is  a  sot. 

To  *  *  *  *  turn;  she  never  took  the  height 
Of  Saturn,  yet  is  ever  in  the  right: 
She  strikes  each  point  with  native  force  of  mind, 
While  puzzled  learning  blunders  far  behind. 
Graceful  to  sight,  and  elegant  to  thought, 
The  great  are  vanquished,  and  the  wise  are  taught. 
Hrr  breeding  finished,  and  her  temper  sweet, 
When  serious  easy,  and  when  gay  discreet ; 
In  glittering  scenes,  o'er  her  own  heart  severe, 
In  crowds  collected,  and  in  courts  sincere; 
Sincere  and  warm,  with  zeal  well  understood, 
She  takes  a  noble  pride  in  doing  good; 
Yc  t  net  superior  to  her  sex's  cares, 
The  mode  she  fixes  by  the  gown  she  wears; 
of  silks  and  china  she's  the  last  appeal: 
I  n  these,  great  points  she  leads  the  commonweal ; 
And  if  disputes  of  empire  rise  between 
Mechlin  the  queen  of  lace,  and  Colberteen, 
Tis  doubt !  'tis  darkness!  till  suspended  Fate 
Assumes  her  nod, to  close  the  grand  debate. 
When  such  her  mind,  why  will  the  fair  express 
Their  emulation  only  in  their  dress  1 

But,  oh !  the  nymph  that  mounts  above  the  skies, 
An.l.  gratis,  clears  religious  mysteries, 
He* >Ived  the  church's  welfare  to  insure, 
And  make  her  family  a  sinecure ; 
The  theme  divine  at  cards  she'll  not  forget, 
But  talks  in  texts  of  Scripture  at  picquet; 
In  those  licentious  meetings  acts  the  prude, 
And  thanks  her  Maker  that  her  cards  are  good. 
What  angels  would  these  be.  who  thus  excel 
In  theologies,  could  they  sew  as  well! 
Yet  why  should  not  the  fair  her  text  pursue  7 
Can  she  more  decently  the  doctor  wool 
Tis  hard,  too,  she  who  makes  no  use  but  chat 
Of  her  religion,  should  be  barred  in  that. 

Isaac,  a  brother  of  the  canting  strain, 
When  he  has  knocked  at  his  own  skull  in  vain, 
To  l>eauteous  Marcia  often  will  repair 
With  a  dark  text,  to  light  it  at  the  fair. 
O  how  his  pious  soul  exults  to  find 
Such  love  for  holy  men  in  womankind  1 
(.'harmed  with  her  learning,  with  what  rapture  he 
Hangs  on  her  bloom,  like  an  industrious  bee ; 
Hums  round  about  her,  and  with  all  his  power 
Extracts  sweet  wisdom  from  so  fair  a  flower"? 

The  young  and  gay  declining,  Appia  flies 
At  nobler  game,  the  mighty  and  the  wise: 
By  Nature  more  an  eagle  than  a  dove, 
She  impiously  prefers  the  world  to  love. 

Can  wealth  give  happiness  7  look  round  and  see 
What  rr.iy  distress!  what  splendid  misery! 
Whatever  Fortune  lavishly  can  pour, 
The  mind  annihilates,  and  calls  for  more. 
Wealth  is  a  cheat ;  believe  not  what  it  says; 
Like  any  lord  it  promises — and  pays. 


How  will  the  miser  startle  to  be  told 
Of  such  a  wonder  as  insolvent  gold  7 
What  Nature  wants  has  an  intrinsic  weight, 
All  more  is  but  the  fashion  of  the  plate, 
Which  for  one  moment  charms  the  fickle  view ; 
It  charms  us  now,  anon  we  cast  a  new, 
To  some  fresh  birth  of  fancy  more  inclined ; 
Then  wed  not  acres,  but  a  noble  mind. 

Mistaken  lovers,  who  make  worth  their  care, 
And  think  accomplishments  will  win  the  fair; 
The  fair,  'tis  true,  by  genius  should  be  won, 
As  flowers  unfold  their  beauties  to  the  sun ; 
And  yet  in  female  scales  a  fop  outweighs, 
And  wit  must  wear  the  willow  and  the  bays. 
Nought  shines  so  bright  in  vain  Liberia's  eye 
As  riot,  impudence,  and  perfidy : 
The  youth  of  fire,  that  has  drunk  deep,  and  played, 
And  killed  his  man,  and  triumphed  o'er  his  maid, 
For  him  as  yet  unhanged,  she  spreads  her  charms, 
Snatches  the  dear  destroyer  to  her  arms, 
And  amply  gives,  (though  treated  long  amiss 
The  man  of  merit  his  revenge  in  this. 
If  you  resent,  and  wish  a  woman  ill ; 
But  turn  her  o'er  one  moment  to  her  will. 

The  languid  lady  next  appears  in  state, 
Who  was  not  born  to  carry  her  own  weight ; 
She  lolls,  reels,  staggers,  till  some  foreign  aid 
To  her  own  stature  lifts  the  feeble  maid; 
Then,  if  ordained  to  so  severe  a  doom, 
She,  by  just  stages,  journeys  round  the  room ; 
But,  knowing  her  own  weakness/she  despairs 
To  scale  the  Alps — that  is,  ascend  the  stairs. 
'  My  fan!'  let  others  say,  who  laugh  at  toil ; 
{  Fan !  hood !  glove !  scarf!'  is  her  laconic  style. 
And  that  is  spoke  with  such  a  dying  fall, 
That  Betty  rather  sees  than  hears  the  call ! 
The  motion  of  her  lips,  and  meaning  eye, 
Piece  out  the  idea  her  faint  words  deny. 
O  listen  with  attention  most  profound ! 
Her  voice  is  but  the  shadow  of  a  sound. 
And  help!  oh,  help!  her  spirits  are  so  dead, 
One  hand  scarce  lifts  the  other  to  her  head ; 
If  there  a  stubborn  pin  it  triumphs  o'er, 
She  pants!  she  sinks  away !  and  is  no  more. 
Let  the  robust,  -and  the  gigantic,  carve, 
Life  is  not  worth  so  much ;  she'd  rather  starve : 
But  chew  she  must  herself:  ah,  cruel  fate! 
That  Rosalinda  cant  by  proxy  eat. 

An  antidote  in  female  caprice  lies 
(Kind  Heaven !  against  the  poison  of  their  eyes. 

Thalestris  triumphs  in  a  manly  mien ; 
Loud  is  her  accent,  and  her  phrase  obscene. 
In  fair  and  open  dealing  where '»  the  shame  7 
What  Nature  dares  to  give,  she  dares  to  name. 
This  honest  fellow  is  sincere  and  plain, 
And  justly  gives  the  jealous  husband  pain 
(Vain  is  the  task  to  petticoats  assigned, 
If  wanton  language  shows  a  naked  mind,) 


123 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


And  now  and  then,  to  grace  her  eloquence, 

An  oath  supplies  the  vacancies  of  sense. 

Hark!  the  shrill  notes  transpierce  the  yielding  air, 

And  teach  the  neighbouring  echos  how  to  swear. 

'  By  Jove,'  is  faint,  and  for  the  simple  swain ; 

She,  on  the  Christian  system  is  profane : 

But  though  the  volley  rattles  in  your  ear, 

Believe  her  dress^  she  :s  not  a  grenadier. 

If  thunder 's  awful,  how  much  more  our  dread, 

When  Jove  deputes  a  lady  in  her  stead? 

A  lady !  pardon  my  mistaken  pen ; 

A  shameless  woman  is  the  worst  of  men. 

Few  to  good-breeding  make"  a  just  pretence ; 
Good-breeding  is  the  blossom  of  good  sense ; 
The  last  result  of  an  accomplished  mind, 
With  outward  grace,  the  body's  virtue,  joined. 
A  violated  decency  now  reigns, 
And  nymphs  for  failings  take  peculiar  pains. 
With  Chinese  painters  modern  toasts  agree, 
The  point  they  aim  at  is  deformity ; 
They  throw  their  persons  with  a  hoyden  air, 
Across  the  room,  and  toss  into  the  chair. 
So  far  their  commerce  with  mankind  is  gone, 
They  for  our  manners  have  exchanged  their  own. 
The  modest  look,  the  castigated  grace, 
The  gentle  movement,  and  slow  measured  pace, 
For  which  her  lovers  died,  her  parents  prayed, 
Are  indecorums  with  the  modern  maid. 
Stiff  forms  are  bad ;  but  let  not  worse  intrude, 
Nor  conquer  art  and  nature  to  be  rude. 
Modern  good-breeding  carry  to  its  height, 
And  Lady  D — 's*  self  will  be  polite. 

Ye  rising  Fair !  ye  bloom  of  Britain's  isle ! 
When  high-born  Anna,  with  a  softened  smile, 
Leads  on  your  train,  and  sparkles  at  your  head, 
What  seems  most  hard  is  not  to  be  well-bred : 
Her  bright  example  with  success  pursue, 
And  all  but  adoration  is  your  due. 

'  But  adoration !  give  me  something  more,' — 
Cries  Lyce,  on  the  borders  of  threescore. 
Nought  treads  so  silent  as  the  foot  of  Time ; 
Hence  we  mistake  our  autumn  for  our  prime. 
'Tis  greatly  wise  to  know,  before  we  're  told, 
The  melancholy  news  that  we  grow  old. 
Autumnal  Lyce  carries  in  her  face 
Memento  mori  to  each  public  place. 
O  how  your  beating  breast  a  mistress  warms, 
Who  looks  through  spectacles  to  see  your  charms ! 
While  rival  undertakers  hover  round, 
And  with  his  spade  the  sexton  marks  the  ground ; 
Intent  not  on  her  own,  but  others'  doom, 
She  plans  new  conquests,  and  defrauds  the  tomb, 
In  vain  the  cock  has  summoned  sprites  away, 
She  walks  at  noon,  and  blasts  the  bloom  of  day; 
Gay  rainbow-silks  her  mellow  charms  infold, 
And  nought  of  Lyce  but  herself  is  old : 


'  Dashwood  or  Dysart  supposed. 


Her  grizzled  locks  assume  a  smirking  grace, 
And  art  has  levelled  her  deep  furrowed  face : 
Her  strange  demand  no  mortal  can  approve ; 
We  '11  ask  her  blessing,  but  can't  ask  her  love : 
She  grants,  indeed,  a  lady  may  decline 
(All  ladies  but  herself)  at  ninety-nine. 

O  how  unlike  her  was  the  sacred  age 
Of  prudent  Portia !  her  gray  hairs  engage ; 
Whose  thoughts  are  suited  to  her  life's  decline : 
Virtues  's  the  paint  that  can  make  wrinkles  shine: 
That,  and  that  only,  can  old  age  sustain, 
Which  yet  all  wish,  nor  know  they  wish  for  pain. 
Not  numerous  are  our  joys  when  life  is  new, 
And  yearly  some  are  falling  of  the  few ; 
But  when  we  conquer  life's  meridian  stage, 
And  downward  tend  into  the  vale  of  age, 
They  drop  apace:  by  nature  some  decay, 
And  some  the  blasts  of  fortune  sweep  away ; 
Till  naked  quite  of  happiness,  aloud 
We  call  for  death,  and  shelter  in  a  shroud. 

Where 's  Portia  now? — But  Portia  left  behind 
Two  lovely  copies  of  her  form  and  mind. 
What  heart  untouched  their  early  grief  can  view, 
Like  blushing  rose-buds  dipped  in  morning  dew  1 
Who  into  shelter  takes  their  tender  bloom, 
And  forms  their  minds  to  flee  from  ills  to  come  1 
The  mind,  when  turned  adrift,  no  rules  to  guide, 
Drives  at  the  mercy  of  the  wind  and  tide ; 
Fancy  and  passion  toss  it  to  and  fro, 
A  while  torment,  and  then  quite  sink  in  wo. 
Ye  beauteous  orphans !  since  in  silent  dust 
Your  best  example  lies,  my  precepts  trust, 
Life  swarms  with  ills ;  the  boldest  are  afraid ; 
Where  then  is  safety  for  a  tender  maid  ? 
Unfit  for  conflict,  round  beset  with  woes, 
And  man,  whom  least  she  fears,  her  worst  of  foes ! 
When  kind,  most  cruel ;  when  obliged  the  most, 
The  least  obliging ;  and  by  favours  lost : 
Cruel  by  nature,  they  for  kindness  hate, 
And  scorn  you  for  those  ills  themselves  create. 
If  on  your  fame  our  sex  a  blot  has  thrown, 
'Twill  ever  stick,  through  malice  of  your  own. 
Most  hard !  in  pleasing  your  chief  glory  lies, 
And  yet  from  pleasing  your  chief  dangers  rise : 
Then  please  the  best ;  and  know,  for  men  of  sense 
Your  strongest  charms  are  native  innocence. 
Arts  on  the  mind,  like  paint  upon  the  face, 
Frights  him  that 's  worth  your  love  from  your  em- 
brace. 

In  simple  manners  all  the  secret  lies ; 
Be  kind  and  virtuous,  you  '11  be  blest  and  wise. 
Vain  show  and  noise  intoxicate  the  brain, 
Begin  with  giddiness,  and  end  in  pain. 
Affect  not  empty  fame  and  idle  praise, 
Which  all  those  wretches  I  describe  betrays. 
Your  sex's  glory  'tis  to  shine  unknown ; 
Of  all  applause  be  fondest  of  your  own. 
Beware  the  fever  of  the  mind ;  that  thirst 
With  which  the  age  is  eminently  cursed : 


LOVE  OF  FAME. 


123 


To  drink  of  pleasure  but  inflames  desire, 
And  abstinence  alone  can  quench  the  fire ; 
Take  pain  from  life,  and  terror  from  the  tomb, 
Give  peace  in  hand,  and  promise  bliss  to  come. 


SATIRE  VI. 

ON  WOMEN. 
Inscribed  to  the 

RIGHT  HON.  THE  LADY  ELIZABETH  GERMAIN. 
Interdum  tamen  et  tollit  comcedia  vocem. — Hor. 

I  SOUGHT  a  patroness,  but  sought  in  vain; 
Apollo  whispered  in  my  ear — '  Germain.' — 
I  know  her  not — 'Your  reason's  somewhat  odd; 
Who  knows  his  patron  nowT  replied  the  god. 
1  Men  write  to  me,  and  to  the  world,  unknown, 
Then  steal  great  names  to  shield  them  from  the 

town. 

Detected  worth,  like  beauty  disarrayed, 
To  covert  flies,  of  praise  itself  afraid, 
Should  she  refuse  to  patronize  your  lays, 
In  vengeance  write  a  volume  in  her  praise: 
Nor  think  it  hard  so  great  a  length  to  run; 
When  such  the  theme,  'twill  easily  be  done.' 

Ye  fab:!  to  draw  your  excellence  at  length, 
Exceeds  the  narrow  bounds  of  human  strength: 
You  here,  in  miniature,  your  pictures  see, 
Nor  hope  from  Zincke  more  justice  than  from  me 
My  portraits  grace  your  mind,  as  his  your  side; 
His  portraits  will  inflame,  mine  quench  your  pride 
He's  dear,  you  frugal ;  choose  my  cheaper  lay, 
And  be  your  reformation  all  my  pay. 

Lavinia  is  polite,  but  not  profane, 
To  church  as  constant  as  to  Drury-lane; 
She  decently,  in  form,  pays  Heaven  its  due, 
And  makes  a  civil  visit  to  her  pew. 
Her  lifted  fan,  to  give  a  solemn  air, 
Conceals  her  face,  which  passes  for  a  prayer: 
Curtsies  to  curtsies,  then,  with  grace  succeed; 
Not  one  the  fair  omits,  but  at  the  creed: 
Or  if  she  join's  the  service,  'tis  to  speak ; 
Through  dreadful  silence  the  pent  heart  migh 

break: 

Untaught  to  bear  it,  women  talk  away 
To  God  himself,  and  fondly  think  they  pray: 
But  sweet  their  accent,  and  their  air  refined; 
For  they're  before  their  Maker — and  mankind. 
When  ladies  once  are  proud  of  praying  well, 
Satan  himself  will  toll  the  parish  bell. 

Acquainted  with  the  world,  and  quite  well-bred 
Drusa  receives  her  visitants  in  bed ; 
But,  chaste  as  ice,  this  Vesta,  to  defy 
The  very  blackest  tongue  of  calumny, 
When  from  the  sheets  her  lovely  form  she  lifts, 
She  begs  you  just  would  turn  you  while  she  shifts 


Those  charms  are  greatest  which  decline  the 

sight, 

That  makes  the  banquet  poignant  and  polite, 
There  is  no  woman  where  there's  no  reserve ; 
And  'tis  on  plenty  your  poor  lovers  starve. 
But  with  a  modern  fair,  meridian  merit 

a  fierce  thing  they  call  a  nymph  of  spirit. 
Mark  well  the  rollings  of  her  flaming  eye, 
And  tread  on  tiptoe,  if  you  dare  draw  nigh : 
Or  if  you  take  a  lion  by  the  beard, 
Or  dare  defy  the  fell  Hyrcanian  pard, 
Or  armed  rhinoceros,  or  rough  Russian  bear,'* 
First  make  your  will,  and  then  converse  with 

her. 

This  lady  glories  in  profuse  e'xpense, 
And  thinks  distraction  is  magnificence : 
To  beggar  her  gallant  is  some  delight; 
To  be  more  fatal  still  is  exquisite. 
Had  ever  nymph  such  reason  to  be  glad  7 
In  duel  fell  two  lovers;  one  run  mad. 
Her  foes  their  honest  execrations  pour; 
Her  lovers  only  should  detest  her  more. 

Flavia  is  constant  to  her  old  gallant, 
And  generously  supports  him  in  his  want: 
But  marriage  is  a  fetter,  is  a  snare, 
A  hell  no  lady  so  polite  can  bear. 
She's  faithful,  she's  observant ;  and  with  pains 
Her  angel-brood  of  bastards  she  maintains; 
Nor  least  advantage  has  the  fair  to  plead, 
But  that  of  guilt,  above  the  marriage-bed. 

Amasia  hates  a  prude,  and  scorns  restraint; 
Whate'er  she  is,  she'll  not  appear  a  saint: 
Her  soul  superior  flies  formality: 
So  gay  her  air,  her  conduct  is  so  free, 
Some  might  suspect  the  nymph  not  over-good — 
Nor  would  they  be  mistaken  if  they  should. 

Unmarried  Abra  puts  on  formal  airs; 
Her   cushion's    thread-bare   with    her    constant 

prayers; 

Her  only  grief  is,  that  she  can  not  be 
At  once  engaged  in  prayer  and  charity. 
And  this,  to  do  her  justice,  must  be  said, 
1  Who  would  not  think  that  Abra  was  a  maid?' 

Some  ladies  are  too  beauteous  to  be  wed, 
For  where's  the  man  that's  worthy  of  their  bed"? 
If  no  disease  reduce  her  pride  before, 
Lavinia  will  be  ravished  at  threescore: 
Then  she  submits  to  venture  in  the  dark, 
And  nothing  now  is  wanting,  but  her  spark. 

Lucia  thinks  happiness  consists  in  state; 
She  weds  an  idiot;  but  she  eats  in  plate. 
The  goods  of  Fortune  which  her  soul  possess, 
Are  but  the  ground  of  unmade  happiness; 
The  rude  material:  wisdom  adds  to  this, 
Wisdom,  the  sole  artificer  of  bliss; 
She  from  herself,  if  so  compelled  by  need, 
Of  thin  content  can  draw  the  subtle  thread ; 


•  Shakspeare's  Hamlet. 


124 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


But  (no  detraction  to  her  sacred  skill) 
If  she  can  work  in  gold  'tis  better  still. 

If  Tullia  had  been  blessed  with  half  her  sense, 
None  could  too  much  admire  her  excellence; 
But  since  she  can  make  error  shine  so  bright, 
She  thinks  it  vulgar  to  defend  the  right. 
With  understanding  she  is  quite  o'er-run 
And  by  too  great  accomplishments  undone: 
With  skill  she  vibrates  her  eternal  tongue, 
For  ever  most  divinely  in  the  wrong. 

Naked  in  nothing  should  a  woman  be, 
But  veil  her  very  wit  with  modesty : 
Let  man  discover,  let  not  her  display, 
But  yield  her  charms  of  mind  with  sweet  delay. 

For  pleasure  formed,  perversely  some  believe, 
To  make  themselves  important,  men  must  grieve. 
Lesbia  the  fair,  to  fire  her  jealous  lord, 
Pretends  the  fop  she  laughs  at  is  adored. 
In  vain  she's  proud  of  secret  innocence: 
The  fact  she  feigns  were  scarce  a  worse  offence. 

Mira,  endowed  with  every  charm  to  bless, 
Has  no  design  but  on  her  husband's  peace : 
He  loved  her  much,  and  greatly  was  he  moved 
At  small  inquietudes  in  her  he  loved. 
1  How  charming  this!'— The  pleasure  lasted  long; 
Now  every  day  the  fits  come  thick  and  strong: 
At  last  he  found  the  charmer  only  feigned, 
And  was  diverted  when  he  should  be  pained. 
What  greater  vengeance  have  the  gods  in  store1? 
How  tedious  life,  now  she  can  plague  no  more  1 
She  tries  a  thousand  arts,  but  none  succeed ; 
She's  forced  a  fever  to  procure  indeed : 
Thus  strictly  proved  this  virtuous,  loving  wife 
Her  husband's  pain  was  dearer  than  her  life. 

Anxious  Melania  rises  to  my  view, 
Who  never  thinks  her  lover  pays  his  due : 
Visit,  present,  treat,  flatter,  and  adore, 
Her  majesty,  to-morrow,  calls  for  more. 
His  wounded  ears  complaints  eternal  fill, 
As  unoiled  hinges,  querulously  shrill. 
'  You  went  last  night  with  Celia  to  the  ball.' 
You  prove  it  false.     '  Not  go  1  that's  worst  of  all.' 
Nothing  can  please  her,  nothing  not  inflame, 
And  arrant  contradictions  are  the  same. 
Her  lover  must  be  sad  to  please  her  spleen ; 
His  mirth  is  an  inexpiable  sin ; 
For  of  all  rivals  that  can  pain  her  breast, 
There's  one  that  wounds  far  deeper  than  the  rest ; 
To  wreck  her  quiet,  the  most  dreadful  shelf 
Is,  if  her  lover  dares  enjoy  himself. 
And  this,  because  she's  exquisitely  fair: 
Should  I  dispute  her  beauty;  how  she'd  stare  1 
How  would  Melania  be  surprised  to  hear 
She's  quite  deformed  1  and  yet  the  case  is  clear. 
What's  female  beauty  but  an  air  divine, 
Through  which  the  mind's  all  gentle  graces  shine? 
They,  like  the  suri.  irradiate  all  between ; 
The  body  charms,  because  the  soul  is  seen : 


Hence  men  are  often  captives  of  a  face, 
They  know  not  why,  of  no  peculiar  grace. 
Some  forms,  though  bright,  no  mortal  man  can 

bear, 
Some  none  resist,  though  not  exceeding  fair. 

Aspasia's  highly  born,  and  nicely  bred, 
Of  taste  refined,  in  life  and  manners,  read ; 
Yet  reaps  no  fruit  from  her  superior  sense, 
But  to  be  teased  by  her  own  excellence. 
'  Folks  are  so  awkward !  things  so  unpolite !' 
She's  elegantly  pained  from  morn  till  night 
Her  delicacy's  shocked  where'er  she  goes: 
Each  creature's  imperfections  are  her  woes. 
Heaven  by  its  favour  has  the  fair  distressed, 
And  poured  such  blessings — that   she  can't   be 
blessed. 

Ah !  why  so  vain,  though  blooming  in  thy  spring, 
Thou  shining,  frail,  adored,  and  wretched  thing  ? 
Old  age  will  come ;  disease  may  come  before ! 
Fifteen  is  full  as  mortal  as  threescore. 
Thy  fortune  and  thy  charms  may  soon  decay ; 
But  grant  these  fugitives  prolong  their  stay, 
Their  basis  totters,  their  foundation  shakes, 
Life,  that  supports  them,  in  a  moment  breaks ; 
Then  wrought  into  the  soul  let  virtue  shine ; 
The  ground  eternal,  as  the  work  divine. 

Julia's  a  manager,  she's  born  for  rule, 
And  knows  her  wiser  husband  is  a  fool ; 
Assemblies  holds,  and  spins  the  subtle  thread, 
That  guides  the  lover  to  his  fair-one's  bed  : 
For  difficult  amours  can  smooth  the  way, 
And  tender  letters  dictate  or  convey ; 
But  if  deprived  of  such  important  cares, 
Her  wisdom  condescends  to  less  affairs. 
For  her  own  breakfast  she'll  project  a  scheme, 
Nor  take  her  tea  without  a  stratagem ; 
Presides  o'er  trifles  with  a  serious  face, 
Important  by  the  virtue  of  grimace. 

Ladies  supreme  among  amusements  reign, 
By  nature  born  to  sooth  and  entertain : 
Their  prudence  in  a  share  of  folly  lies : 
Why  will  they  be  so  weak  as  to  be  wise  ? 

Syrena  is  for  ever  in  extremes, 
And  with  a  vengeance  she  commends  or  blames ; 
Conscious  of  her  discernment,  which  is  good, 
She  strains  too  much  to  make  it  understood. 
Her  judgment  just,  her  sentence  is  too  strong: 
Because  she's  right,  she's  ever  in  the  wrong. 

Brunetta's  wise  in  actions  great  and  rare, 
But  scorns  on  trifles  to  bestow  her  care ; 
Thus  every  hour  Brunetta  is  to  blame, 
Because  the  occasion  is  beneath  her  aim. 
Think  nought  a  trifle,  though  it  small  appear ; 
Small  sands  the  mountain,  moments  make  the  year, 
And  trifles  life :  your  care  to  trifles  give, 
Or  you  may  die  before  you  truly  live. 

Go  breakfast  with  Alicea,  there  you'll  see 
Simplex  munditiis  to  the  last  degree: 


LOVE  OF  FAME. 


125 


Unlaced  her  stays,  her  nightgown  is  untied, 
And  what  she  has  of  head-dress  is  aside : 
She  drawls  her  words  and  waddles  in  her  pace, 
Unwashed  her  hands,  and  muchbesnufTed  her  face : 
A  nail  uncut,  and  head  uncombed,  she  loves, 
And  would  draw  jack-boots  on  as  soon  as  gloves; 
Gloves  by  queen  Bess's  maidens  might  be  missed 
Her  blessed  eyes  ne'er  saw  a  female  fist. 
Lovers !  beware,  to  wound  how  can  she  fail, 
With  scarlet  finger  and  long  jetty  nail'? 
For  Hervey*  the  first  wit  she  can  not  be, 
Nor,  cruel  Richmond  !t  the  first  toast  for  thee. 
Since  full  each  other  station  of  renown, 
Who  would  not  be  the  greatest  trapes  in  town1? 
Women  were  made  to  give  our  eyes  delight : 
A  female-sloven  is  an  odious  sight. 

Fair  Isabella  is  so  fond  of  fame, 
That  her  dear  self  is  her  eternal  theme : 
Through  hopes  of  contradiction  oft  she'll  say, 
'  Mi-thinks  I  look  so  wretchedly  to-day  V 
When  most  the  world  applauds  you,  most  beware 
'Tis  often  less  a  blessing  than  a  snare. 
Distrust  mankind ;  with  your  own  heart  confer, 
And  dread  even  there  to  find  a  flatterer. 
The  breath  of  others  raises  our  renown; 
Our  own  as  surely  blows  the  pageant  down. 
Take  up  no  more  than  you  by  worth  can  claim, 
Lest  soon  you  prove  a  bankrupt  in  your  fame. 

But  own  I  must,  in  this  perverted  age, 
Who  most  deserve  can't  always  most  engage. 
So  far  is  worth  from  making  glory  sure, 
It  often  hinders  what  it  should  procure. 
Whom  praise  we  most  7  the  virtuous,  brave,  and 

wise  7 

No ;  wretches  whom,  in  secret,  we  despise. 
And  who  so  blind  as  not  to  see  the  cause? 
No  rivals  raised  by  such  discreet  applause ; 
And  yet  of  credit  it  lays  in  a  store, 
By  which  our  spleen  may  wound  true  worth  the 
more. 

Ladies  there  are  who  think  one  crime  is  all  : 
Can  women,  then,  no  way  but  backward  fall  1 
So  sweet  is  that  one  crime  they  don't  pursue, 
To  pay  its  loss  they  think  all  others  few. 
Who  hold  that  crime  so  dear,  must  never  claim 
Of  injured  modesty  the  sacred  name. 

But  Clio  thus, '  What !  railing  without  end? 
Mean  task!  how  much  more  generous  to  com- 
mend! 

Yes,  to  commend  as  you  are  wont  to  do, 
My  kind  instructor,  and  example  too. 
1  Daphnis,'  says  Clio,  '  has  a  charming  eye ; 
What  pity  'tis  her  shoulder  is  awry ! 
Aspasia's  shape,  indeed— but  then  her  air— 
The  man  has  parts  who  finds  destruction  there. 
Almeria's  wit  has  something  that's  divine  ; 
And  wit's  enough — how  few  in  all  things  shine ! 


•Lord  Hervey. 


t  Duke  of  Richmond. 


Selina  serves  her  friends,  relieves  the  poor — 
Who  was  it  said  Selina's  near  threescore? 
At  Lucia's  match  I  from  my  soul  rejoice, 
The  world  congratulates  so  wise  a  choice : 
His  lordship's  rent-roll  is  exceeding  great — 
But  mortgages  will  sap  the  best  estate. 
In  Shirley's*  form  might  cherubims  appear, 
But  then — she  has  a  freckle  on  her 'ear.' 
Without  a  but,  Hortensia  she  commends, 
The  first  of  women,  and  the  best  of  friends  ; 
Owns  her  in  person,  wit,  fame,  virtue,  bright ; 
But  how  comes  this  to  pass? — she  died  last  night. 

Thus  nymphs  commend,  who  yet  at  sat  ire  rail: 
Indeed  that's  needless,  if  such  praise  prevail. 
And  whence  such  praise  ?  our  virulence  is  thrown 
On  others'  fame,  through  fondness  for  our  own. 

Of  rank  and  riches  proud,  Cleora  frowns, 
For  are  not  coronets  akin  to  crowns'? 
Her  greedy  eye,  and  her  sublime  address, 
The  height  of  avarice  and  pride  confess. 
You  seek  perfections  worthy  of  her  rank ; 
Go,  seek  for  her  perfections  at  the  Bank. 
By  wealth  unquenched,  by  reason  uncontrolled, 
For  ever  burns  her  sacred  thirst  for  gold : 
As  fond  of  five  pence  as  the  veriest  cit, 
And  quite  as  much  detested  as  a  wit. 

Can  gold  calm  passion,  or  make  reason  shine  7 
Can  we  dig  peace  or  wisdom  from  the  mine  ? 
Wisdom  to  gold  prefer,  for  'tis  much  less 
To  make  our  fortune  than  our  happiness : 
That  happiness  which  great  ones  often  see, 
With  rage  and  wonder,  in  a  low  degree, 
Themselves  unblessed.     The  poor  are  only  poor; 
But  what  are  they  who  droop  amid  their  store  7 
Nothing  is  meaner  than  a  wretch  of  state. 
The  happy  only  are  the  truly  great. 
Peasants  enjoy  like  appetites  with  kings, 
And  those  best  satisfied  with  cheapest  things, 
ould  both  our  Indies  buy  but  one  new  sense, 
Our  envy  would  be  due  to  large  expense  : 
Since  not,  those  pomps  which  to  the  great  belong 
Are  but  poor  arts  to  mark  them  from  the  throng. 
See  how  they  beg  an  alms  of  Flattery : 
They  languish!  oh,  support  them  with  a  lie  ! 
A  decent  competence  we  fully  taste ; 
t  strikes  our  sense,  and  gives  a  constant  feast : 
More  we  perceive  by  dint  of  thought  alone  : 
The  rich  must  labour  to  possess  their  own, 
To  feel  their  great  abundance,  and  request 
Their  humble  friends  to  help  them  to  be  blest; 
To  see  their  treasures,  hear  their  glory  told, 
And  aid  the  wretched  impotence  of  gold. 

But  some,  great  souls!  and  touched  with  warmth 

divine, 
Jive  gold  a  price,  and  teach  its  beams  to  shine. 


'  Probably  Lady  Frances  Shirley. 


126 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


All  hoarded  treasures  they  repute  a  load, 
Nor  think  their  wealth  their  own,  till  well  be- 
stowed : 

Grand  reservoirs  of  public  happiness, 
Through  secret  streams  diffusively  they  bless, 
And  while  their  bounties  glide,  concealed  from 

view, 

Relieve  our  wants,  and  spare  our  blushes  too. 
But  satire  is  my  task,  and  these  destroy 
Her  gloomy  province  and  malignant  joy. 
Help  me,  ye  misers!  help  me  to  complain, 
And  blas,t  our  common  enemy.  Germain  :* 
But  our  invectives  must  despair  success, 
For  next  to  praise  she  values  nothing  les.s. 

What  picture's  yonder,  loosened  from  its  frame1? 
Or  is't  Asturia  ?  that  affected  dame. 
The  brightest  forms,  through  affectation,  fade 
To  strange  new  things,  which  Nature  never  made. 
Frown  not,  ye  fair !  so  much  your  sex  we  prize, 
We  hate  those  arts  that  take  you  from  our  eyes. 
In  Albucinda's  native  grace  is  seen 
What  you,  who  labour  at  perfection,  mean. 
Short  is  the  rule,  and  to  be  learned  with  ease, 
Retain  your  gentle  selves,  and  you  must  please. 
Here  might  I  sing  of  Memmia's  mincing  mien, 
And  all  the  movements  of  the  soft  machine ; 
How  two  red  lips  affected  zephyrs  blow, 
To  cool  the  bohea,  and  inflame  the  beau ; 
While  one  white  finger  and  a  thumb  conspire 
To  lift  the  cup,  and  make  the  world  admire. 

Tea !  how  I  tremble  at  thy  fatal  stream ! 
As  Lethe  dreadful  to  the  Love  of  Fame. 
What  devastations  on  thy  banks  are  seen  ! 
What  shades  of  mighty  names'  which  once  have 

been  ! 

An  hecatomb  of  characters  supplies 
Thy  painted  altars'  daily  sacrifice. 
Hervey,  Pearce,  Blount,  aspersed  by  thee,  decay, 
As  grains  of  finest  sugar  melt  away, 
And  recommend  thee  more  to  mortal  taste : 
Scandal's  the  sweet' ner  of  a  female  feast. 

But  this  inhuman  triumph  shall  decline, 
And  thy  revolting  naiads  call  for  wine ; 
Spirits  no  longer  shall  serve  under  thee, 
But  reign  in  thy  own  cup,  exploded  tea ! 
Citronia's  nose  declares  thy  ruin  nigh, 
And  who  dares  give  Citronia's  nose  the  licit 

The  ladies  long  at  men  of  drink  exclaimed, 
And  what  impaired  both  health  and  virtue  blamed : 
At  length  to  rescue  man,  the  generous  lass 
Stole  from  her  consort  the  pernicious  glass  : 
As  glorious  as  the  British  queen  renowned, 
Who  sucked  the  poison  from  her  husband's  wound. 

Nor  to  the  glass  alone  are  nymphs  inclined, 
But  every  bolder  vice  of  bold  mankind. 


*  Lady  Betty  Germain,  a  correspondent  of  riwift. 

t Solem  quis  dicerc  falsum 

Audeat !  Virgil. 


O  Juvenal  \  for  thy  severer  rage  ! 
To  lash  the  ranker  follies  of  our  age. 

Are  there,  among  the  females  of  our  isle,     - 
Such  faults  at  which  it  is  a  fault  to  smile  1 
There  are:  Vice  once  by  modest  Nature  chained, 
And  legal  ties,  expatiates  unrestrained ; 
Without  thin  decency  heid  up  to  view, 
Naked  she  stalks  o'er  law  and  gospel  too. 
Our  matrons  lead  such  exemplary  lives, 
Men  sigh  in  vain  for  none,  but  for  their  wives  ; 
Who  marry  to  be  free,  to  range  the  more, 
And  wed  one  man,  to  wanton  with  a  score. 
Abroad  too  kind,  at  home  'tis  steadfast  hate, 
And  one  eternal  tempest  of  debate. 
What  foul  eruptions  from  a  look  most  meek ! 
What  thunders  bursting  from  a  dimpled  cheek  ! 
Their  passions  bear  it  with  a  lofty  hand ! 
But  then  their  reason  is  at  due  command. 
Is  there  whom  you  detest,  and  seek  his  life  1 
Trust  no  soul  with  the  secret — but  his  wife. 
Wives  wonder  that  their  conduct  I  condemn, 
And  ask  what  kindred  is  a  spouse  to  them? 

What  swarms  of  amorous  grandmothers  I  see  • 
And  misses,  ancient  in  iniquity ! 
What  blasting  whispers,  and  what  loud  declaim- 
ing! 

What  lying,  drinking,  bawding,  swearing,  gam- 
ing! 

Friendship  so  cold,  such  warm  incontinence, 
Such  griping  avarice,  such  profuse  expense, 
Such  dead  devotion,  such  a  zeal  for  crimes, 
Such  licensed  ill,  such  masquerading  times, 
Such  venal  faiths,  such  misapplied  applause, 
Such  flattered  guilt,  and  such  inverted  laws, 
Such  dissolution  through  the  whole  I  find ; 
'Tis  not  a  world,  but  chaos  of  mankind. 

Since  Sundays  have  no  balls,  the  well-dressed 

belle 

Shines  in  the  pew,  but  smiles  to  hear  of  hell, 
And  casts  an  eye  of  sweet  disdain  on  all 
Who  listens  less  to  Collins  than  St.  Paul. 
Atheists   have    been    but  rare:    since  Nature's 

birth, 

Till  now,  she-atheists  ne'er  appeared  on  earth. 
Ye  men  of  deep  researches !  say,  whence  springs 
This  daring  character  in  timorous  things  ? 
Who  start  at  feathers,  from  an  insect  fly, 
A  match  for  nothing — but  the  Deity. 

But,  not  to  wrong  the  fair,  the  Muse  must  own, 
In  this  pursuit  they  court  not  fame  alone, 
But  join  to  that  a  more  substantial  view, 
:  From  thinking  free,  to  be  free  agents  too.' 

They  strive  with  their  own  hearts,  and  keep 

them  down, 

In  complaisance  to  all  the  fools  in  town. 
O,  how  they  tremble  at  the  name  of  prude ! 
And  die  with  shame  at  thought  of  being  good ! 
For  what  will  Artimis,  the  rich  and  gay, 
What  will  the  wits,  that  is,  the  coxcombs,  say  ? 


LOVE  OF  FAME. 


127 


They  Heaven  defy,  to  earth's  vile  dregs  a  slave, 
Through  cowardice  most  execrably  brave. 

With  our  own  judgments  durst  we  to  comply, 

In  virtue  should  we  live,  in  glory  die. 

Rise  then,  my  Muse  !  in  honest  fury  rise; 

They  dread  a  satire  who  defy  the  skies. 

Atheists  are  few :  most  nymphs  a  Godhead  own, 

And  nothing  but  his  attributes  dethrone. 

From  atheist,  far,  they  stedfastly  believe 

God  is,  and  is  almighty — to  forgive. 

His  other  excellence  they'll  not  dispute : 

But  mercy,  sure,  is  his  chief  attribute. 

Shall  pleasures  of  a  short  duration  chain 

A  lady's  soul  in  everlasting  pain  1 

Will  the  great  Author  us  poor  worms  destroy, 

For  now  and  then  a  sip  of  transient  joy  ? 

No,  he's  for  ever  in  a  smiling  mood ; 

He's  like  themselves,  or  how  could  he  be  good  7 

And  they  blaspheme. who'  blacker  schemes  sup- 
pose— 

Devoutly,  thus,  Jehovah  they  depose, 

The  pure !  the  just !  and  set  up  in  his  stead, 

A  deity  that's  perfectly  well-bred. 

'  Dear  Tillotson !  be  sure  the  best  of  men ; 

Nor  thought  he  more  than  thought  great  Origen. 

Though  once  upon  a  time  he  misbehaved 

Poor  Satan!  doubtless  he'll  at  length  be  saved. 

Let  priests  do  something  for  their  one  in  ten; 

It  is  their  trade:  so  far  they're  hpnest  men. 

Let  them  cant  on,  since  they  have  got  the  knack, 

And  dress  their  notions,  like  themselves,  in  black ; 

Fright  us  with  terrors  of  a  world  unknown, 

From  joys  of  this,  to  keep  them  all  their  own. 

Of  earth's  fair  fruits,  indeed,  they  claim  a  fee ; 

But  then  they  leave  our  untvthed  virtue  free. 

Virtue's  a  pretty  thing  to  make  a  show ; 

Did  -ever  mortal  write  like  Rochefoucault  V 

Thus  pleads  the  devil's  fair  apologist, 

And,  pleading,  safely  enters  on  his  list. 
Let  angel-forms  angelic  truths  maintain, 

Nature  disjoins  the  beauteous  aCnd  profane. 

For  what's  true  beauty  but  fair  Virtue's  heel 

Virtue  made  visible  in  outward  grace  7 

She,  then,  that's  haunted  with  an  impious  mind? 

The  more  she  charms,  the  more  she  shocks  man- 
kind. 
But  charms  decline:  the  fair  long  vigils  keep: 

They  sleep  no  more:  Gluadrille*  has  murdered 
Sleep. 

'Poor  Kempl't  cries  Li  via;  'I  have  not  been 
there 

These  two  nights :  the  poor  creature  will  despair. 

I  hate  a  crowd — but  to  do  good,  you  know — 

And  people  of  condition  should  bestow.' 

Convinced,  o'ercome,  to  Kemp's  grave  matrons  run, 

Now  set  a  daughter,  and  now  stake  a  son; 


'Shakapeare. 
22 


t  Keeper  of  an  assembly. 


Let  health,  fame,  temper,  beauty,  fortune,  fly, 
And  beggar  half  their  race— through  charity. 

Immortal  were  we,  or  else  mortal  quite, 
I  less  should  blame  this  criminal  delight ; 
But  since  the  gay  assembly's  gayest  room 
Is  but  an  upper  story  to  the  tomb, 
Methinks  we  need  not  our  short  beings  shun, 
And,  thought  to  fly,  contend  to  be  undone : 
We  need  not  buy  our  ruin  with  our  crime, 
And  give  eternity  to  murder  time. 

The  love  of  gaming  is  the  worst  of  ills  ; 
With  ceaseless  storms  the  blackened  soul  it  fills ; 
Inveighs  at  Heaven,  neglects  the  ties  of  blood, 
Destroys  the  will  and  power  of  doing  good; 
Kills  health,  pawns  honour,  plunges  in  disgrace, 
And,  what  is  still  more  dreadful — spoils  your  face. 

See  yonder  set  of  thieves  that  live  on  spoil, 
The  scandal  and  the  ruin  of  our  isle ! 
And  see,  (strange  sight !)  amid  that  ruffian  band, 
A  form  divine  high  wave  her  snowy  hand, 
That  rattles  loud  a  small  enchanted  box, 
Which,  loud  as  thunder,  on  the  board  sne  knocks : 
And  as  fierce  storms,  which  earth's  foundation 

shook, 

From  ^Eolus's  cave  impetuous  broke: 
From  this  small  cavern  a  mixed  tempest  flies, 
Fear,  rage,  convulsions,  tears,  oaths,  blasphemies ! 
For  men,  I  mean, — the  fair  discharges  none : 
She  (guiltless  creature !)  swears  to  Heaven  alone. 

See  her  eyes  start !  cheeks  glow !  and  muscles 

swell! 

Like  the  mad  maid  in  the  Cumean  cell. 
Thus  that  divine-one  her  soft  nights  employs ! 
Thus  tunes  her  soul  to  tender  nuptial  joys ! 
And  when  the  cruel  morning  calls  to  bed, 
And  on  her  pillow  lays  her  aching  head, 
With  the  dear  images  her  dreams  are  crowned, 
The  die  spins  lovely,  or  the  cards  go  round ; 
Imaginary  ruins  charm  her  still ; 
Her  happy  lord  :a  cuckolded  by  Spadille ; 
And  if  she's  brought  to  bed,  'tis  ten  to  one 
He  marks  the  forehead  of  her  darling  son. 

O  scene  of  horror  and  of  wild  despair ! 
Why  is  the  rich  Atrides'  splendid  heir 
Constrained  to  quit  his  ancient  lordly  seat, 
And  hide  his  glories  in  a  mean  retreat  ? 
Why  that  drawn  sword  1  and  whence  that  dismal 

cry? 

Why  pale  distraction  through  the  family! 
See  my  lord  threaten,  and  my  lady  weep, 
And  trembling  servants  from  the  tempest  creep. 
Why  that  gay  son  to  distant  regions  sent? 
What  fiends  that  daughter's  destined  match  pre- 
vent 1 

Why  the  whole  house  in  sudden  ruin  laid"? 
O  nothing,  but  last  night— my  lady  played. 

But  wanders  not  my  Satire  from  her  theme? 
Is  this,  too,  owing  to  the  Love  of  Fame? 


128 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Though,  now,  your  hearts  on  lucre  are  bestowed, 
'Twas  first  a  vain  devotion  to  the  mode : 
Nor  cease  we  here,  since  'tis  a  vice  so  strong, 
The  torrent  sweeps  all  womankind  along. 
This  may  be  said,  in  honour  of  our  times, 
That  none  now  stand  distinguished  by  their  crimes. 

If  sin  you  must,  take  Nature  for  your  guide ; 
Love  has  some  soft  excuse  to  soothe  your  pride. 
Ye  fair  apostates  from  Love's  ancient  power ! 
Can  nothing  ravish  but  a  golden  shower? 
Can  cards  alone  your  glowing  fancy  seize! 
Must  Cupid  learn  to  punt,  ere  he  can  please! 
When  you're  enamoured  of  a  lift  or  cast, 
What  can  the  preacher  more  to  make  us  chaste? 
Why  must  strong  youths  unmarried  pine  away! 
They  find  no  woman  disengaged — from  play. 
Why  pine  the  married  1 — O  severer  fate ! 
They  find  from  play  no  disengaged — estate. 
Flavia,  at  lovers  false,  untouched  and  hard, 
Turns  pale,  and  trembles  at  a  cruel  card. 
Nor  Arria's  Bible  can  secure  her  age ; 
Her  threescore  years  are  shuffling  with  her  page, 
While  Death  stands  by  but  till  the'  game  is  done, 
To  sweep  that  stake,  in  justice  long  his  own : 
Like  old  cards,  tinged  with  sulphur,  she  takes  fire ; 
Or,  like  snuffs  sunk  in  sockets,  blazes  higher. 
Ye  gods !  with  new  delights  inspire  the  fair, 
Or  give  us  sons,  and  save  us  from  despair. 

Sons,   brothers,  fathers,  husbands,  tradesmen, 

close 

In  my  complaint,  and  brand  your  sins  in  prose : 
Yet  I  believe,  as  firmly  as  my  preed, 
In  spite  of  all  our  wisdom,  you'll  proceed. 
Our  pride  so  great,  our  passion  is  so  strong, 
Advice  to  right  confirms  us  in  the  wrong. 
I  hear  you  cry,  '  This  fellow's  very  odd,' 
When  you  chastise,  who  would  not  kiss  the  rod? 
But  I've  a  charm  your  anger  shall  control, 
And  turn  your  eyes  with  coldness  on  the  vole. 

The  charm  begins !  To  yonder  flood  of  light, 
That  bursts  o'er  gloomy  Britain,  turn  your  sight. 
What  guardian  power  o'erwhelms  your  souls  with 

awe? 

Her  deeds  are  precepts,  her  example  law ; 
Midst  empire's  charms  how  Carolina's*  heart 
Glows  with  the  love  of  virtue  and  of  art ! 
Her  favour  is  diffused  to  that  degree, 
Excess  of  goodness !  it  has  dawned  on  me. 
When  in  my  page,  to  balance  numerous  faults, 
Or  godlike  deeds  were  shown,  or  generous  thoughts, 
She  smiled,  industrious  to  be  pleased,  nor  knew 
From  whom  my  pen  the  borrowed  lustre  drew. 

Thus  the  majestic  mother  of  mankind,t 
To  her  own  charms  most  amiably  blind, 
On  the  green  margin  innocently  stood, 
And  gazed  indulgent  on  the  crystal  flood ; 
Surveyed  the  stranger  in  the  painted  wave, 
And,  smiling,  praised  the  beauties  which  she  gave. 


Queen  Caroline. 


1  Milton. 


SATIRE  VII. 

TO  THE  RIGHT  HON.  SIR  ROBERT  WALPOLE. 
Carmina  turn  melius,  cum  venerit  Ipse,  canemus. —  Virg. 

ON  this  last  labour,  this  my  closing  strain, 
Smile,  Walpole !  or  the  Nine  inspire  in  vain. 
To  thee  'tis  due  ;  that  verse  how  justly  thine, 
Where  Brunswick's  glory  crowns  the  whole  de- 
sign? 

That  glory  which  thy  counsels  make  so  bright ; 
That  glory  which  on  thee  reflects  a  light. 
Illustrious  commerce,  and  but  rarely  known ! 
To  give,  and  take,  a  lustre  from  the  throne. 

Nor  think  that  thou  art  foreign  to  my  theme ; 
The  fountain  is  not  foreign  to  the  stream. 
How  all  mankind  will  be  surprised  to  see 
This  flood  of  British  folly  charged  on  thee ! 
Say,  Britain !  whence  this  caprice  of  thy  sons, 
Which  through  their  various  ranks  with  fury  runs? 
The  cause  is  plain,  a  cause  which  we  must  bless, 
For  Caprice  is  the  daughter  of  Success, 
(A  bad  effect,  but  from  a  pleasing  cause  !) 
And  gives  our  rulers  undesigned  applause, 
Tells  how  their  conduct  bids  our  wealth  increase, 
And  lulls  us  in  the  downy  lap  of  Peace.  - 

While  I  survey  the  blessings  of  our  isle, 
Her  arts  triumphant  in  the  royal  smile, 
Her  public  wounds  bound  up,  her  credit  high, 
Her  commerce  spreading  sails  in  every  sky, 
The  pleasing  scene  recalls  my  theme  again, 
And  shows  the  madness  of  ambitious  men, 
Who,  fond  of  bloodshed,  draw  the  murdering  sword, 
And  burn  to  give  mankind  a  single  lord. 

The  follies  past  are  of  a  private  kind ; 
Their  sphere  is  small,  their  mischief  is  confined; 
But  daring  men  there  are  (awake,  my  Muse ! 
And  raise  thy  verse)  who  bolder  frenzy  choose ; 
Who,  stung  by  glory,  rave,  and  bound  away, 
The  world  their  field,  and  humankind  their  prey. 

The  Grecian  chief,  th'  enthusiast  of  his  pride, 
With  Rage  and  Terror  stalking  by  his  side, 
Raves  round  the  globe ;  he  soars  into  a  god  ! 
Stand  fast,  Olympus !  and  sustain  his  nod. 
The  pest  divine  in  horrid  grandeur  reigns, 
And  thrives  on  mankind's  miseries  and  pains. 
What  slaughtered  hosts !  what  cities  in  a  blaze ! 
What  wasted  countries !  and  what  crimson  seas ! 
With  orphans'  tears  his  impious  bowl  o'erflows, 
And  cries  of  kingdoms  lull  him  to  repose. 

And  can  not  thrice  ten  hundred  years  unpraise 
The  boisterous  boy,  and  blast  his  guilty  bays? 
Why  want  we,  then,  encomiums  on  the  storm, 
Or  famine  or  volcano?  they  perform 
Their  mighty  deeds;  they,  hero-like,  can  slay, 
And  spread  their  ample  deserts  in  a  day. 
O  great  alliance !  O  divine  renown  ! 
With  dearth  and  pestilence  to  share  the  crown. 


LOVE  OF  FAME. 


When  men  extol  a  wild  destroyer's  name, 

Earth's  Builder  and  Preserver  they  blaspheme. 
One  to  destroy  is  murder  by  the  law, 

And  gibbets  keep  the  lifted  hand  in  awe ; 

To  murder  thousands  takes  a  specious  name, 

War's  glorious  art,  and  gives  immortal  fame. 
When  after  battle  I  the  field  have  seen 

Spread  o'er  with  ghastly  shapes  which  once  were 
men, 

A  nation  crushed,  a  nation  of  the  brave! 

A  realm  of  death !  and  on  this  side  the  grave ! 

'Are  there,'  said  I,  '  who  from  this  sad  survey, 

This  human  chaos,  carry  smiles  away  V 

How  did  my  heart  with  indignation  rise! 

How  honest  Nature  swelled  into  my  eyes ! 

How  was  I  shocked  to  think  the  hero's  trade 

Of  such  materials,  fame  and  triumph,  made '. 
How  guilty  these  1  yet  not  less  guilty  they 

Who  reach  false  glory  by  a  smoother  way ; 

Who  wrap  destruction  up  in  gentle  words, 
And  bows  and  smiles,  more  fatal  than  their  swords; 
Who  stifle  nature,  and  subsist  on  art; 
Who  coin  the  face,  and  petrify  the  heart; 
All  real  kindness  for  the  show  discard, 
As  marble  polished,  and  as  marble  hard ; 
Who  do  for  gold  what  Christians  do  through  grace, 
'  With  open  arms  their  enemies  embrace;' 
Who  give  a  nod  when  broken  hearts  repine, 
4  The  thinnest  food  on  which  a  wretch  can  dine :' 
Or  if  they  serve  you,  serve  you  disinclined, 
And  in  their  height  of  kindness  are  unkind. 
Such  courtiers  werer  and  such  again  may  be, 
Walpole!  when  men  forget  to  copy  thee. 

Here  cease,  my  Muse!  the  catalogue  is  writ, 
Nor  one  more  candidate  for  fame  admit; 
Though  disappointed  thousands  justly  blame 
Thy  partial  pen,  and  boast  an  equal  claim: 
Be  this  their  comfort,  fools,  omitted  liere, 
May  furnish  laughter  for  another  year. 
Then  let  Crispino,  who  was  ne'er  refused 
The  justice  yet  of  being  well  abused,. 
With  patience  wait,  and  be  content  to  reign 
The  pink  of  puppies  in  some  future  strain : 
Some  future  strain,  in  which  the  Muse  shall  tell 
How  science  dwindles,  and  how  volumes  swell. 
How  commentators  each  dark  passage  shun, 
And  hold  their  farthing  candle  to  the  sun. 
How  tortured  texts  to  speak  our  sense  are  made, 
And  every  vice  is  to  the  Scripture  laid. 
How  misers  squeeze  a  young  voluptuous  peer, 
His  sins  to  Lucifer  not  half  so  dear. 
How  Verres  is  less  qualified  to  steal 
With  sword  and  pistol,  than  with  wax  and  seal. 
How  lawyers'  fees  to  such  excess  are  run, 
That  clients  are  redressed  till  they're  undone. 
How  one  man's  anguish  is  another's  sport, 
And  e'en  denials  cost  us  dear  at  court. 
How  man  eternally  false  judgments  makes, 
And  all  his  joys  and  sorrows  are  mistakes. 


This  swarm  of  themes  that  settles  on  my  pen, 
Which  I,  like  summer-flies,  shake  off  again, 
Let  others  sing :  to  whom  my  weak  essay 
But  sounds  a  prelude,  and  points  out  their  prey: 
That  duty  done,  I  hasten  to  complete 
My  own  design ;  for  Tonson's  at  the  gate. 

The 'Love  of  Fame  in  its  effects  surveyed, 
The  Muse  has  sung;  be  now  the  cause  displayed: 
Since  so  diffusive,  and  so  wide  its  sway, 
What  is  thi#power  whom  all  mankind  obey? 

Shot  from  above,  by  Heaven's  indulgence,  came 
This  generous  ardour,  this  unconquered  flame. 
To  warm,  to  raise,  to  deify  mankind, 
Still  burning  brightest  in  the  noblest  mind. 
By  iarge-souled  men,  for  thirst  of  fame  renowned, 
Wise  laws  were  framed,  and  sacred   arts  were 

found; 

Desire  of  praise  first  broke  the  patriot's  rest, 
And  made  a  bulwark  of  the  warrior's  breast ; 
It  bids  Argyle  in  fields  and  senates  shine : 
What  more  can  prove  its  origin  divine  1 

But,  oh !  this  passion  planted  in  the  soul, 
On  eagle's  wings  to  mount  her  to  the  pole, 
The  flaming  minister  of  virtue  meant, 
Set  up  false  gods,  and  wronged  her  high  descent. 

Ambition,  hence,  exerts  a  double  force, 
Of  blots  and  beauties  an  alternate  source ; 
Hence  Gildon  rails,  that  raven  of  the  pit, 
Who  thrives  upon  the  carcasses  of  Wit ; 
And  in  art-loving  Scarborough  is  seen 
How  kind  a  patron  Pollio  might  have  been. 
Pursuit  of  fame  with  pedants  fills  our  schools, 
And  into  coxcombs  burnishes  our  fools; 
Pursuit  of  fame  makes  solid  learning  bright, 
And  Newton  lifts  above  a  mortal  height: 
That  key  of  Nature,  by  whose  wit  she  clears 
Her  long,  long  secrets  of  five  thousand  years. 

Would  you  then,  fully,  comprehend  the  whole, 
Why,  and  in  what  degrees,  Pride  sways  the  soul1? 
^For  though  in  all,  not  equally,  she  reigns) 
Awake  to  knowledge,  and  attend  my  strains. 

Ye  doctors!  hear  the  doctrine  I  disclose, 
As  true  as  if  'twere  writ  in  dullest  prose; 
As  if  a  lettered  dunce  had  said,  '  'Tis  right;' 
And  imprimatur  ushered  it  to  light. 

Ambition,  in  the  truly  noble  mind, 
With  sister  Virtue  is  for  ever  joined ; 
As  in  famed  Lucrece,  who,  with  equal  dread, 
?rom  guilt  and  shame  by  her  last  conduct  fled: 
Jer  virtue  long  rebelled  in  firm  disdain, 
And- the  sword  pointed  at  her  heart  in  vajn; 
3ut  when  the  slave  was  threatened  to  be  laid 
Dead  by  her  side,  her  Love  of  Fame  obeyed. 

In  meaner  minds  Ambition  works  alone, 
3ut  with  such  art  puts  Virtue's  aspect  on, 
That  not  more  like  in  feature  and  in  mien, 
The  god*  and  mortal  in  the  comic  scene. 


Amphitryon. 


130 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


False  Julius,  ambushed  in  this  fair  disguise, 
Soon  made  the  Roman  liberties  his  prize. 

No  mask  in  basest  minds  Ambition  wears, 
But  in  full  light  pricks  up  her  ass's  ears: 
All  I  have  sung  are  instances  of  this, 
And  prove  my  theme  unfolded  not  amiss. 

Ye  vain!  desist  from  your  erroneous  strife; 
Be  wise,  and  quit  the  false  sublime  of  life. 
The  true  ambition  there  alone  resides, 
Where  justice  vindicates,  and  wisdom  guides; 
Where  inward  dignity  joins  outward  state, 
Our  purpose  good,  as  our  achievement  great; 
Where  public  blessings  public  praise  attend  ; 
Where  glory  is  our  motive,  not  our  end. 
Would'st  thou  be  famed]  have  those  high  deeds 

in  view: 
Brave  men  would  act,  though  scandal  should  ensue. 

Behold  a  prince !  whom  no  swoln  thoughts  in- 
flame, 

No  pride  of  thrones,  no  fever  after  fame ; 
But  when  the  welfare  of  mankind  inspires, 
And  death  in  view  to  dear-bought  glory  fires, 
Proud  conquests  then,  then  regal  pomps  delight ; 
Then  crowns,  then  triumphs,  sparkle  in  his  sight ; 
Tumult  and  noise  are.  dear,  which  with  them  bring 
His  people's  blessing  to  their  ardent  king; 
But  when  those  great  heroic  motives  cease, 
His  swelling  soul  subsides  to  native  peace ; 
From  tedious  Grandeur's  faded  charms  withdraws, 
A  sudden  foe  to  splendour  and  applause ; 
Greatly  deferring  his  arrears  of  fame, 
Till  men  and  angels  jointly  shout  his  name, 
O  pride  celestial !  which  can  pride  disdain  ; 
O  blessed  ambition !  which  can  ne'er  be  vain. 

From  one  famed  Alpine  hill,  which  props  the  sky, 
In  whose  deep  worab  unfathomed  waters  lie, 


Here  burst  the  Rhone  and  sounding  Po;  there 

shine, 

In  infant  rills,  the  Danube  and  the  Rhine; 
From  the  rich  store  one  fruitful  urn  supplit •.- 
Whole  kingdoms  smile,  a  thousand  harvests  rise. 

In  Brunswick  such  a  source  the  Muse  adores, 
Which  public  blessings  through  half  Europe  pours. 
When  his1  heart  burns  with  such  a  godlike  aim, 
Angels  and  George  are  rivals  for  the  fame : 
George !  who  in  foes  can  soft  affections  raise, 
And  charm  envenomed  satire  into  praise. 

Nor  human  rage  alone  his  power  perceives, 
But  the  mad  winds,  and  the  tumultuous  waves.* 
E'en  storms  (Death's  fiercest  ministers ! )  forbear, 
And  in  their  own  wild  empire  learn  to  spare. 
Thus  Nature's  self,  supporting  man's  decree, 
Styles  Britain's  sovereign,  Sovereign  of  the  sea ! 

While  sea  and  air,  great  Brunswick !  shook  our 

state, 

And  sported  with  a  Icing's  and  kingdom's  fate, 
Deprived  of  what  she  loved,  and  pressed  with  fear 
Of  ever  losing  what  she  held  most  dear,  , 

How  did  Britannia,  like  Achilles,t  weep, 
And  tell  her  sorrows  to  the  kindred  deep  1 
Hang  o'er  the  floods,  and,  in  devotion  warm, 
Strive  for  thee  with  the  surge,  and  fight  the  storm  ? 

What  felt  thy  Walpole,  pilot  of  the  realm  1 
Our  Palinurust  slept  not  at  the  helm ; 
His  eye  ne'er  closed,  long  since  enured  to  wake, 
And  outwatch  every  star,  for  Brunswick's  sake: 
By  thwarting  passions  tossed,  by  cares  oppressed, 
He  founil  the  tempest  pictured  in  his  breast : 
But  now  what  joys  that  gloom  of  heart  dispel, 
No  powers  of  language — but  his  own,  can  tell ; 
His  own,  which  Nature  and  the  Graces  form, 
At  will  to  false  or  hush  .the  civil  storm. 


EPISTLES  TO  MR.  POPE, 

CONCERNING^  THE  AUTHORS  OF  THE  AGE. 

EPISTLE  I. 

WHILST  you  at  Twick'nham  plan  the  future  wood, 
Or  turn  the  volumes  of  the  wise  and  good, 
Our  senate  meets ;  at  parties  parties  bawl, 
And  pamphlets  stun  the  streets  and  load  the  stall: 
So  rushing  tides  bring  things  obscene  to  light, 
Foul  wrecks  emerge,  and  dead  dogs  swim  in  sight; 
The  civil  torrent  foams,  the  tumult  reigns, 
And  Codrus'  prose  works  up,  and  Lico's  strains, 
Lo !  what  from  cellars  rise,  what  rush  from  high, 
Where  Speculation  roosted  near  the  sky ; 
Letters,  essays,  sock,  buskin,  satire,  song, 
And  all  the  garret  thunders  on  the  throng! 


O  Pope  !  I  burst ;  nor  can,  nor  will  refrain ; 
I  '11  write,  let  others  in  their  turn  complain. 
Truce,  truce,  ye  Vandals !  my  tormented  ear 
Less  dreads  a  pillory  than  pamphleteer: 
I've  heard  myself  to  death ;  and,  plagued  each  hour, 
Sha'n't  I  return  the  vengeance  in  my  power? 
For  who  can  write  the  true  absurd  like  me? — 
Thy  pardon,  Codrus !  who,  I  mean,  but  thee? 

Pope !  if  like  mine  or  Codrus'  were  thy  style, 
The  blood  of  vipers  had  not  stained  thy  file ; 
Merit  less  solid,  less  despite  had  bred ; 
They  had  not  bit,  and  then  they  had  not  bled. 
Fame  is  a  public  mistress,  none. enjoys, 
But,  more  or  less,  his  rival's  peace  destroys ; 


*  The  King  in  danger  by  sea.  T  Horn.  D.  lib.  i. 

t  Ecce  Deus  ramum  Lethso  rore  madentem,  <fec. 

Virg.  lib.  * 


EPISTLES. 


131 


With  fame,  in  just  proportion,  envy  grows ; 
The  man  that  makes  a  character,  makes  foes. : 
Slight  peevish  insects  round  a  genius  rise, 
As  a  bright  day  awakes  the  world  of  flies ; 
With  hearty  malice,  but  with  feeble  wing, 
(To  show  they  live)  they  flutter,  and  they  sting ; 
But,  as  by  depredations  wasps  proclaim 
The  fairest  fruit,  so  these  the  fairest  fame. 

Shall  we  not  censure  all  the  motley  train, 
Whether  with  ale  irriguous  or  champaign ; 
Whether  they  trq^i  the  vale  of  prose,  or  climb, 
And  whet  their  appetites  on  cliffs  of  rhyme ; 
The  college  sloven,  or  embroidered  spark ! 
The  purple  prelate,  or  the  parish-clerk ; 
The  quiet  quidnunc,  or  demanding  prig! 
The  plaintiff  Tory,  or  defendant  Whig; 
Rich,  poor,  male,  female,  young,  old,  gay,,  or  sad ; 
Whether  extremely  witty,  or  quite  mad  : 
Profoundly  dull,  or  shallowly  polite ; 
Men  that  read  well,  or  men  that  only  write  7 
Whether  peers,  porters,  tailors,  tune  the  reeds, 
And  measuring  words,  to  measuring  shapes  suc- 
ceeds ; 

For  bankrupts  write  when  ruined  shops  are  shut, 
As  maggots  crawl  from  out  a  perished  nut :   • 
His  hammer  this,  and  that  his  trowel  quits, 
And  ^dfeiting  sense  for  tradesmen,  serve  for  wits. 
By  thriving  men  subsists  each  other  trade ; 
Of  every  broken  craft  a  writer  'smade : 
Thus  his  material,  paper,  takes  its  birth 
From  tattered  rags  of  all  the  stuff  on  earth. 
Hail,  fruitful  Isle !  to  thee  alone  belong 
Millions  of  wits,  and  brokers  in  old  song  ; 
Thee  well  a  Land  of  Liberty  we  name, 
Where  all  are  free  to  scandal  and  to  shame ; 
Thy  sons,  by  print,  may  set  their  hearts  at  ease, 
And  be  mankind's  contempt  whene'er  they  please; 
Like  trodden  filth,  their  vile  and  abject  sense 
Is  unperceived,  but  wheu  it  gives  offence : 
Their  heavy  prose  our  injured  reason  tires; 
Their  verse  immoral  kindles  loose  desires : 
Our  age  they  puzzle,  and  corrupt  our  prime, 
Our  sport  and  pity,  punishment  and  crime. 

What  glorious  motives  urge  our  authors  on 
Thus  to  undo,  and  thus  to  be  undone  7 
One  loses  his  estate,  and  down  he  sits, 
To  show  (in  vain)  he  still  retains  his  wits : 
Another  marries,  and  his  dear  proves  keen  : 
He  writes,  as  an  hyphnotic  for  the  spleen : 
Some  write,  confined  by  physic ;  some,  by  debt ; 
Some,  for  'tis  Sunday ;  some,  because  'tis  wet : 
Through  private  pique  some  do  the  public  right, 
And  love  their  king  and  country  out  of  spite : 
Another  writes  because  his  father  writ, 
And  proves  himself  a  bastard  by  his  wit. 

Has  Lyco  learning,  humour,  thought  profound  ? 
Neither :  why  write  then  1  he  wants  twenty  pound : 
His  belly,  not  his  brains,  the  impulse  give; 
He  '11  grow  immortal,  for  he  can  not  live : 


He  rubs  his  awful  front,  and  takes  his  ream, 

With  no  provision  made,  but  of  this  theme: 

Perhaps  a  title  has  his  fancy  smit, 

Or  a  quaint  motto,  which  he  thinks  has  wit : 

He  writes,  in  inspiration  puts  his  trust, 

Though  wrong  his  thoughts,  the  gods  will  make 

them  just : 

Genius  directly  from  the  gods  descends, 
And  who  by  labour  would  distrust  his  friends'? 
Thus  having  reasoned  with  consummate  skill, 
In  immortality  he  dips  his  quill ;     . 
And,  since  blank  paper  is  denied  the  press, 
He  mingles  the  whole  alphabet  by  guess ; 
In  various  sets,  which  various  words  compose, 
Of  which  he  hopes  mankind  the  meaning  knows. 

So  sounds  spontaneous  from  the.Sybil  broke, 
Dark  to  herself  the  wonders  which  she  spoke ; 
The  priests  found  out  the  meaning  if  they  could, 
And  nations  stared  at  what  none  understood. 

Clodio  dressed,  danced,  drank,  visited,  (the  whole 
And  great  concern  of  an  immortal  soul !) 
Oft  have  I  said,  "  awake !  exist !  and  strive 
For  birth !  nor  think  to  loiter  is  to  live !" 
As  oft,  I  overheard  the  demon  say, 
Who  daily  met  the  loiterer  in  his  way, 
'  I  '11  meet  the«,  Youth !  at  White's."   The  youth 

replies, 

'  I  '11  meet  thee  there,"  and  falls  his  sacrifice ; 
His  fortune  squandered,  leaves  his  virtue  bare 
To  every  bribe,  and  blind  to  every  snare, 
lodio  for  bread  his  indolence  must  quit, 
Or  turn  a  soldier,  or  commence  a  wit. 
Such  heroes  have  we !  all  but  life  they  stake ; 
Sow  must  Spain  tremble,  and  the  German  shake ! 
Such  writers  have  we!  all  but  sense  they  print; 
2ven  George's  praise  is  dated  from  the  Mint, 
n  arms  contemptible,  in  arts  profane, 
Such  swords,  such  pens,  disgrace  a  monarch's 

reign. 

leform  your  lives  before  you  thus  aspire, 
And  steal  (for  you  can  steal)  celestial  fire. 

0  the  just  contrast !  O  the  beauteous  strife ! 
Twixt  their  cool  writings  and  Pindaric  life : 
They  write  with  phlegm,  but  then  they  live  with  fire ; 
They  cheat  the  lender,  and  their  works  the  buyer. 

1  reverence  misfortune,  not  deride; 
pity  poverty,  but  laugh  at  pride: 

^or  who  so  sad  but  must  some  mirth  confess 
At  gay  Castruchio's  miscellaneous  dress  1 

Though  there's  but  one  of  the  dull  works  he  wrote, 

There's  ten  editions  of  his  old  laced  coat. 
These,  Nature's  commoners,  who  want  a  home, 

laim  the  wide  world  for  their  majestic  dome ; 

They  make  a  private  study  of  the  street, 
And,  looking  full  on  every  man  they  meet, 

un  souse  against  his  chaps,  who  stands  amazed 

They  find  they  did  not  see,  but  only  gazed. 

low  must  these  bards  be  rapt  into  the  skies'? 

fou  need  not  read,  you  feel  their  ecstacies. 


132 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Will  they  persist  ?  'tis  madness.     Lintot,  run, 
See  them  confined.—"  O,  that's  already  done." 
Most,  as  by  leases,  by  the  works  they  print, 
Have  took,  for  life,  possession  of  the  Mint. 
If  you  mistake,  and  pity  these  poor  men, 
Est  Ulubris,  they  cry,  and  write  again. 

Such  wits  their  nuisance  manfully  expose, 
And  then  pronounce  just  judges  learning's  foes. 
O  frail  conclusion!  the  reverse  is  true; 
If  foes  to  learning,  they'd  be  friends  to  you: 
Treat  them,  ye  judges!  with  an  honest  scorn, 
And  weed  the  cockle  from  the  generous  corn : 
There's  true  good  nature  in  your  disrespect; 
Injustice  to  the  good,  the  bad  neglect : 
For  immortality  if  hardships  plead, 
It  is  not  theirs  who  write,  but  ours  who  read. 

But,  O !  what  wisdom  can  convince  a  fool 
But  that  'tis  dulnessto  conceive  him  dull? 
'Tis  sad  experience  takes  the  censor's  part, 
Conviction  not  from  reason,  but  from  smart. 

A  virgin  author,  recent  from  the  press, 
The  sheets  yet  wet,  applauds  his  great  success : 
Surveys  them,  reads  them,  takes  their  charms  to 

bed, 

Those  in  his  hand,  and  glory  in  his  head; 
'Tis  joy  too  great;  a  fever  of  delight ! 
His  heartbeats  thick, nor  close  his  eyes  all  night; 
But  rising  the  next  morn  to  clasp  his  fame, 
He  finds  that  without  sleeping  he  could  dream. 
So  sparks,  they  say,  take'  goddesses  to  bed, 
And  find  next  day  the  devil'in  their  stead. 

In  vain  advertisements  the  town  o'erspread; 
They're  epitaphs,  and  say  the  work  is  dead. 
Who  press  for  fame  but  small  recruits  will  raise; 
'Tis. volunteers  alone  can  give  the  bays. 

A  famous  author  visits  a  great  man, 
Of  his  immortal  work  displays  the  plan, 
And  says,  "  Sir,  I'm  your  friend;  all  fears  dismiss, 
Your  glory  and  my  own  shall  live  by  this; 
Your  power  is  fixed,  your  fame  through  time  con- 
veyed, 

And  Britain  Europe's  queen — if  I  am  paid." 
A  statesman  has  his  answer  in  a  trice ; 
."  Sir,  such  a  genius  is  beyond  all  price; 
What  man  can  pay  for  this?' — Away  he  turns, 
His  work  is  folded,  and  his  bosom  burns: 
His  patron  he  will  patronize  no  more, 
But  rushes  like  a  tempest  out  of  door. 
Lost  is  the  patriot;  and  extinct  his  name! 
Out  comes  the  piece,  another,  and  the  same ; 
For  A,  his  magic  pen  evokes  an  O, 
And  turns  the  tide  of  Europe  on  the  foe: 
He  rams  his  quill  with  scandal  and  with  scoff, 
But  'tis  so  very  foul  it  won't  go  off: 
Dreadful  his  thunders,  while  unprinted,  roar, 
But  when  once  published  they  are  heard  no  more. 
Thus  distant  bugbears  fright,  but  nearer  draw, 
The  block's  a  block,  and  turns  to  mirth  your  awe. 


Can  these  oblige  whose  heads  and  hearts  are 

such? 

No ;  every  party's  tainted  by  their  touch. 
Infected  persons  fly  each  public  place, 
And  none,  or  enemies  alone,  embrace; 
To  the  foul  fiend  their  every  passion's  sold ; 
They  love  and  hate,  extempore,  for  gold. 
What  image  of  their  fury  can  we  form  7 
Dulness  and  rage,  a  puddle  in  a  storm. 
Rest  they  in  peace?  If  they  are  pleased  to  buy, 
To  swell  your  sails,  like  Lapljfcid  winds  they  fly. 
Write  they  with  rage?  the  tempest  quickly  flags; 
A  state  Ulysses  tames  'em  with  his  bags ; 
Let  him  be.  what  he  will,  Turk,  Pagan,  Jew, 
For  Christian  ministers  of  state  are  few. 

Behind  the  curtain  lurks  the  fountain-head 
That  pours  his  politics  through  pipes  of  lead, 
Which  far  and  near  ejaculate  and  spout, 
O'er  tea  and  coffee,  poison  to  the  rout; 
But  when  they  have  bespattered  all  they  may, 
The  statesman  throws  his  filthy  squirts  away ! 

With  golden  forceps  these  another  takes, 
And  state-elixirs  of  the  vipers  makes. 

The  richest  statesman  wants  enough  to  pay 
A  servile  sycophant,  if  well  they  weigh 
How  much  it  costs  the  wretch  to  be  so  base ; 
Nor  can  the  greatest  powers  enough  disgrace, 
Enough  chastise,  such  prostitute  applause, 
If  well  they  weigh  how  much  it  stains  their  cause. 

But  are  our  writers  ever  in  the  wrong? 
Does  virtue  ne'er  seduce  the  venal  tongue  ? 
Yes ;  if  well-bribed,  for  virtue's  self  they  fight, 
Still  in   the  wrong,  though  champions   for  the 

right: 

Whoe'er  their  crimes  for  interest  only  quit, 
Sin  on  in  virtue,  and  good  deeds  commit. 

Nought  but  inconstancy  Britannia  meets, 
And  broken  faith  in  their  abandoned  sheets. 
From  the  same  hand  how  various  is  the  page !    • 
What  civil  war  their  brother  pamphlets  wage ! 
Tracts  battle  tracts,  self-contradictions  glare : 
Say,  is  this  lunacy  ? — I  wish  it  were. 
If  such  our  writers,  startled  at  the  sight, 
Felons  may  bless  their  stars  they  can  not  write ! 

How  justly  Proteus'  transmigrations  fit 
The  monstrous  changes  of  a  modern  wit! 
Now  such  a  gentle  stream  of  eloquence, 
As  seldom  rises  to  the  verge  of  sense ; 
Now,  by  mad  rage,  transformed  into  a  flame, 
Which  yet  fit  engines,  well  applied  can  tame-, 
Now,  on  immodest  trash,  the  swine  obscene 
Invites  the  town  to  sup  at  Drury-lane! 
A  dreadful  lion,  now  he  roars  at  power, 
Which  sends  him  to  his  brothers  at  the  Tower; 
He's  now  a  serpent,  and  his  double  tongue 
Salutes,  nay,  licks  the  feet  of  those  he  stung. 
What  note  can  bind  him,  his  evasion  such  ? 
One  knot  he  well  deserves  which  might  do  mm 


EPISTLES. 


133 


The  flood,  flame,  swine,  the  lion,  and  the  swike, 
Those  fivefold  monsters,  modern  authors  make. 
The  snake  reigns  most;  snakes,  Pliny  says,  are  bred 
When  the  brain's  perished  in  a  human  head. 
Yegrovelling,trodden,  whipt,  stript,  turncoat  things, 
Made  up  of  venom,  volumes,  stains,  and  stings ! 
Thrown  from  the  tree  of  knowledge,  like  you,  curs'd 
To  scribble  in  the  dust,  was  snake  the  first. 

What  if  the  figure  should  in  fact  prove  true  1 
It  did  in  Elkenah,  why  not  in  you? 
Poor  Elkenah,  all  other  changes  past, 
For  bread  in  Smithfield  dragons  hissed  at  last, 
Spit  streams  of  fire  to  make  the  butchers  gape, 
And  found  his  manners  suited  to  his  shape. 
Such  is  the  fate  of  talents  misapplied ; 
So  lived  your  prototype,  and  so  he  died. 

The  abandoned  manners  of  our  writing  train 
May  tempt  mankind  to  think  religion  vain ; 
But  in  their  fate,  their  habit,  and  their  mien, 
That  gods  there  are  is  eminently  seen : 
Heaven  stands  absolved  by  vengeance  on  their  pen, 
And  marks  the  murderers  of  fame  from  men : 
Through  meagre  jaws  they  draw  their  venal  breath, 
As  ghastly  as  their  brothers  in  Macbeth  : 
Their  feet  through  faithless  leather  meet  the  dirt, 
And  oftener  changed  their  principles  than  shirt : 
The  transient  vestments  of  these  frugal  men 
Hasten  to  paper  for  our  mirth  again : 
Too  soon  (O  merry  melancholy  fate !) 
They  beg  in  rhyme,  and  warble  through  a  grate : 
The  man  lampooned  forgets  it  at  the  sight ; 
The  friend  through  pity  gives,  the  foe  through  spite ; 
And  though  full  conscious  of  his  injured  purse, 
Lintot  relents,  nor  Curll  can  wish  them  worse. 
So  fare  the  men  who  writers  dare  commence 
Without  their  patent,  probity,  and  sense. 

From  these  their  politics  our  quidnuncs  seek, 
And  Saturday's  the  learning  of  the  week : 
These  lab'ring  wits,  like  paviors,  mend  our  ways, 
With  heavy,  huge,  repeated,  flat,  essays ; 
Ram  their  coarse  nonsense  down,  though  ne'er  so 

dull, 

And  hem  at  every  thump  upon  your  scuH ; 
These  staunch-bred  writing  hounds  begin  the  cry, 
And  honest  Folly  echoes  to  the  lie. 
O  how  I  laugh  when  I  a  blockhead  see 
Thanking  a  villain  for  his  probity : 
Who  stretches  out  a  most  respectful  ear, 
With  snares  for  woodcocks  in  his  holy  leer : 
It  tickles  through  my  soul  to  hear  the  cock's 
Sincere  encomium  on  his  friend  the  fox, 
Sole  patron  of  his  liberties  and  rights ! 
While  graceless  Reynard  listens — till  he  bites. 

As  when  the  trumpet  sounds,  the  o:erloaded  state 
Discharges  all  her  poor  and  profligate, 
Crimes  of  all  kinds  dishonoured  weapons  wield, 
And  prisons  pour  their  filth  into  the  field  ; 
Thus  Nature's  refuse,  and  the  dregs  of  men, 
Compose  the  black  militia  of  the  pen. 


EPISTLE  II. 

FROM  OXFORD. 

ALL  write  at  London ;  shall  the  rage  abate 
Here,  where  it  most  should  shine,  the  Muses'  seat  ? 
Where,  mortal,  or  immortal,  as  they  please, 
The  learned  may  choose  eternity  or  ease? 
Has  not  a  royal  patron*  wisely  strove 
To  woo  the  Muse  in  her  Athenian  grove? 
Added  new  strings  to  her  harmonious  shell, 
And  given  new  tongues  to  those  who  spoke  so  well? 
Let  these  instruct,  with  truth's  illustrious  ray, 
Awake  the  world,  and  scare  our  owls  away. 

Meanwhile,  O  Friend  !  indulge  me,  if  I  give 
Some  needful  precepts  how  to  write  and  live ; 
Serious  should  be  an  author's  final  views : 
Who  write  for  pure  amusement,  ne'er  amuse. 

An  Author !  ?tis  a  venerable  name ! 
How  few  deserve  it,  and  what  numbers  claim ! 
Unblessed  with  sense,  above  their  peers  refined, 
Who  shall  stand  up  dictators  to  mankind  ? 
Nay,  who  dare  shine,  if  not  in  virtue's  cause  ? 
That  sole  proprietor  of  just  applause. 

Ye  restless  men  !  'who  pant  for  lettered  praise, 
With  whom  would  you  consult  to  gain  the  bays? 
With  those  great  authors  whose  famed  works  you 
v      reach? 

'Tis  well ;  go,  then,  consult  the  laureled  shade. 
What  answer  will  the  laureled  shade  return  ? 
Hear  it  and  tremble !  he  commands  you  bum 
The  noblest  works  his  envyed  genius  writ, 
That  boasts  of  nought  more  excellent  than  wit. 
If  this  be  true,  as  'tis  a  truth  most  dread, 
Wo  to  the  page  which  has  not  that  to  plead ! 
Fontaine  and  Chaucer,  dying,  wished  unwrote 
The  sprightliest  efforts  of  their  wanton  thought ; 
Sidney  and  Waller,  brightest  sons  of  fame, 
Condemned  the  charm  pf  ages  to  the  flame. 
And  in  one  point  is  all  true  wisdom  cast  ? 
To  think  that  early,  we  must  think  at  last. 

Immortal  wits,  e'en  dead,  break  nature's  laws, 
Injurious  still  to  virtue's  sacred  cause ; 
And  their  guilt  growing,  as  their  bodies  rot, 
(Reversed  ambition  !)  pant  to  be  forgot. 

Thus  ends  your  courted  fame :  does  lucre  then, 
The  sacred  thirst  of  gold,  betray  your  pen  ? 
In  prose  'tis  blameable,  in  verse  'tis  worse, 
Provokes  the  Muse,  extorts  Apollo's  curse  : 
His  sacred  influence  never  should  be  sold ; 
'Tis  arrant  simony  to  sing  for  gold : 
'Tis  immortality  should  fire  your  mind  : 
Scorn  a  less  paymaster  than  all  mankind. 

If  bribes  you  seek,  know  this,  ye  writing  tribe! 
Who  writes  for  virtue  has  the  largest  bribe : 
All's  on  the  party  of  the  virtuous  man ; 
The  good  will  surely  serve  him  if  they  can ; 

*  His  late  Majesty's  benefaction  for  modern  languages. 


134 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


The  bad,  when  interest  or  ambition  guide, 
And  'tis  at  once  their  interest  and  tneir  pride ; 
But  should  both  fail  to  take  him  to  their  care, 
He  boasts  a  greater  friend,  and  both  may  spare. 

Letters  to  man  uncommon  light  dispense, 
And  what  is  virtue  but  superior  sense  1 
In  parts  and  learning  you  who  place  your  pride ; 
Your  faults  are  crimes,  your  crimes  are  double- 
dyed. 

What  is  a  scandal  of  the  first  renown, 
But  lettered  knaves,  and  atheists  in  a  gown  1 

'Tis  harder  far  to  please  than  give  offence ; 
The  least  misconduct  damns  the  brightest  sense : 
Each  shallow  pate,  that  can  not  read  your  name, 
Can  read  your  life,  and  will  be  proud  to  blame. 
Flagitious  manners  make  impression  deep 
On  those  that  o'er  a  page  of  Milton  sleep : 
Nor  in  their  dulness  think  to  save  your  shame ; 
True,  these  are  fools ;  but  wise  men  say  the  same. 

Wits  are  a  despicable  race  of  men, 
If  they  confine  their  talents  to  the  pen ; 
When  the  man  shocks  us,  while  the  writer  shines, 
Our  scorn  in  life,  our  envy  in  his  lines. 
Yet,  proud  of  parts,  with  prudence  some  dispense, 
And  play  the  fool,  because  they're  men'of  sense. 
What  instances  bleed  recent  in  each  thought, 
Of  men  to  ruin  by  their  genius  brought J? 
Against  their  wills  what  ruin  shun, 
Purely  through  want  of  wit  to  be  undone  7 
Nature  has  shown,  by  making  it  so  rare, 
That  wit's  a  jewel  which  we  need  not  wear : 
Of  plain  sound  sense  life's  current  coin  is  made ; 
With  that  we  drive  the  most  substantial  trade. 

Prudence  protects  and  guides  us ;  wit  betrays, 
A  splendid  source  of  ill  ten  thousand  ways ; 
A  certain  snare  to  miseries  immense, 
A  gay  prerogative  from  common  sense ; 
Unless  strong  judgment  that  wild  thing  can  tame, 
And  break  to  paths  of  virtue  and  of  fame. 

But  grant  your  judgment  equal  to  the  best, 
Sense  fills  your  head,  and  genius  fires  your  breast ; 
Yet  still  forbear :  your  wit  (consider  Well) 
'Tis  great  to  show,  but  greater  to  conceal ; 
As  it  is  great  to  seize  the  golden  prize 
Of  place  or  power,  but  greater  to  despise. 

If  still  you  languish  for  an  author's  name, 
Think  private  merit  less  than  public  fame, 
And  fancy  not  to  write  is  not  to  live ; 
Deserve,  and  take  the  great  prerogative ; 
But  ponder  what  it  is,  how  dear  'twill  cost 
To  write  one  page  which  you  may  justly  boast. 

Sense  may  be  good,  yet  not  deserve  the  press ; 
Who  write,  an  awful  character  profess ; 
The  world  as  pupil  of  their  wisdom  claim, 
And  for  their  stipend  an  immortal  fame. 
Nothing  but  what  is  solid  or  refined 
Should  dare  ask  public  audience  of  mankind. 

Severely  weigh  your  learning  and  your  wit ; 
Keep  down  your  pride  by  what  is  nobly  writ  : 


liter,  famed  in  your  own  way,  pass  o'er ; 
Much  trust  example,  but  reflection  more ; 
More  had  the  ancients  writ,  they  more  had  taught ; 
Which  shows  some  work  is  left  for  modern  thought. 

This  weighed,  perfection  know,  and  known, 

'  adore, 

Toil,  burn  for  that,  but  do  not  aim  at  more : 
Above,  beneath  it,  the  just  limits  fix, 
And  zealously  prefer  four  lines  to  six. 

Write,  and  rewvrite,  blot  out,  and  write  again, 
And  for  its  swiftness  ne'er  applaud  your  pen ; 
Leave  to  the  jockeys  that  Newmarket  praise  j 
Slow  runs  the  Pegasus  'that  wins  the  bays. 
Much  time  for  immortality  to  pay 
Is  just  and  wise :  for  less  is  thrown  away. 
Time  only  can  mature  the  labouring  brain ; 
Time  is  the  father,  and  the  midwife  Pain : 
The  same  good  sense  that  makes  .a  man  excel, 
Still  makes  him  doubt  he  ne'er  has  written  well. 
Downright  impossibilities  they  seek ;' 
What  man  can  be  immortal  in  a  week  ? 

Excuse  no  fault,  though  beautiful,  'twill  harm ; 
One  fault  shocks  more  than  twenty  beauties  charm. 
Our  age  demands  correctness;  Addison 
And  you  this  commendable  hurt  have  done. 
Now  writers  find,  as  once  Achilles  found, 
The  whole  is  mortal,  if  a  part's  unsound. 

He  that  strikes  out,  and  strikes  not  out  the  best, 
Pours  lustre  in,  and  dignifies  the  rest : 
Give  e'er  so  little,  if  what's  right  be  there, 
We  praise  for  what  you  burn,  and  what  you  spare: 
The  part  you  burn  smells  sweet  before  the  shrine, 
And  is  an  incense  to  the  part  divine. 

Not  frequent  write,  though  you  can  do  it  well ; 
Men  may  too  oft,  though  not  too  much  excel. 
A  few  good  works  gain  fame ;  mere  sink  their 

price; 

Mankind  are  fickle,  and  hate  paying  twice : 
They  granted  you  writ  well :  what  can  they  more, 
Unless  you  let  them  praise  for  giving  o'er  ? 

Do  boldly  what  you  do,  and  let  your  page 
Smile,  if  it  smiles,  and  if  it  rages,  rage. 
So  faintly  Lucius  censures  and  commends, 
That  Lucius  has  no  foes  except  his  friends. 

Let  satire  less  engage  you  than  applause ; 
It  shows  a  generous  mind  to  wink  at  flaws. 
Is  genius  your's  1  be  your's  a  glorious  end, 
Be  your  king's,  country's,  truth's,  religion's  friend, 
The  public  glory  by  your  own  beget ; 
Run  nations,  run  posterity,  in  debt ; 
And  since  the  famed  alone  make  others  live, 
First  have  that  glory  you  presume  to  give. 

If  satire  charms,  strike  faults,  but   spare  the 

man; 

'Tis  dull  to  be  as  witty  as  you  can. 
Satire  recoils  whenever  charged  too  high ; 
Round  your  own  fate  the  fatal  splinters  fly. 
As  the  soft  plume  gives  swiftness  to  the  dart, 
Good-breeding  sends  the  satire  to  the  heart. 


EPISTLES. 


135 


Painters  and  surgeons  may  the  structure  scan, 
Genius  and  morals  be  with  you  the  man : 
Defaults  in  those  alone  should  give  offence ; 
Who  strikes  the  person  pleads  his  innocence. 
My  narrow-minded  satire  can't  extend 
To  Codrus'  form;  I'm  not  so  much  his  friend: 
Himself  should  publish  that  (the  world  agree) 
Before  his  works,  or  in  the  pillory. 
Let  him  be  black,  fair,  tall,  short,  thin,  or  fat, 
Dirty  or  clean.  I  find  no  theme  in  that. 
Is  that  called  humour  1  it  has  this  pretence, 
'Tis  neither  virtue,  breeding,  wit,  nor  sense. 
Unless  you  boast  the  genius  of  a  Swift, 
Beware  of  humour,  the  dull  rogue's  last  shift. 

Can  others  write  like  you?  your  task  give  o'er, 
'Tis  printing  what  was  published  long  before. 
If  nought  peculiar  through  your  labours  run, 
They're  duplicates,  and  twenty  are  but  one. 
Think  frequently,  think  close,  read  Nature,  turn 
Men's  manner  o'er,  and  half  your  volumes  burn. 
To  nurse  with  quick  reflection  be,your  strife, 
Thoughts  born  from  present  objects  warm  from 

life; 

When  most  unsought,  such  inspirations  rise, 
Slighted  by  fools,  and  cherished  by  the  wise : 
Except  peculiar  fame  from  these  alone ; 
These  make  an  author,  these  are  all  your  own. 

Like,  like  their  Bibles,  coolly  men  turn  o'er ; 
Hence  unexperienced  children  of  threescore. 
True,  all  men  think  of  course,  as  all  men  dream, 
And  if  they  slightly  think  'tis  much  the  same. 

Letters  admit  not  of  a  half  renown ; 
They  give  you  nothing,  of  they  give  a  crown. 
No  work  e'er  gained  true  fame,  or  ever  can, 
But  what  did  honour  to  the  name  of  man. 

Weighty  the  subject,  cogent  the  discourse ; 
Clear  be  the  style,  the  very  sound  of  force; 

the  conduct,  simple  the  design, " 
Striking  the  moral,  and  the  soul  divine. 
Let  nature  art,  and  judgment  wit,  exceed ; 
O'er  learning  reason  reign,  o'er  that  your  creed ; 
Thus  Virtue's  seeds,  at  once,  and  laurels,  grow; 
Do  thus,  and  rise  a  Pope  or  a  Despreau; 
And  when  your  genius  exquisitely  shines, 
Live  up  to  the  full  lustre  of  your  lines. 
Parts  but  expose  those  men  who  Virtue  quit 
A  fallen  angel  is  a  fallen  wit ; 
And  they  plead  Lucifer's  detested  cause, 
Who  for  bare  talents  challenge  our  applause. 
Would  you  restore  just  honours  to  the  pen  1 
From  able  writers  rise  to  worthy  men. 

"  Who's  this  with  nonsense  nonsense  would  re- 
strain'? 

Who's  this  (they  cry)  so  vainly  schools  the  vain? 
Who  damns  our  trash  with  so  much  trash  replete  ? 
As  three  ells  round,  huge  Cheyne  rails  at  meat?' 

Shall  I  with  Bavius,  then,  my  voice  exalt, 
And  challenge  all  mankind  to  find  one  fault  ? 


With  huge  examens  overwhelm  my  page, 
And  darken  reason  with  dogmatic  rage  7 
As  if,  one  tedious  volume  writ  in  rhyme, 
tn  prose  a  duller  could  excuse  the  crime  1 
Sure  next  to  writing,  the  most  idle  thing 
Is  gravely  to  harangue  on  what  we  sing. 

At  that  tribunal  stands  the  writing  tribe, 
Which  nothing  can  intimidate  or  bribe : 
Time  is  the  judge ;  Time  has  nor  friend  nor  foe ; 
False  fame  must  wither,  and  the  true  will  grow. 
Armed  with  this  truth  all  critics  I  defy; 
For  if  I  fall,  by  my  own  pen  I  die ; 
While  snarlers  strive  with  proud  but  fruitless  pain, 
To  wound  immortals,  or  to  slay  the  slain. 

Sore  pressed  with  danger,  and  in  awful  dread 
Of  twenty  pamphlets  leveled  at  my  head, 
Thus  have  I  forged  a^buckler  in  my  brain, 
Of  recent  form,  to  serve  me  this  campaign, 
And  safely  hope  to  quit  the  dreadful  field, 
Deluged  with  ink,  and  sleep  behind  my  shield, 
Unless  dire  Codrus  rouses  to  the  fray 
In  all  his  might,  and  damns  me  for  a  day. 

As  turns  a  flock  of  geese,  and  on  the  green 
Poke  out  their  foolish  necks  in  awkward  spleen, 
(Ridiculous  in  rage ! )  to  hiss,  not  bite, 
So  war  their  quills  when  sons  of  Dulness  write. 


AN  EPISTLE 

TO  THE  RIGHT  HON.  GEORGE  LORD  LANSDOWNR. 

WHEN  Rome,  my  Lord,  in  her  full  glory  shone, 
And  great  Augustus  ruled  the  globe  alone ; 
While  suppliant  kings,  in  all  their  pomp  and  state, 
Swarmed  in  his  courts,  and  thronged  his  palace- 
gate, 

Horace  did  oft  the  mighty  man  detain, 
And  soothed  his  breast  with  no  ignoble  strain ; 
Now  soared  aloft,  now  struck  an  humbler  string 
And  taught  the  Roman  genius  how  Jo  sing. 

Pardon,  if  I  his  freedom  dare  pursue, 
Who  know  no  want  of  Caesar,  finding  you; 
The  Muses'  friend  is  pleased,  the  Muse  should 


Through  circling  crowds,  and  labour  for 
That  partial  to  his  darling  he  may  prove, 
And  shining  throngs  for  her  approach  remove, 
To  all  the  world  industrious  to  proclaim 
His  love  of  arts,  and  boast,  the  glorious  flame. 

Long  has  the  western  world  reclined  her  head, 
Poured  forth  her  sorrow,  and  bewailed  her  dead ; 
Fell  Discord  through  her  borders  fiercely  ranged, 
And  shook  her  nations,  and  her  monarchs  changed ; 
By  land  and  sea  its  utmost  rage  employed, 
Nor  Heaven  repaired  so  fast  as  men  destroyed. 

In  vain  kind  summer's  plenteous  fields  bestowed, 
In  vain  the  vintage  liberally  flowed ; 


136 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Alarms  from  loaden  boards  all  pleasures  chased, 
And  robbed  the  rich  Burgundian  grape  of  taste; 
The  smiles  of  Nature  could  no  blessing  bring, 
The  fruitful  Autumn,  or  the  flowery  Spring ; 
Time  was  distinguished  by  the  sword  and  spear, 
Not  by  the  various  aspects  of  the  year ; 
.  The  trumpet's  sound  proclaimed  ajnilder  sky, 
And  bloodshed  told  us  when  the  sun  was  nigh. 
But  now,  (so  soon  is  Britain's  blessing  seen, 
When  such  as  you  are  near  her  glorious  Queen!) 
Now  Peace,  though  long  repulsed,  arrives  at  last, 
And  bids  us  smile  on  all  our  labours  past ; 
Bids  every  nation  cease  her  wonted  moan, 
And  every  monarch  call  his  crown  his  own : 
To  valour  gentler  virtues  now  succeed ; 
No  longer  is  the  great  man  born  to  bleed : 
Renowned  in  councils,  brave  Argyle  shall  tell, 
Wisdom  and  prowess  in  one  breast  may  dwell ; 
Through  milder  tracts  he  soars  to  deathless  fame, 
And,  without  trembling,  we  resound  his  name. 
No  more  the  rising  harvest  whets  the  sword, 
No  longer  waves  uncertain  of  its  lord : 
Who  cast  the  seed  the  golden  sheaf  shall  claim, 

Nor  chance  of  battle  change  the  master's  name : 
Each  stream,  unstained  with  blood,  more  smoothly 

flows, 

The  brighter  sun  a  fuller  day  bestows; 
All  Nature  seems  to  wear  a  cheerful  face, 
And  thank  great  Anna  for  returning  peace. 
The  patient  thus,  when  on  his  bed  of  pain 
No  longer  he  invokes  the  gods  in  vain, 
But  rises  to  new  life,  in  every  field 
He  finds  Elysium,  rivers  nectar  yield ; 
Nothing  so  cheap  and  vulgar  but  can  please, 
And  borrow  beauties  from  his  late  disease. 

Nor  is  it  peace  alone,  but  such  a  peace 
As  more  than  bids  the  rage  of  battle  cease. 
Death  may  determine  war,  and  rest  succeed, 
'Cause  nought  survives  on  which  our  rage  may  feed; 
In  faithful  friends  we  lose  our  glorious  foes,. 
And  strifes  of  love  exalt  our  sweet  repose. 
See  graceful  Bolingbroke,  your  friend,  advance, 
Nor  miss  his  Lansdown  in  the  court  of  France: 
So  well  received,  so  welcome,  so  at  home, 
(Blessed  change  of  Fate!)  in  Bourbon's  stately 

dome, . 

The  monarch  pleased,  descending  from  the  throne, 
Will  not  that  Anna  call  him  all  her  own ; 
He  claims  a  part !  and  looking  round  to  find 
Something  might  speak  the  fulness  of  his  mind, 
A  diamond  shines,  which  oft  had  touched  him  near, 
Renewed  his  grief,  and  robbed  him  of  a  tear ; 
Now  first  with  joy  beheld,  well  placed  on  one 
Who  makes  him  less  regret  his  darling  son : 
So  dear  is  Anna's  minister,  so  great 
Your  glorious  friend  in  his  own  private  state. 

To  make  our  nations  longer  too,  in  vain 
Does  Nature  interpose  the  raging  main : 


The  Gallic  shore  to  distant  Britain  grows, 
For  Lewis  Thames,  the  Seine  for  Anna  flows : 
From  conflicts  past  each  others  worth  we  find, 
And  thence  in  stricter  friendship  now  are  joined: 
Each  wound  received  now  pleads  the  cause  of  love, 
And  former  injuries  endearments  prove. 
What  Briton  but  must  prize  th'  illustrious  sword 
That  cause  of  fear  to  Churchill  could  afford? 
Who  sworn  to  Bourbon's  sceptre,  but  must  frame 
Vast  thoughts  of  him  that  could  brave  Tallard 

tame? 

Thus  generous  hatred  in  affection  ends, 
And  war,  which  raised  the  foes,  completes  the 

friends. 

A  thousand  happy  consequences  flow, 
(The  dazzling  prospect  makes  my  bosom  glow) 
Commerce  shall  lift  her  swelling  sails,  and  roll 
Her  wealthy  fleets  secure  from  pole  to  pole. 
The  British  merchant,  who,  with  care  and  pain, 
For  many  moons  sees  only  skies  and  main, 
When  now,  in  view  of  his  loved  native  shore, 
The  perils  of  the  dreadful  ocean  o'er,   • 
Cause  to  regret  his  wealth  no  more  shall  find, 
Nor  curse  the  mercy  of  the  sea  and"  wind : 
Our  hardest  fare  condemned  to  serve  a  foe, 
And  give  him  strength  to  strike  a  deeper  blow. 
Sweet  Philomela  providentially  flies 
To  distant  woods  and  streams  for  fresh  supplies 
To  feed  her  young,  and  make  them  try  the  wing, 
And  with  their  tender  notes  attempt  to  sing ; 
Meanwhile  the  fowler  spreads  his  secret  snare, 
And  renders  vain  the  tuneful  mother's  care. 
Britannia's  bold  adventurer  of  late, 
The  foaming  ocean  ploughed  with  equal  fate. 
Goodness  is  greatness  in  its  .utmost  height, 
And  power  a  curse,  if  not  a  friend  to  right. 
To  conquer  is  to  make  dissension  cease, 
That  man  may  serve  the  King  of  kings  in  peace, 
Religion  now  shall  all  her  rays  dispense, 
And  shine  abroad  in  perfect  excellence ; 
Else  may  we  dread  some  greater  curse  at  hand, 
To  scourge  a  thoughtless  and  ungrateful  land. 
Now  war  is  weary,  and  retired  to  rest ; 
The  meagre  Famine,  and  the  spotted  Pest, 
Deputed  in  her  stead,  may  blast  the  day, 
And  sweep  the  relics  of  the  sword  away. 

When  peaceful  Numa  filled  the  Roman  throne 
Jove  in  the  fulness  of  his  glory  shone : 
Wise  Solomon,  a  stranger  to  the  sword, 
Was  born  to  raise  a  temple  to  the  Lord. 
Anne,  too,  shall  build,  and  every  sacred  pile 
Speak  peace  eternal  to  Britannia's  isle. 
Those  mighty  souls,  whom  military  care 
Diverted  from  their  only  great  affair. 
Shall  bend  their  full  united  force  to  bless- 
Th'  almighty  Author  of  their  late  success. 
And  what  is  all  the  world  subdued  to  this? 
The  grave  sets  bounds  to  sublunary  bliss. 


EPISTLES. 


137 


But  there  are  conquests  to  great  Anna  known, 
Above  the  splendour  of  an  earthly  throne ; 
Conquests !  whose  triumph  is  too  great  within 
The  scanty  bounds  of  matter  to  begin ; 
Too  glorious  to  shine  forth,  till  it  has  run 
Beyond  this  darkness  of  the  stars  and  sun, 
And  shall  whole  ages  past  be  still,  still  but  begun. 

Heroic  shades !  whom  war  has  swept  away, 
Look  down,  and  smile  on  this  auspicious  day; 
Now  boast  your  deaths,  to  those  your  glory  tell, 
Who  or  at  Agincourt  or  Cressy  fell ; 
Then  deep  into  eternity  retire ; 
Of  greater  things  than  peace  or  war  inquire ; 
Fully  content,  and  unconcerned  to  know 
What  farther  passes  in  the  world  below. 

The  bravest  of  mankind  shall  now  have  leave 
To  die  but  once,  nor  piece-meal  seek  the  grave  : 
On  gain,  or  pleasure  bent,  we  shall  not  meet 
Sad  melancholy  numbers  in  each  street, 
(Owners  of  bones  dispersed  on  Flandria's  plain, 
Or  wasting  in  the  bottom  of  the  main) 
To  turn  us  back  from  joy,  in  tender  fear 
Lest  it  an  insult  of  their  woes  appear, 
And  make  us  grudge  ourselves  that  wealth  their 

blood 

Perhaps  preserved,  who  starve  or  beg  for  food. 
Devotion  shall  run  pure,  and  disengage 
From  that  strange  fate  of  mixing  peace  with  rage. 
On  heaven  without  a  sin  we  now  may  call, 
And  guiltless  to  our  Maker  prostrate  fall ; 
Be  Christians  while  we  pray ;  nor  in  one  breath 
Ask  mercy  for  ourselves,  for  others  death. 

But,  O !  I  view  with  transport  arts  restored, 
Which  double  use  to  Britain  shall  afford, 
Secure  her  glory  purchased  in  the  field, 
And  yet  for  future  peace  sweet  motives  yield : 
While  we  contemplate,  on  the  painted  wall, 
The  pressing  Briton,  and  the  flying  Gaul, 
In  such  bright  images,  such  living  grace, 
As  leave  great  Raphael  but  the  second  place ; 
Our  cheeks  shall  glow,  our  heaving  bosoms  rise, 
And  martial  ardour  sparkle  in  our  eyes: 
Much  we  shall  triumph  in  our  battles  past, 
And  yet  content  those  battles  prove  our  last, 
Lest,  while  in  arms  for  brighter  fame  we  strive, 
We  lose  the  means  to  keep  that  fame  alive. 
In  silent  groves  the  birds  delight  to  sing, 
Or  near  the  margin  of  a  secret  spring : 
Now  all  is  calm,  sweet  music  shall  improve, 
Nor  kindle  rage,  but  be  the  nurse  of  love. 

But  what  'a  the  warbling  voice,  the  trembling 

string, 

Or  breathing  canvass,  when  the  Muses  sing  1 
The  muse,  my  Lord,  your  care  above  the  rest, 
With  rising  joy  dilates  my  partial  breast. 
The  thunder  of  the  battle  ceased  to  roar, 
Ere  Greece  her  godlike  poets  taught  to  soar ; 
Rome's  dreadful  foe,  great  Hannibal !  was  dead, 
And  all  her  warlike  neighbours  round  her  bled : 


For  Janus  shut,  her.Io  Paeans  rung, 
Before  an  Ovid  or  a  Virgil  sung. 

A  thousand  various  forms  the  Muse  may  wear, 
(A  thousand  various  forms  become  the  fair) 
But  shines  in  none  with  more  majestic  mien, 
Than  when  in  state  she  draws  the  purple  scene ; 
Calls  forth  her  monarchs,  bids  her  heroes  rage, 
And  mourning  Beauty  melt  the  crowded  stage ; 
Charms  back  past  ages,  gives  to  Britain's  use 
The  noblest  virtues  time  did  e'er  produce ; 
Leaves  famed  historians'  boasted  art  behind ; 
They  keep  the  soul  alone,  and  that's  confined, 
Sought  out  with  pains,  and  but  by  proxy  speaks ; 
The  hero's  presence  deep  impression  makes ; 
The  scene  his  soul  and  body  re-unite, 
Furnish  a  voice,  produce  him  to  the  sight ; 
Make- our  contemporary  him  that  stood 
High  in  renown,  perhaps  before  the  flood ; 
Make  Nestor  to  this  age  advice  afford, 
And  Hector  for  our  service  draw  his  sword. 

More  glory  to  an  author  what  can  bring, 
Whence  nobler  service  to  his  country  spring, 
Than  from  those  labours  which,  in  man's  despight, 
Possess  him  with  a  passion  for  the  right  ? 
With  honest  magic  make  the  knave  inclined 
To  pay  devotion  to  the  virtuous  mind ; 
Through  all  her  toils  and  dangers  bid  him  rove 
And  with  her  wants  and  anguish  fall  in  love'? 

Who  hears  the  godlike  Montezuma  groan, 
And  does  not  wish  the  glorious  pain  his  own? 
Lend  but  your  understanding,  and  their  skill 
Can  domineer  at  pleasure  o'er  your  will : 
Nor  is  the  short-lived  conquest  quickly  past ; 
Shame,  if  not  choice,  will  hold  the  convert  fast. 

How  often  have  I  seen  the  generous  bowl 
With  pleasing  force  unlock  a  secret  soul, 
And  steal  a  truth,  which  every  sober  hour 
(The  prose  of  life)  had  kept  within  her  power  1 
The  grape  victorious  often  has  prevailed, 
When  gold  and  beauty,  racks  and  tortures,  failed ;. 
Yet  when  the  spirit's  tumult  was  allayed, 
She  mourned,  perhaps,  the  sentiment  betrayed : 
But  mourned  too  late,  nor  longer  can  deny 
And  on  her  own  confession  charge  the  lie. 
Thus  they  whom  neither  the  prevailing  love 
Of  goodness  here,  or  mercy  from  above, 
Or  fear  of  future  pains,  or  human  laws, 
Could  render  advocates  in  Virtue's  cause, 
Caught  by  the  scene,  have  unawares  resigned 
Their  wonted  disposition  of  the  mind : 
By  slow  degrees  prevails  the  pleasing  tale, 
As  circling  glasses  on  our  senses  steal, 
Till  thoroughly  by  the  Muses'  banquet  warmed, 
The  passion  tossing,  all  the  soul  alarmed, 
They  turn  mere  zealots,  flushed  with  glorious 

rage, 

Rise  in  their  seats,  and  scarce  forbear  the  stage, 
Assistance  to  wronged  innocence  to  bring, 
Or  turn  the  poniard  of  some  tyrant  king. 


138 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


How  can  they  cool  to  villains?  how  subside 

To  dregs  of  vice,  from  such  a  godly  pride  1 

To  spoiling  orphans  how  to-day  return, 

Who  wept  last  night  to  see  Monimia  mourn  1    - 

In  this  gay  school  of  virtue  whom  so  fit 

To  govern  and  control  the  world  of  wit 

As  Talbot,  Lansdown's  friend,  has  Britain  known? 

Him  polished  Italy  has  called  her  own ; 

He  in  the  lap  of  Elegance  was  bred, 

And  traced  the  Muses  to  their  fountain-head ; 

But  much,  we  hope,  he  will  enjoy  at  home 

What's  nearer  ancient,  than  the  modern  Rome, 

Nor  fear  I  mention  of  the  court  of  France, 

When  I  the  British  genius  would  advance  ; 

There,  too,  has  Shrewsbury  improved  his  taste, 

Yet  still  we  dare  invite  him  to  our  feast, 

For  Corneille's  sake  I  shall  my  thoughts  suppress 

Of  Oronooko,  and  presume  him  less : 

What  though  we  wrong  him  ?  Isabella's  wo 

Waters  those  bays  that  shall  for  ever  grow. 

Our  foes  confess,  nor  we  the  praise  refuse, 
The  drama  glories  in  the  British  Muse. 
The  French  are  delicate,  and  nicely  lead 
Of  close  intrigue  the  labyrinthian  thread. 
Our  genius  more  affects  the  grand  than  fine ; 
Our  strength  can  make  the  great  plain  action  shine : 
They  raise  a  great  curiosity  indeed, 
From  his  dark  maze  to  see  the  hero  freed ! 
We  rouse  the  affections,  and  that  hero  show 
Gasping  beneath  some  formidable  blow  ; 
They  sigh ;  we  weep  :  the  Gallic  doubt  and  care 
We  heighten  into  terror  and  despair ; 
Strike  home,  the  strongest  passions  boldly  touch, 
Nor  fear  our  audience  should  be  pleased  too  much. 
What's  great  in  Nature  we  can  greatly  draw, 
Nor  thank  for  beauties  the  dramatic  law. 
The  fate  of  Caesar  is  a  tale!  too  plain 
The  fickle  Gallic  taste  to  entertain ; 
Their  art  would  have  perplexed,  and  interwove 
The  golden  arras  with  gay  flowers  of  love  : 
We  know  heaven  made  him  a  far  greater  man 
Than  any  Csesar  in  a  human  plan ; 
And  such  we  draw  him,  nor  are  too  refined 
To  stand  affected  with  what  Heaven  designed. 
To  claim  attention,  and  the  heart  invade, 
Shakspeare  but  wrote  the  play  the  Almighty  made : 
Our  neighbour's  stage  art  too  barefaced  betrays ; 
'Tis  great  Corneille  at  every  scene  we  praise : 
On  Nature's  surer  aid  Britannia  calls ; 
None  think  of  Shakspeare  till  the  curtain  falls ; 
Then  with  a  sigh,  returns  our  audience  home, 
From  Venice,  Egypt,  Persia,  Greece,  or  Rome. 

France  yields  not  to  the  glory  of  our  lines, 
But  manly  conduct  of  our  strong  designs. 
That  oft  they  think  more  justly  we  must  own, 
Not  ancient  Greece  a  truer  sense  has  shown : 
Greece  thought  but  justly,  they  think  justly  too : 
We  sometimes  err,  by  striving  more  to  do. 


So  well  are  Racine's  meanest  persons  taught, 
But  change  a  sentiment,  you  make  a  fault : 
Nor  dare  we  charge  them  with  the  want  of  flame : 
When  we  boast  more  we  own  ourselves  to  blame. 

And  yet  in  Shakspeare  something  still  we  find 
That  makes  me  less  esteem  all  human  kind  : 
He  made  one  nature,  and  another  found : 
Both  in  one  page  with  master  strokes  abound : 
His  witches,  fairies,  and  enchanted  isle, 
Bids  us  no  longer  at  our  nurses  smile.    • 
Of  lost  historians  we  almost  complain, 
Nor  think  it  the  creation  of.  his  brain. 
Who  lives  when  his  Othello's  in  a  trance  1 
With  his  great  Talbot,*  too,  he  conquered  France. 

Long  may  we  hope  brave  Talbot's  blood  will  run 
In  great  descendants;  Shakspeare  has  but  one  ; 
And  him,  my  Lord,  permit  me  not  to  name, 
But  in  kind  silence  spare  his  rival's  shame ; — 
Yet  I  in  vain  that  author  would  suppress; 
What  can't  be  greater  can  not  be  made  less : 
Each  reader  will  defeat  my  fruitless  aim, 
And  to  himself  great  Agamemnon  name. 

Should  Shakspeare  rise,  unblessed  with   Tal- 
bot's smile, 
E'en  Shakspeare's  self  would  curse  this  barren 

isle ; 

But  if  that  reigning  star  propitious  shine, 
And  kindly  mix  his  gentle  rays  with  thine, 
E'en  I,  by  far  the  meanest  of  }rour  age, 
Shall  not  repent  your  passion  for  the  stage. 

Thus  did  the  will-almighty  disallow, 
No  human  force  could  pluck  the  golden  bough, 
Which  left  the  tree  with  ease  at  Jove's  command, 
And  spare  the  labour  of  the  weakest  hand. 

Auspicious  fate  !  that  gives  me  leave  to  write 
To  you,  the  Muses'  glory  and  delight,' 
Who  know  to  read  nor  false  encomiums  raise, 
And  mortify  an  author  with  your  praise. 
Praise  wounds  a  noble  mind  when  'tis  not  due; 
But  Censure's  self  will  please,  my  lord,  from  you. 
Faults  are  our  pride  and  gain,  when  you  descend 
To  point  them  out,  and  teach  us  how  to  mend, 
What  though  the  great  man  sets  his  coffers  wide, 
That  can  not  gratify  the  poet's  pride, 
Whose  inspiration,  if  'tis  truly  good, 
Is  best  rewarded  when  best  understood  1 
The  Muses  write  for  glory,  not  for  gold ; 
'Tis  far  beneath  their  nature  fti  be  sold : 
The  greatest  gain  is  scorned,  but  as  it  serves, 
To  speak  a  sense  of  what  the  Muse  deserves; 
The  Muse,  which  from  her  Lansdowne  fears  no 

wrong, 

Best  judge,  as  well  as  subject  of  her  song. 
Should  this  great  theme  allure  me  farther  still, 
And  I  presume  to  use  your  patience  ill, 


*  An  ancestor  of  the  Duke  of  Shrewsbury,  who  conquered 
France,  drawn  by  Shakspeare. 


EPISTLES. 


139 


The  world  would  plead  my  cause, and  none  but  you 

Will  take  disgust  at  what  I  now  pursue. 

Since  what  is  mean,  my  Muse  can't  raise,  I'll 

choose 
A  theme  that's  able  to  exalt  my  Muse. 

For  who,  not  void  of  thought,  can  Granville  name, 
Without  a  spark  of  his  immortal  flame  1 
Whether  we  seek  the  patriot  or  the  friend, 
Let  Bolingbroke,  let  Anna,  recommend ; 
Whether  we  choose  to  love  or  to  admire, 
You  melt  the  tender,  and  the  ambitious  fire. 

Such  native  graces  without  thought  abound, 
And  such  familiar  glories  spread  around, 
As  more  incline  the  stander-by  to  raise 
His  value  for  himself,  than  you  to  praise. 
Thus  you  befriend  the  most  heroic  way, 
Bless  all,  on  none  an  obligation  lay, 
So  turned  by  Nature's  hand  for  all  that's  well, 
'Tis  scarce  a  virtue  when  you  most  excel. 

Though  sweet  your  presence,  grateful  is  your 

mien; 

You  to  be  happy,  want  not  to  be  seen ; 
Though  prized  in  public,  you  can  smile  alone, 
Nor  court  an  approbation  but  your  own : 
In  throngs,  not  conscious  of  those  eyes  that  gaze 
In  wonder  fixed,  though  resolute  to  please. 
You,  were  all  blind,  would  still  deserve  applause; 
The  world's  your  glory's  witness,  not  its  cause ; 
That  lies  beyond  the  limits  of  the  day, 
Angels  behold  it,  and  their  God  obey. 

You  take  delight  in  others'  excellence, 
A  gift  which  Nature  rarely  does  dispense  : 
Of  all  that  breathe,  'tis  you  perhaps,  alone 
Would  be  well  pleased  to  see  yourself  outdone. 
You  wish  not  those  who  show  your  name  respect, 
So  little  worth  as  might  excuse  neglect  1 
Nor  are  in  pain  lest  merit  you  should  know: 
Nor  shun  the  well-deserver  as  a  foe ; 
A  troublesome  acquaintance  that  will  claim 
To  be  well  used,  or  dye  your  cheek  with  shame. 

You  wish  your  country's  good ;  that  told,  so  well 
Your  powers  arc  known,  the  event  I  need  not  tell. 
When  Nestor  spoke,  none  asked  if  he  prevailed  ; 
That  god  of  sweet  persuasion  never  failed  : 
And  such  great  fame  had  Hector's  valour  wrought, 
Who  meant  he  conquered,  only  said  he  fought. 

When  you,  my  Lord,  to  sylvan  scenes  retreat, 
(No  crowds  around  for  pleasure  or  for  state) 
You  are  not  cast  upon  a  stranger  land, 
And  wander  pensive  o'er  the  barren  strand ; 
Nor  are  you  by  received  example  taught, 
In  toys  to  shun  the  discipline  of  thought ; 
But,  unconfined  by  boundaof  time  and  place, 
You  choose  companions  from  all  human  race ; 
Converse  with  those  the  deluge  swept  away, 
Or  those  whose  midnight  is  Britannia's  day. 

Books  not  so  much  inform,  as  give  consent 
To  those  ideas  your  own  thoughts  present ; 


Your  only  gain,  from  turning  volumes  o'er, 
a  finding  cause  to  like  ypurself  the  more, 
n  Grecian  sages  you  are  only  taught 
With  more  respect  to  value  your  own  thought. 
Great  Tully  grew  immortal  while  he  drew 
Those  precepts  we  behold  alive  in  you. 
Your  life  is  so  adjusted  to  their  schools, 
t  makes  that  history  they  meant  for  rules. 
What  joy,  what  pleasing  transport,  must  arise, 
Within  your  breast,  and  lift  you  to  the  skies, 
When  in  each  learned  page  that  you  unfold, 
You  find  some  part  of  your  own  conduct  told  1 

So  pleased  and  so  surprised  JEneas  stood, 
And  such  triumphant  raptures  fired  his  blood, 
When  far  from  Trojan  shores  the  hero  spied 
His  story  shining  forth  in  all  its  pride ; 
Admired  himself,  and  saw  his  actions  stand 
The  praise  and  wonder  of  a  foreign  land. 

He  knows  not  half  his  being  who's  confined 
In  converse  and  reflection  on  mankind  : 
Your  soul,  which  understands  her  charter  well, 
Disdains  imprisoned  by  those  skies  to  dwell ; 
Ranges  eternity  without  the  leave 
Of  death,  nor  waits  the  passage  of  the  grave. 

When  pains  eternal,  and  eternal  bliss, 
When  these  high  cares  your  weary  thoughts  dis- 
miss, 

In  heavenly  numbers  you  your  soul  unbend, 
And  for  your  ease  to  deathless  fame  descend. 
Ye  kings  !  would  ye  true  greatness  understand  "? 
Read  Seneca,  grown  rich  in.Granville's  hands.* 

Behold  the  glories  of  your  life  complete ! 
Still  at  a  flow,  and  permanently  great : 
New  moments  shed  new  pleasures  as  they  fly, 
And  yet  your  greatest  is  that  you  must  die. 

Thus  Anna  saw,  and  raised  you  to  the  seat 
Of  honour,  and  confessed  her  servant  great ; 
Confessed,  not  made  him  such ;  for  faithful  Fame 
Her  trumpet  swelled  long  since  with  Granville's 

name. 

Though  you  in  mod*esty  the  title  wear, 
Your  name  shall  be  the  title  of  your  heir ; 
Farther  than  ermine  make  his  glory  known, 
And  cast  in  shades  the  favour  of  a  throne. 
From  thrones  the  beam  of  hi^h  distinction  springs, 
The  soul's  endowments  from  the  King  of  kings. 
Lo,  one  great  day  calls  forth  ten  mighty  peers ! 
Produce  ten  Granvilles  in  five  thousand  years. 
Annai  be  thou  content  to  fix  the  fate 
Of  various  kingdoms,  and  control  the  great : 
But,  O !  to  bid  thy  Granville  brighter  shine ! 
To  him  that  great  prerogative  resign, 
Who  the  sun's  height  can  raise  at  pleasure  higher, 
His  lamp  illumine,  set  his  flames  on  fire. 
Yet  still  one  bliss,  one  glory,  I  forbear, 
A  darling  friend  whom  near  your  heart  you  wear  j 


'  See  his  Lordship'a  tragedy,  entitled  Heroic  Love. 


140 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


That  lovely  youth,  my  lord,  whom  you  must  blame 
That  I  grow  thus  familiar  with  your  name. 

He's  friendly,  open,  in  his  conduct  nice ; 
Nor  serve  these  virtues  to  atone  for  vice : 
Vice  he  has  none,  or  such  as  none  wish  less, 
But  friends,  indeed,  good-nature  in  excess. 
You  can  not  boast  the  merit  of  a  choice 
In  making  him  your  own ;  'twas  Nature's  voice, 
Which  called  too  loud  by  man  to  be  withstood, 
Pleading  a  tie  far  nearer  than  of  blood ; 
Similitude  of  manners,  such  a  mind, 
As  makes  you  less  the  wonder  of  mankind. 
Such  case  his  common  converse  recommends, 
As  he  ne'er  felt  a  passion,  but  his  friend's ; 
Yet  fixed  his  principles  beyond  the  force 
Of  all  beneath  the  sun  to  bend- his  course.* 

Thus  the  tall  cedar,  beautiful  and  fair, 
Flatters  the  motions  of  the  wanton  air, 
Salutes  each  passing  breeze  with  head  reclined, 
The  pliant  branches  dance  in  every  wind ; 
But  fixed  the  stem,  her  upright  state  maintains, 
And  all  the  fury  of  the  North  disdains. 

How  are  ye  blessed  in  such  a  matchless  friend ! 
Alas !  with  me  the  joys  of  friendship  end. 

0  Harrison !  I  must,  I  will,  complain ; 

Tears  sooth  the  soul's  distress,  though  shed  in  vain. 
Did'st  thou  return,  and  bless  thy' native  shore 
With  welcome  peace,  and  is  my  friend  no  more ! — 
Thy  task  was  early  done,  and  I  must  own 
Death  kind  to  thee,  but  ah !  to  thce  alone. 
But  'tis  in  me  a  vanity  to  mourn, 
The  sorrows  of  the  great  thy  tomb  adorn ; 
Strafford  and  Bolingbroke  the  loss  perceive ; 
They  grieve,  and  make  thee  envied  in  thy  grave. 
With  aching  heart  and  a  foreboding  mind, 

1  night  to  day  in  painful  journey  joined, 
When  first  informed  of  his  approaching  fate, 
But  reached  the  partner  of  my  soul  too  late. 
'Twas  past;    his  cheek  was  cold;    that    tuneful 

tongue, 

Which  Isis  charmed  with  its  melodious  song, 
Now  languished,  wanted  strength  to  speak  his 

pain, 

Scarce  raised  a  feeble  groan,  and  sunk  again : 
Each  art  of  life  in  which  he  bore  a  part. 
Shot  like  an  arrow  through  my  bteeding  heart. 
To  what  served  all  his  promised  wealth  and  power, 
But  more  to  load  that  most  unhappy  hour  1 

Yet  still  prevailed  the  greatness  of  his  mind, 
That  not  in  health,  or  life  itself,  confined, 
Felt  through  his  mortal  pangs  Britannia's  peace, 
Mounted  to  joy,  and  smiled  in  Death's  embrace. 

His  spirit  now  just  ready  to  resign, 
No  longer  now  his  own,  no  longer  mine, 
He  grasps  my  hand,  his  swimming  eyeballs  roll ; 
My  hand  he  grasps,  and  enters  in  my  soul ; 

*  His  Lorship's  nephew  who  took  orders. 


Then  with  a  groan — Support  me — O !  beware 
Of  holding  worth,  however. great,  too  dear  !* 

Pardon,  my  Lord,  the  privilege  of  grief, 
That  in  untimely  freedom  seeks  relief : 
To  Better  fate  your  love  I  recommend ; 
Oh !  may  you  never  lose  so  dear  a  friend ! 
May  nothing  interrupt  your  happy  hours ! 
Enjoy  the  blessings  peace  on  Europe  showers : 
Nor  yet  disdain  these  blessings  to  adorn; 
To  make  the  muse  immortal  you  was  born. 
Sing !  and  in  latest  time,  when  story 's  dark, 
This  period  your  surviving  fame  shall  mark ; 
Save  from  the  gulf  of  years  this  glorious  age, 
And  thus  illustrate  their  historian's  page. 

The  crown  of  Spain  in  doubtful  balance  hung, 
And  Anna  Britain  swayed  when  Granville  sung ; 
That  noted  year  Europa  sheathed  her  sword, 
When  this  great  man  was  first  saluted  Lord. 


A  LETTER  TO  MR.  TICKELL. 

Occasioned  by  the  death  of  the 
RIGHT  HONOURABLE  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 


-Tu  nunc  eris  alter  ab  illo. —  Virg. 


O  LONG  with  me  in  Oxford  groves  confined, 
In  social  arts  and  sacred  friendship  joined ; 
Fair  Isis'  sorrow,  and  fair  Isis'  boast, 
Lost  from  her  side,  but  fortunately  lost ; 
Thy  wonted  aid,  my  dear  companion !  bring, 
And  teach  me  thy  departed  friend  to  sing : 
A  darling  theme. !  once  powerful  to  inspire, 
And  now  to  melt  the  Muses'  mournful  choir : 
Now,  and  now  first,  we  freely  dare  commend 
His  modest  worth,  nor  shall  our  praise  offend. 

Early  he  bloomed  amid  the  learned  train, 
And  ravished  Isis  listened  to  his  strain. 
See,  see,  she  cried,  old  Maro's  muse  appears, 
Waked  from  her  slumber  of  two  thousand  years: 
Her  finished  charms  to  Addison  she  brings, 
Thinks  in  his  thought,  and  in  his  number  sings. 
All  read  transported  his  pure  classic  page ; 
Read  and  forget  their  climate  and  their  age. 

The  state,  when  now  his  rising  fame  was  known, 
The  unrivaled  genius  challenged  for  her  own, 
ISTor  would  that  one  for  scenes  or  actions  strong, 
Should  let  a  life  evaporate  in  song. 
As  health  and  strength  the  brightest  charms  dis- 
pense, 

Wit  is  the  blossom  of  the  soundest  sense: 
Yet  few,  how  few,  with  lofty  thoughts  inspired, 
With  quickness  pointed,  and  with  rapture  fired, 
[n  conscious  pride  their  own  importance  find, 
Blind  to  themselves,  as  the  hard  world  is  blind! 


*  The  Author  here  bewails  that  most  ingenious  gentleman, 
Mr.  William  Harrison,  fellow  of  New-College,  Oxoa 


EPISTLES. 


141 


Wit  they  esteem  a  gay  but  worthless  power, 
The  slight  amusement  of  a  leisure  hour, 
Unmindful  that,  concealed  from  vulgar  eyes, 
Majestic  Wisdom  wears  the  bright  disguise. 

Poor  Dido  fondled  thus,  with  idle  joy, 
Dread  Cupid  lurking  in  the  Trojan  boy; 
Lightly  she  toyed  and  trifled  with  his  charms, 
And  knew  not  that  a  god  was  in  her  arms. 

Who  greatest  excellence  of  thought  could  boast, 
In  action,  too,  have  been  distinguished  most: 
This  Sommers  knew,  and  Addison  sent  forth 
Pfom  the  malignant  regions  of  the  north, 
To  be  matured  in  more  indulgent  skies, 
Where  all  the  vigour  of  the  soul  can,  rise; 
Through  warmer  veins  where  sprightlier  spirits 

run, 

And  sense,«enlivened,  sparkles  in  the  sun. 
With  secret  pain  the  prudent  patriot  gave 
The  hopes  of  Britain  to  the  rolling  wave, 
Anxious,  the  charge  to  all  the  stars  resigned, 
And  placed  a  confidence  in  sea  and  wind. 

Ausonia  soon  received  her  wondering  guest, 
And  equal  wonder  in  her  turn  confest, 
To  see  her  fervours  rivaled  by  the  pole, 
Her  lustre  beaming  from  a  northern  soul : 
In  like  surprise  was  her  ^Eneas  lost, 
To  find  his  picture  grace  a  foreign  coast. 

Now  the  wide  field  of  Europe  he  surveys, 
Compares  her  kings,   her  thrones  and  empires 

weighs, 

In  ripened  judgment  and  consummate  thought; 
Great  work !  By  Nassau's  favour  cheaply  bought. 

He  now  returns  to  Britain,  a  support, 
Wise  in  her  senate,  graceful  in  her  court; 
And  when  the  public  welfare  would  permit, 
The  source  of  learning,  and  the  soul  of  wit. 
O  Warwick!  (whom  the  muse  is  fond  to  name, 
And  kindles,  conscious  of  her  future  theme) 
O  Warwick !  by  divine  contagion  bright, 
How  early  didst  thou  catch  his  radiant  light ! 
By  him  inspired,  how  shine  before  thy  time, 
And  leave  thy  years,  and  leap  into  thy  prime ! 

On  some  warm  bank,  thus,  fortunately  borne, 
A  rose-bud  opens  to  a  summer's  mom, 
Full  blown  ere  noon  her  fragrant  pride  displays, 
And  shows  the  abundance  of  her  purple  rays. 
Wit,  as  her  bays,  was  once  a  barren  tree; 
We  now,  surprised,  her  fruitful  branches  see; 
Or,  orange-like,  till  his  auspicious  time 
It  grew  indeed,  but  shivered  in  our  clime : 
He  first  the  plant  to  richer  gardens  led, 
And  fixed,  indulgent,  in  a  warmer  bed: 
The  nation,  pleased,  enjoys  the  rich  produce, 
And  gathers  from  her  ornament  her  use. 

When  loose  from  public  cares,  the  grove  he 

sought, 

And  filled  the  leisure  interval  with  thought, 
The  various  labours  of  his  easy  page, 
A  chance  amusement,  polished  half  an  age. 


Beyond  this  truth  old  bards  could  scarce  invent, 
Who  durst  to  frame  a  world  by  accident. 
'  What  he  has  sung,  how  early,  and  how  well, 
The   Thames   shall  boast,  and    Roman   Tiber 

tell. 

A  glory  more  sublime  remains  in  store, 
Since  such  his  talents,  that  he  sung  no  more. 
No  fuller  proof  of  power  the  Almighty  gave, 
Making  the  sea,  than  curbing  her  proud  wave. 

Nought  can  the  genius  of  his  works  transcend, 
But  their  fair  purpose  and  important  end ; 
To  rouse  the  war  for  injured  Europe's  laws, 
To  steel  the  patriot  in  great  Brunswick's  cause; 
With  virtue's  charms  to  kindle  sacred  love, 
Or  paint  the  eternal  bowers  of  bliss  above. 
Where  had'st  thou  room,  great  Author !  where  to 

roll 

The  mighty  theme  of  an  immortal  soul  1 
Through  paths' unknown,  unbeaten,  whence  were 

brought 

Thy  proofs  so  strong  for  immaterial  thought? 
One  let  me  join,  all  others  may  excel, 
How  could  a  mortal  essence  think  so  well  1" 
But  why  so  large  in  the  great  writer's  praise?     . 
More  lofty  subjects  should  my  numbers  raise : 
In  him  (illustrious  rivalry!)  contend 
The    statesman,    patriot,    Christian,    and    the 

friend! 

His  glory  such  it  border?  on  disgrace 
To  say  he  sung  the  best  of  human  race,. 

In  joy  once  joined,  in  sorrow  now  for  jears, 
Partner  in  grief,  and  brother  of  my  tears, 
Tickell !  accept  this  verse,  thy  mournful  due ; 
Thou  farther  shaltthe  sacred  theme  pursue; 
And  as  thy  strain  describes  the  matchless  man, 
Thy  life-shall  second  what  thy  muse  began. 
Though  sweet  in  numbers,  though  a  fire  divine 
Dart  through  the  whole,  and  burn  in  every  line, 
Who  strives  not  for  that  excellence  he  draws, 
[s  stained  by  fame,  and  suffers  for  applause. 
But  haste  to  thy  illustrious  task;  prepare 
The  noble  work  well  trusted  to  thy  care, 
The  gift  bequeathed  by  Addison's  command, 
To  Craggs  made  sacred  by  his  dying  hand. 
Collect  the  labours,  join  the  various  rays, 
The  scattered  light  in  one  united  blaze ; 
Then  bear  to  him  so  true,  so  truly  loved, 
n  life  distinguished,  and  in  death  approved 
The  immortal  legacy.     He  hangs  awhile 
n  generous  anguish  o'er  the  glorious  pile  ; 
With  anxious  pleasure  the  known  page  reviews, 
And  the  dear  pledge  with  falling  tears  bedews. 
What  though  thy  tears  poured  o'er  thy  godlike 

friend, 

Thy  other  cares  for  Britain's  weal  suspend? 
Think  not,  O  patriot!  while  thy  eyes  o'erflow, 
Those  cares  suspended  for  a  private  wo; 
Thy  love  to  him  is  to  thy  country  shown ; 
rle  mourn*  for  her  who  mourns  for  Addiaon. 


142 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


OCEAN:  AN  ODE. 

OCCASIONED   BY   HIS   MAJESTY'S   ROYAL   ENCOUR- 
AGEMENT   OF    THE   SEA    SERVICE. 

TO  WHICH  IS  PREFIXED 

AN  ODE  TO  THE  KING. 

I  THINK  myself  obliged  to  recommend  to  you  a 
consideration  of  the  greatest  importance,  and  I 
should  look  upon  it  as  a  great  happiness,  if,  at  the 
beginning  of  my  reign,  I  could  see  the  foundation 
laid  of  so  great  and  necessary  a  work  as  the  in- 
crease and  encouragement  of  our  seamen  in  gene- 
ral, that  they  may  be  invited,  rather  than  compel- 
led by  force  and  violence,  to  enter  into  the  service 
of  their  country  as  oft  as  occasion  shall  require  it ; 
a  consideration  worthy  the  representatives  of  a 
people  great  and  nourishing  in  trade  and  naviga- 
tion. This  leads  me  to  mention  to  you  the  case  of 
Greenwich  Hospital,  that  care  may  be  taken,  by 
some  addition  to  that  fund,  to  render  comfortable 
and  effectual  that  charitable  provision  for  the  sup- 
port and  maintenance  of  our  seamen,  worn  out, 
and  become  decrepit  by  age  and  infirmities,  in  the 
service  of^their  country. — Speech,  Jan.  27, 1727-8. 

TO  THE  KING. 

OLD  Ocean's  praise- 

Demands  my  lays ; 

A  truly  British  theme  I  sing ; 

A  theme  so  great 

I  dare  complete, 

And  join  with  Ocean  Ocean's  King. 

To  gods  and  kings, 

The  poet  sings ; 

To  kings  and  gods  the  muse  is  dear ; 

The  muse  inspires 

With  all  her  fires; 

Begin,  my  soul !  thy  bold  career. 

From  awful  state, 

From  high  debate, 

From  morning-splendours  of  a  crown, 

From  homage  paid, 

From  empires  weighed 

From  plans  of  blessings  and  renown ; 

Great  monarch !  bow 

Thy  beaming  brow ; 

To  thee  I  strike  the  sounding  lyre, 

With  proud  design 

In  verse  to  shine ; 

To  rival  Greek  and  Roman  fire. 


The  Roman  ode 

Majestic  flowed, 

Its  streams  divinely  clear  and  strong ; 

Its  sense  and  sound 

Thebes  rolled  profound : 

The  torrent  roared  and  foamed  along. 

Let  Thebes^  nor  Rome, 

So  famed,  presume 

To  triumph  o'er  a  northern  isle ; 

Late  time  shall  know 

The  north  can  glow,  . 

If  dread  Augustus  deign  to  smile. 

The  work  is  done ! 

The  distant  sun 

His  smile  supplies !  exalts  my  voice 

Through  earth's  wide  bound 

Shall  George  resound, 

My  theme,  by  duty,  and  by  choice. 

The  naval  crown 

Is  all  his  own  ! 

Our  fleet,  if  War  or  commerce  call, 

His  will  performs 

Through  waves  and  storms 

And  rides  in  triumph  round  the  ball. 

Since  then  the  main 

Sublimes  my  strain, 

To  whom  should  I  address  my  .song  7 

To  whom  but  thee1? 

The  boundless  sea, 

And  grateful  muse  to  George  belong. 

Hail,  mighty  theme ! 

Rich  mine  of  fame  ! 

If  gods  invoked  extend  their  aid ; 

Hail,  subject  new ! 

As  Britain's  due 

Reserved  by  the  Pierian  maid. 

Durst  Homer's  muse, 

Or  Pindar's,  choose 

To  pour  the  billows  on  his  string? 

No,  both  defraud 

The  tuneful  god : 

Scarce  more  sublime,  when  Jove  they  sing. 

No  former  race 

With  strong  embrace, 

T*his  theme  to  ravish  durst  aspire  j 

With  virgin  charms 

My  soul  it  warms, 

And  melts  melodious  on  my  lyre. 


ODES. 


143 


low,  now  high, 
My  fingers  fly, 

Now  pause,  and  now  fresh  music  spring ; 
Now  dance,  now  creep, 
Now  dive,  now  sweep, 
And  fetch  the  sound  from  every  string. 

Now  numbers  rise, 

Lake  virgin  sighs ; 

The  soft  Favonians  melt  away ; 

As  from  the  north 

Now  rushes  forth 

A  blast,  that  thunders  in  my  lay. 

My  lays  I  file 

With  curious  toil ; 

Ye  Graces  turn  the  glowing  lines; 

On  anvils  neat 

Your  strokes  repeat, 

And  every  stroke  the  work  refines ! 

How  music  charms! 

How  metre  warms ! 

Parent  of  actions  good  and  brave ! 

How  vice  it  tames! 

And  worth  inflames ! 

And  holds  proud  empire  o'er  the  grave ! 

Jove  marked  for  man 

A  scanty  span, 

But  lent  him  wings  to  fly  his  doom ; 

Wit  scorns  the  grave  ; 

To  wit  he  gave 

The  life  of  gods!  immortal  bloom! 

Since  years  will  fly, 

And  pleasures  die, 

Day  after  day.  as  years  advance ; 

Since  while  life  lasts 

Joy  suffers  blasts 

From  frowning  Fate  and  fickle  Chance ; 

Nor  life  is  long, 

But  soon  we  throng, 

Like  autumn  leaves,  Death's  pallid  shore ; 

We  make  at  least 

Of  bad  the  best, 

If  in  life's  phantom,  Fame,  we  soar. 

Our  strains  divide 

The  laurel's  pride ; 

With  those  we  lift  to  life  we  live ; 

By  fame  enrolled 

With  heroes  bold, 

And  share  the  blessings  which  we  give. 

What  hero's  praise 

Can  fire  my  lays 

Like  his  with  whom  my  lay  begun  1 

"  Justice  sincere, 

And  courage  clear, 

Rise  the  two  column*  of  his  throne. 


"  How  formed  for  sway ! 

Who  look  obey, 

They  read  the  monarch  in  his  port : 

Their  love  and  awe 

Supply  the  law, 

And  his  own  lustre  -pakes  the  court 

"  But  shines  supreme, 

Where  heroes  flame ; 

In  war's  high-hearted  pomp  he  prides  ! 

By  godlike  arts 

Enthroned  in  hearts, 

Our  bosom-lord  o'er  wills  presides." 

Our  factions  end ! 

The  nations  bend ! 

For  when  Britannia's  sons,  combined 

In  fair  array, 

All  march  one  way ; 

They  march  the  terror  of  mankind. 

If  equal  all 

Who  tread  the  ball, 

Our  bounded  prospect,  here,  would  end  ; 

But  heroes  prove 

As  steps  to  Jove, 

By  which  our  thoughts,  with  ease,  ascend. 

From  what  we  view 

We  take  the  ~lue 

Which  leads  from  great  to  greater  things ; 

Men  doubt  no  more, 

But  gods  adore, 

When  such  resemblance  shines  in  kings. 

On  yonder  height, 

What  golden  light 

Triumphant  shines,  and  shines  alone. 

Unrivaled  blaze ! 

The  nation's  gaze ! 

'Tis  not  the  sun;  'tis  Britain's  throne. 

Our  monarch  there, 

Reared  high  in  air, 

Should  tempests  rise,  disdains  to  bend  ; 

Like  British  oak, 

Derides  the  stroke ; 

His  blooming  honours  far  extend ! 

Beneath  them  lies, 

With  lifted  eyes, 

Fair  Albion,  like  an  amorous  maid ; 

While  interest  wings 

Bold  foreign  kings 

To  fly,  like  eagles,  to  his  shade. 

'  At  his  proud  foot 
The  sea,  poured  out, 
Immortal  nourishment  supplies; 
Thence  wealth,  and  state, 
And  power,  and  fate, 
Which  Europe  reads  in  George's  eyes. 


144 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


OCEAN. 

AN  ODE. 
CONCLUDING  WITH  A  WISH. 

Let  the  sea  make  a  noise,  let  the  floods  clap  their  hands. 

Psalm  xcviii. 
SWEET  rural  scene  / 
Of  flocks  and  green! 
At  careless  ease  my  limbs  are  spread: 
All  nature  still 
But  yonder  rill, 
And  listening  pines  nod  o'er  my  head. 

In  prospect  wide 

The  boundless  tide! 

Waves  cease  to  foam,  and  winds  to  roar; 

Without  a  breeze 

The  curling  seas 

Dance  on  in  measure  to  the  shore. 

Who  sings  the  source 

Of  wealth  and  force  1 

Vast  field  of  commerce,  and  big  war 

Where  wonders  dwell ! 

Where  terrors  swell ! 

And  Neptune  thunders  from  his  car  7 

Where,  where  are  they    - 

Whom  Poean's  ray 

Has  touched,  and  bid  divinely  rave? — 

What!  none  aspire? 

I  snatch  the  lyre, 

And  plunge  into  the  foaming  wave.  • 

The  wave  resounds! 

The  rock  rebounds ! 

The  Nereids  to  my  song  reply ! 

I  lead  the  choir, 

And  they  conspire, 

With  voice  and  shell,  to  lift  it  high. 

They  spread  in  air 

Their  bosoms  fair, 

Their  verdant  tresses  pour  behind ; 

The  billows  beat 

With  nimble  feet, 

With  notes  triumphant  swell  the  wind:  , 

Who  love  the  shore, 

Let  those  adore 

The  god  Apollo,  and  his  nine, 

Parnassus'  hill, 

And  Orpheus'  skill, 

But  let  Arion's  harp  be  mine. 

The  main!  the  main! 

Is  Britain's  reign; 

Her  strength,  her  glory,  is  her  fleet : 

The  main !  the  main ! 

Be  Britain's  strain ; 

As  Triton's  strong,  as  Syren's  sweet. 


Through  nature  wide 

Is  nought  descried 

So  rich  in  pleasure  or  surprise ; 

When  all- serene, 

How  sweet  the  scene ; 

How  dreadful  when  the  billows  rise ! 

And  storms  deface 

The  fluid  glass, 

In  which  ere  while  Britannia,  fair, 

Look  down  with  pride, 

Like  Ocean's  bride, 

Adjusting  her  majestic  air! 

When  tempests  cease, 

And,  hushed  in  peace, 

The  flattened  surges  smoothly  spread, 

Deep  silence  keep, 

And  seem  to  sleep 

Recumbent  on  their  oozy  bed. 

With  what  a  trance 

The  level  glance, 

Unbroken  shoots  along  the  seas! 

Which  tempt  from  shore 

The  painted  oar, 

And  every  canvass  courts  the  breeze ! 

When  rushes  forth 

The  frowning  North 

On  black'ning  billows,  with  what  dread 

My  shuddering  soul 

Beholds  them  roll, 

And  hears  their  roarings  o'er  my  head ! 

With  terror  mark 

Yon  flying  bark ! 

Now  centre-deep  descend  the  brave; 

Now  tossed  on  high, 

It  takes  the  sky, 

A  feather  on  the  towering  wave ! 

Now  spins  around 

In  whirls  profound : 

Now  whelmed,  now  pendant  near  the  clouds; 

Now,  stunned,  it  reels 

Midst  thunder's  peals, 

And  now  fierce  lightning  fires  the  shrouds. 

All  ether  bums 

Chaos  returns! 

And  blends,  once  more,  the  seas  and  skies; 

No  space  between 

Thy  bosom  green, 

O  Deep!  and  the  blue  concave  lies. 

The  northern  blast, 

The  shattered  mast, 

The  syrt,  the  whirlpool,  and  the  rock, 

The  breaking  spout, 

The  stars  gone  out, 

The  boiling  streight,  the  monster  shock. 


ODES. 


145 


Let  others  fear; 

To  Britain  dear 

Whate'er  promotes  her  daring  claim ; 

Those  terrors  charm 

Which  keeps  her  warm 

In  chase  of  honest  gain  or  fame. 

The  stars  are  bright 

To  cheer  the  night, 

And  shed,  through  shadows,  tempered  fire; 

And  Phoebus  flames, 

With  burnished  beams, 

Which  some  adore,  and  all  admire. 

Are  then  the  seas 

Outshone  by  these? 

Bright  Thetis!  thou  art  not  outshone: 

With  kinder  beams, 

And  softer  gleams, 

Thy  bosom  wears  them  as  thy  own. 

There,  set  in  green, 

Gold  stars  are  seen, 

A  mantle  rich,  thy  charms  to  wrap: 

And  when  the  sun 

His  race  has  run, 

He  falls  enamoured  in  thy  lap. 

Those  clouds,  whose  dyes 

Adorn  the  skies, 

That  silver  snow,  that  pearly  rain, 

Has  Phcebus  stole, 

To  grace  the  pole, 

The  plunder  of  the  invaded  main! 

The  gaudy  bow, 

Whose  colours  glow, 

Whose  arch  with  so  much  skill  is  bent, 

To  Phoebus'  ray, 

Which  paints  so  gay, 

By  thee  the  watery  woof  was  lent. 

In  chambers  deep, 

Where  waters  sleep, 

What  unknown  treasures  pave  the  floor ! 

The  pearl,  in  rows, 

Pale  lustre  throws; 

The  wealth  immense  which  storms  devour. 

From  Indian  mines, 

With  proud  designs, 

The  merchant, swollen,  digs  golden  ore; 

The  tempests  rise 

And  seize  the  prize, 

And  toss  lu'm,  breathless,  on  the  shore. 

His  son  complains 

In  pious  strains ; 

"  Ah!  cruel  thirst  of  gold,"  he  cries; 

Then  ploughs  the  main 

In  zeal  for  gain. 

The  tears  yet  swelling  in  his  eyes, 


Thou  watery  vast ! 

What  mounds  are  cast 

To  bar  thy  dreadful  Sowings  o'er ! 

Thy  proudest  foam 

Must  know  its  home ; 

But  rage  of  gold  disdains  a  shore. 

Gold  pleasure  buys ; 

But  pleasure  dies ; 

Too  soon  the  gross  fruition  cloys ; 

Though  raptures  court, 

The  sense  is  short ; 

But  virtue  kindles  living  joys ! 

Joys  felt  alone ! 

Joys  asked  of  none ! 

Which  Time's  and  Fortune's  arrowi  miss  ; 

Joys  that  subsist, 

Though  fates  resist, 

An  unprecarious,  endless  bliss  ! 

The  soul  refined 

Is  most  inclined 

To  every  moral  excellence; 

All  vice  is  dull, 

A  knave's  a  fool, 

And  virtue  is  the  child  of  Sense. 

The  virtuous  mind, 

Nor  wave  nor  wind, 

Nor  civil  rage,  nor  tyrant's  frown, 

The  shaken  ball, 

Nor  planet's  fall, 

From  its  firm  basis  can  dethrone. 

This  Britain  knows, 

And  therefore  glows 

With  generous  passions,  and  expends 

Her  wealth  and  zeal 

On  public  weal, 

And  brightens  both  by  godlike  ends. 

What  end  so  great 

As  that  which  late 

Awoke  the  genius  of  the  Main  ; 

Which  towering  rose, 

With  George  to  close, 

And  rival  great  Eliza's  reign? 

A  voice  has  flown 

From  Britain's  throne 

To  reinflame a  grand  design; 

That  voice  shall  rear 

Yon  fabric  fair,* 

Aa  nature's  rose  at  the  divine. 

When  Nature  sprung 

Blessed  angels  sung, 

And  shouted  o'er  the  rising  ball . 


A  new  fund  for  Greenwich  hospital,  recommended  from 
[the  throne. 


146 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


For  strains  as  high 

As  man's  can  fly 

The  sea-devoted  honours  call. 

From  boisterous  seas, 

The  lap  of  Ease 

Receives  our  wounded  and  our  old ; 

High  domes  ascend ! 

Stretched  arches  bend; 

Proud  columns  swell !  wide  gates  unfold! 

So  sleeps  the  grain, 

In  fostering  rain, 

And  vital  jjeams,  till  Jove  descend ; 

Then  bursts  the  root, 

The  verdures  shoot, 

And  earth,  enrich,  adorn,  defend. 

Here,  soft  reclined, 

From  wave,  from  wind, 

And  Fortune's  tempests,  safe  ashore, 

To  cheat  their  care, 

Of  former  war 

They  talk  the  pleasing  shadows  o'er. 

In  lengthened  tales 

Our  fleet  prevails ; 

In  tales,  the  lenitives  of  age ! 

And  o'er  the  bowl 

They  fire  the  soul 

Of  listening  youth  to  martial  rage. 

The  story  done, 

Their  setting  sun, 

Serenely  smiling  down  the  west, 

In  soft  decay 

They  drop  away ; 

And  honour  leads  them  to  their  rest. 

Unhappy  they ! 

And  falsely  gay ! 

Who  bask  for  ever  in  success  : 

A  constant  feast 

duite  palls  the  taste, 

And  long  enjoyment  is  distress. 

What  charms  us  most, 

Our  joy,  our  boast, 

Familiar,  loses  all  its  gloss; 

And  gold  refined 

The  sated  mind 

Fastidious  turns  to  perfect  dross. 

When,  after  toil, 

His  native  soil 

The  panting  mariner  regains, 

What  transport  flows 

From  bare  repose  7 

We  reap  our  pleasure  from  our  pains, 

Ye  warlike !  slain 
Beneath  the  main, 


Wrapt  in  a  watery  winding  sheet, 

Who  bought  with  blood 

Your  country's  good, 

Your  country's  full-blown  glory  greet.* 

What  powerful  charm 

Can  Death  disarm  1 

Your  long,  your  iron  slumbers  break : 

By  Jove,  by  Fame, 

By  George's  name, 

Awake !  awake  !  awake ! 

Our  joy  so  proud, 

Our  shout  so  loud, 

Without  a  charm  the  dead  might  hear ! 

And,  see  !  they  rouse 

Their  awful  brows, 

Deep-scarred,  from  oozy  pillows  rear! 

With  spiral  shell, 

Full-blasted,  tell, 

That  all  your  watery  realms  should  ring ; 

Your  pearl  alcoves,     - 

Your  coral»groves, 

Should  echo  theirs  and  Britain's  king. 

As  long  as  stars 

Guide  mariners, 

As  Carolina's  virtues  please, 

Or  suns  invite 

The  ravished  sight, 

The  British  flag  shall  sweep  the  seas. 

Peculiar  both ! 

Our  soil's  strong  growth, 

And  our  bold  natives'  hardy  mind ; 

Sure  heaven  bespoke 

Our  hearts  and  oak, 

To  give  a  master  to  mankind. 

That  noblest  birth 

Of  teeming  earth, 

Of  forest  fair  that  daughter  proud, 

To  foreign  coasts 

Our  grandeur  boasts, 

And  Britain's  pleasure  speaks  aloud: 

Now,  big  with  war, 

Sends  fate  from  far, 

If  rebel  realms  their  fate  demand ; 

Now  sumptuous  spoils 

Of  foreign  soils 

Pours  in  the  bosom  of  our  land. 

Hence  Britain  lays 

In  scales,  and  weighs 

The  fates  of  kingdoms  and  of  kings; 

And  as  she  frowns, 

Or  smiles,  on  crowns, 

A  night  or  day  of  glory  springs. 


Written  soon  after  King  George  the  First's  accession. 


ODES. 


147 


Thus  Ocean  swells 

The  streams  and  rills, 

And  to  their  borders  lifts  them  high, 

Or  else  withdraws 

The  mighty  cause, 

And  leaves  their  famished  channels  dry. 

How  mixed,  how  fraD, 

How  sure  to  fail,  . 

Is  every  pleasure  of  mankind! 

A  damp  destroys 

My  blooming  joys, 

While  Britain's  glory  fires  my  mind : 

For  who  can  gaze 

On  restless  seas, 

Unstruck  with  life's  more  restless  state  1 

Where  all  are  tossed, 

And  most  are  lost, 

By  tides  of  passion,  blasts  of  fate, 

The  world's  the  main, 

How  vexed !  how  vain ! 

Ambition  swells,  and  anger  foams ; 

May  good  men  find, 

Beneath  the  wind, 

A  noiseless  shore,  unruffled  homes ! 

The  public  scene 

Of  hardened  men, 

Teach  me,  O  teach  me  to  despise ! 

The  world  few  know, 

But  to  their  wo, 

Our  crimes  with  our  experience  rise. 

All  tender  sense 

Is  banished  thence, 

All  maiden  Nature's  first  alarms ; 

What  shocked  before 

-t.s  no  more, 
And  what  disgusted  has  its  charms. 

In  landscapes  green, 

True  Bliss  is  seen, 

With  Innocence,  in  shades,  she  sports ; 

In  wealthy  towns 

Proud  Labour  frowns, 

And  painted  Sorrow  smiles  in  courts. 

These  scenes  untried 

Seduced  my  pride, 

To  Fortune's  arrow  bared  my  breast, 

Till  Wisdom  came, 

A  hoary  dame, 

And  told  me  pleasure  was  in  rest. 

"  Oh  may  I  steal 

Along  the  vale 

Of  humble  life,  secure  from  foes! 

My  friend  sincere, 

My  judgment  clear, 

And  gentle  business  my  repose. 


"  My  mind  be  strong, 

To  combat  wrong ; 

Grateful,  O  King !  for  favours  shown ; 

Soft  to  complain, 

For  others'  pain, 

And  bold  to  triumph  o'er  my  own! 

"  (When  Fortune's  kind) 

Acute  to  find, 

And  warm  to  relish  every  boon, 

And  wise  to  still 

Fantastic  ill, 

Whose  frightful  spectres  stalk  at  noon. 

"  No  fruitless  toils, 

No  brainless  broils, 

Each  moment  leveled  at  the  mark ! 

Our  day  so  short 

Invites  no  sport ; 

Be  sad  and  solemn  when  'tis  dark. 

"Yet  Prudence  still 

Rein  thou  my  will ! 

What's  most  important  make  most  dear! 

For  'tis  in  this 

Resides  true  Bliss ; 

True  Bliss,  a  deity  severe. 

"  When  temper  leans 

To  gayer  scenes, ' 

And  serious  life  void  moments  spares, 

The  sylvan  chase 

My  sinews  brace ! 

Or  song  unbend  my  mind  from  cares! 

11  Nor  shun,  my  soul, 

The  genial  bowl, 

Where  mirth,  good-nature,  spirit,  flow ! 

Ingredients  these 

Above  to  please 

The  laughing  gods,  the  wise  below. 

"  Though  rich  the  vine, 

More  wit  than  wine, 

More  sense  than  wit,  good-will,  than  art, 

May  I  provide ! 

Fair  truth,  my  pride ! 

My  joy,  the  converse  of  the  heart ! 

"  The  gloomy  brow, 

The  broken  vow, 

To  distant  climes,  ye  gods!  remove ; 

The  nobly-souled 

Their  commerce  hold 

With  words  of  truth,  and  looks  of  love. 

"  Oh  glorious  aim! 

Oh  wealth  supreme ! 

Divine  benevolence  of  soul ! 

That  greatly  glows, 

And  freely  flows, 

And  in  one  blessing  grasps  the  whole ! 


148 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


"  Prophetic  schemes, 

And  golden  dreams, 

May  I,  unsanguine  cast  away; 

Have  what  I  have, 

And  live,  not  leave, 

Enamoured  of  the  present  day ! 

"  My  hours  my  own, 

My  faults  unknown, 

My  chief  revenue  in  content ; 

Then  leave  one  beam 

Of  honest  fame, 

And  scorn  the  laboured  monument ! 

"Unhurt  ray  urn, 

Till  that  great  turn 

When  mighty  Nature's  self  shall  die; 

Time  cease  to  glide 

With  human  pride, 

Sunk  in  the  ocean  of  eternity." 


SEA-PIECE. 

CONTAINING,  I.  THE  BRITISH  SAILOR'S  EXULTATION 
II.  HIS  PRAYER  BEFORE  ENGAGEMENT. 


DEDICATION  TO  MR.  VOLTAIRE. 

MY  Muse,  a  bird  of  passage,  flies 

From  frozen  clime  to  milder  skies : 

From  chilling  blasts  she  seeks  thy  cheering  beam, 

A  beam  of  favour  here  denied  : 

Conscious  of  faults,  her  blushing  pride 

Hopes  an  asylum  in  so  great  a  name. 

To  dive  full  deep  in  ancient  days,* 
The  warrior's  ardent  deeds  to  raise, 
And  monarchs  aggrandize — the  glory  thine ; 
Thine  is  the  drama,  how  renowned ; 

Thine  Epic's  loftier  trump  to  sound; 

But  let  Arion's  sea-strung  harp  be  mine. 

But  where's  his  dolphin?  knowest  thou  where  1 

May  that  be  found  in  thee,  Voltaire  i 

Save  thou  from  harm  my  plunge  into  the  wave: 

How  will  thy  name  illustrious  raise 

My  sinking  song !  Mere  mortal  lays, 

So  patronized,  are  rescued  from  the  grave. 

"  Tell  me,"  say'st  thou,  "  who  courts  my  smile  ? 
What  stranger  strayed  from  yonder  isle  V' — 
No  stranger,  Sir!  though  born  in  foreign  climes; 
On  Dorset  Downs,  when  Milton's  page, 
With  Sin  and  Death  provoked  thy  rage, 
Thy   rage  provoked,  who   soothed  with  gentle 
rhymes. 


*  Annals  of  the  Enjperor  Charles  Xtt  Lewis  XIV, 


Who  kindly  couched  thy  censure's  eye, 

And  gave  thee  clearly  to  descry 

Sound  judgment  giving  law  to  fancy  strong : 

Who  half-inclined  thee  to  confess, 

Nor  could  thy  modesty  do  less, 

That  Milton's  blindness  lay  not  in  his  song. 

But  such  debates  long  since  are  flown 

For  ever  set  the  suns  that  shone 

On  airy  pastimes,  ere  our  brows  were  gray : 

How  shortly  shall  we  both  forget, 

To  thee,  my  patron,  I  my  debt, 

And  thou  to  thine  for  Prussia's  golden  key 

The  present,  in  oblivion  cast, 
Full  soon  shall  sleep,  as  sleeps  the  past ; 
Full  soon  the  wide  distinction  die  between 
The  frowns  and  favours  of  the  great; 
High-flushed  Success,  and  pale  Defeat 
The  Gallic  gaiety,  and  British  spleen. 

Ye  winged,  ye  rapid  moments !  stay : 
Oh,  Friend !  as  deaf,  as  rapid,  they : 
Life's  little  drama  done,  the  curtain  falls! — 
Dost  thou  not  hear  it?  I  can  hear, 
Though  nothing  strikes  the  listening  ear ; 
Time  groans  his  last;  Eternal  loudly  calls ! 

Nor  calls  in  vain ;  the  call  inspires 

Far  other  counsels  and  desires, 

Than  once  prevailed :  we  stand  on  higher  ground : 

What  scenes  we  see!— Exalted  aim ! 

With  ardours  new  on  spirits  flame ; 

Ambition  blessed!  with  more  than  laurels  crowned. 


ODE  THE  FIRST. 
THE  BRITISH  SAILOR'S  EXULTATION. 

[N  lofty  sounds  let  those  delight 

Who  brave  the  foe,  but  fear  the  fight, 

And  bold  in  word,  of  arms  decline  the  stroke ; 

Tis  mean  to  boast,  but  great  to  lend 
To  foes  the  counsel  of  a  friend, 
And  warn  them  of  the  vengeance  they  provoke. 

Prom  whence  arise  these  loud  alarms? 

Why  gleams  the  South  with  brandished  arms  1 

War,  bathed  in  blood,  from  cursed  ambition  springs; 

Ambition  mean,  ignoble  pride! 

Perhaps  their  ardours  may  subside, 

When  weighed  the  wonders  Britain's  sailor  sings. 

Elear,  and  revere.    At  Britain's  nod, 
Prom  each  enchanted  grove  and  wood, 
Hastes  the  huge  oak,  or  shapeless  forest  leaves ; 
The  mountain  pines  assume  new  forms, 
Spread  canvass  wings,  and  fly  through  storms, 
And  ride  o'er  rocks,  and  dance  on  foaming  waves, 


ODES. 


149 


She  nods  again ;  the  labouring  earth 

Discloses  a  tremendous  birth ; 

In  smoking  rivers  runs  her  molten  ore ! 

Thence  monsters  of  enormous  size, 

And  hideous  aspect,  threatening  rise ; 

Flame  from  the  deck,  from  trembling  bastions  roar. 

These  ministers  of  Fate  fulfil, 

On  empires  wide,  an  island's  will, 

When  thrones  unjust  wake  vengeance.     Know, 

ye  powers ! 

In  sudden  nicrht,  and  ponderous  balls, 
And  floods  of  flame,  the  tempest  falls, 
When  braved  Britannia's  awful  senate  lowers. 

In  her  grand  council*  she  surveys, 

In  patriot  picture,  what  may  raise, 

Of  insolent  attempts,  a  warm  disdain  ; 

From  hope's  triumphant  summit  thrown, 

Like  darted  lightning,  swiftly  down 

The  wealth  of  Ind',  and  confidence  of  Spain. 

Britannia  sheaths  her  courage  keen, 

And  spares  her  nitrous  magazine ; 

Her  cannon  slumber,  till  the  proud  aspire. 

And  leave  all  law  below  them,  then  they  blaze ! 

They  thunder  from  resounding  seas, 

Touched  by  their  injured  master's  soul  of  fire. 

Then  furies  rise !  the  battle  raves ! 

And  rends  the  skies,  and  warms  the  waves ! 

And  calls  a  tempest  from  the  peaceful  deep, 

In  spite  of  Nature,  spite  of  Jove, 

While  all  serene,  and  hushed  above, 

Tumultuous  winds  in  azure  chambers  sleep. 

A  thousand  deaths  the  bursting  bomb 
Hurls  from  her  disemboweled  womb  ; 
Chained,  glowing  globes  in  dread  alliance  joined, 
Red-winged  by  strong  sulphureous  blasts, 
Sweep  in  black  whirlwinds,  men  and  masts, 
And  leave  singed,  naked,  blood-drowned,  decks  be- 
hind. 

Dwarf  laurels  rise  in  tented  fields ; 

The  wreath  immortal  Ocean  yields ; 

There  War's  whole  sting  is  shot,  whole  fire  is  spent, 

Whole  glory  blooms.     How  pale,  how  tame, 

How  lambent,  is  Bellona's  flaiae  ! 

How  her  storms  languish  on  the  Continent ! 

From  the  dread  front  of  ancient  war 
Less  terror  frowned ;  her  scythed  car, 
Her  castled  elephant,  and  battering  beam, 
Stoop  to  those  engines  which  deny 
Superior  terrors  to  the  sky. 

And  boast  their  clouds,  their  thunder,  and  their 
flame. 

The  flame,  the  thunder,  and  the  cloud, 
The  night  by  day,  the  sea  of  blood, 


Hosts  whirled  in  air,  the  yell  of  sinking  throngs, 

The  graveless  dead  an  ocean  warmed, 

A  firmament  by  mortals  stormed, 

To  patient  Britain's  angry  brow  belongs. 

Or  do  I  dream  1  or  do  I  ravel 

Or  see  I  Vulcan's  sooty  cave, 

Where  Jove's  red  bolts  the  giant-brothers  frame  1 

Those  swarthy  gods  of  toil  and  heat, 

Loud  peals  on  mountain  anvils  beat, 

And  panting  tempests  rouse  the  roaring  flame. 

Ye  sons  of  JStna !  hear  my  call. 

Unfinished  let  those  baubles  fall, 

Yon  shield  of  Mars,  Minerva's  helmet  blue : 

Your  strokes  suspend,  ye  brawny  throng ! 

Charmed  by  the  magic  of  my  song, 

Drop  the  feigned  thunder,  and  attempt  the  true. 

Begin ;  and,  first  take  rapid  flight,* 

Fierce  flame,  and  clouds  of  thickest  night, 

And  ghastly  terror,  paler  than  the  dead ; 

Then  borrow  from  the  North  his  roar, 

Mix  groans  and  death ;  one  phial  pour 

Of  wronged  Britannia's  wrath  ;  and  it  is  made ; 

Gaul  starts  and  trembles— at  your  dreadful  trade. 


ODE  THE  SECOND. 

IN  WHICH  IS 
THE  SAILOR'S  PRAYER  BEFORE  ENGAGEMENT. 

So  formed  the  bolt  ordained  to  break 
Gaul's  haughty  plan,  and  Bourbon  shake, 
If  Britain's  crimes  support  not  Britain's  foes, 
And  edge  their  swords.     O  power  Divine ! 
If  blessed  by  thee  the  bold  design, 
Embattled  hosts  a  single  arm  o'erthrows. 

Ye  warlike  dead!  who  fell  of  old 
In  Britain's  cause,  by  Fame  enrolled 
In  deathless  annal !  deathless  deeds  inspire : 
From  oozy  beds,  for  Britain's  sake, 
Awake,  illustrious  Chiefs !  awake, 
And  kindle  in  your  sons  paternal  fire. 

The  day  commissioned  from  above, 
Our  worth  to  weigh,  our  hearts  to  prove, 
If  war's  full  shock  too  feeble  to  sustain, 
Or  firm  to  stand  its  final  blow, 
When  vital  streams  of  blood  shall  flow, 
And  turn  to  crimson  the  discoloured  main ; 

i  That  day  's  arrived,  that  fatal  hour ! 
"  Hear  us,  O  hear,  Almighty  power ! 
Our  guide  in  counsel,  and  our  strength  in  fight ! 
Now  War's  important  dye  is  thrown, 
If  left  the  day  to  man  alone, 
How  blind  is  Wisdom,  and  how  weak  is  Might  ? 


H   UK    •'.   !.~rjs 


Alluding  to  Virgil's  description  of  thunder. 


150 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


"  Let  prostrate  hearts,  and  awful  fear, 

And  deep  remorse,  and  sighs  sincere, 

For  Britain's  guilt  the  wrath  divine  appease  ; 

A  wrath  more  formidable  far 

Than  angry  Nature's  wasteful  war, 

The  whirl  of  tempests,  and  the  roar  of  seas. 

"  From  out  the  deep  to  thee  we  cry, 

To  thee,  at  Nature's  helm  on  high ! 

Steer  thou  our  conduct,  dread  Omnipotence ! 

To  thee  for  succour  we  resort ; 

Thy  favour  is  our  only  port ; 

Our  only  rock  of  safety  thy  defence. 

"  O  Thou !  to  whom  the  lions  roar, 

And  not  unheard,  thy  boon  implore  ! 

Thy  throne  our  bursts  of  cannon  loud  invoke : 

Thou  canst  arrest  the  flying"  ball, 

Or  send  it  back,  and  bid  it  fall 

On  those  from  whose  proud  deck  the  thunder  broke. 

"  Britain  in  vain  extends  her  care 

To  climes  remote*  for  aids  in  war ; 

Still  farther  must  it  stretch  to  crush  the  foe : 

There 's  one  alliance,  one  alone, 

Can  crown  her  arms,  or  fix  her  throne, 

And  that  alliance  is  not  found  below. 

"  Ally  Supreme  !  we  turn  to  thee; 

We  learn  obedience  from  the  sea ; 

With  seas  and  winds,  henceforth,  thy  laws  fulfil; 

'Tis  thine  our  blood  to  freeze  or  warm, 

To  rouse  or  hush  the  martial  storrn, 

And  turn  the  tide  of  conquest  at  thy  will. 

"  'Tis  thine  to  beam  sublime  renown, 

Or  quench  the  glories  of  a  crown ; 

'Tis  thine  to  doom,  'tis  thine  from  death  to  free, 

To  turn  aside  his  leveled  dart, 

Or  pluck  it  from  the  bleeding  heart : — 

There,  we  cast  anchor,  we  confide  in  thee. 

"  Thou !  who  hast  taught  the  North  to  roar, 

And  streaming  lightst  nocturnal  pour 

Of  frightful  aspect !  when  proud  foes  invade, 

Their  blasted  pride  with  dread  to  seize, 

Did  Britain's  flags,  as  meteors,  blaze, 

And  George  depute  to  thunder  in  thy  stead. 

"  The  right  alone  is  bold  and  strong; 

Black  hovering  clouds  appal  the  wrong 

With  dread  of  vengeance.— Nature's  awful  Sire ! 

Less  than  one  moment  shouldst  thou  frown, 

Where  is  Puissance  and  Renown? 

Thrones  tremble,  empires  sink,  or  worlds  expire. 

"  Let  George  the  just  chastise  the  vain : 

Thou !  who  dost  curb  the  rebel  main, 

To  mount  the  shore  when  boiling  billows  rave ! 


Bid  George  repel  a  bolder  tide, 

The  boundless  swell  of  Gallic  pride, 

And  check  Ambition's  overwhelming  wave. 

"  And  when  (all  milder  means  withstood) 

Ambition  tamed  by  loss  of  blood 

Regains  her  reason ;  then,  on  angels'  wings, 

Let  peace  descend,  and  shouting  greet, 

With  peals  of  joy,  Britannia's  fleet, 

How  richly  freighted  it  triumphant  brings 

The  poise  of  kingdoms  and  the  fate  of  kings." 


LMPERIUM  PELAGI. 

A  NAVAL  LYRIC. 

WRITTEN  IN  IMITATION  OF  PINDAR'S  SPIRIT. 

Occasioned  by  His  Majesty's  return  from  Hanover,  Sept.  1729, 
and  the  succeeding  Peace. 


Russia. 


t  Aurora  Borealis. 


Monte  decurrens  velut  amnis,  imbres 
Quern  super  not  as  aluere  ripas, 
Fervet,  immensusque  ruit  profundo 
Pindarus  ore.  ' 

Conchies  Itetosque  dies,  et  urbis 
Publicum  Indum,  super  impetrato 
Fortis  Augusti  reditu.  HOT. 

PREFACE. 

A  PINDARIC  carries  a  formidable  sound;  but 
;here  is  nothing  formidable  in  the  true  nature  of 
it,  of  which  (with  utmost  submission)  I  conceive 
;he  critics  have  hitherto  entertained  a  false  idea. 
Pindar  is  as  natural  as  Anacreon,  though  not  so 
familiar ;  as  a  fixed  star  is  as  much  in  the  bounds 
of  nature  as  a  flower  of  the  field,  though  less  ob- 
vious, and  of  greater  dignity.  This  is  not  the  re- 
ceived notion  of  Pindar :  I  shall  therefore  soon  sup- 
port at  large  the  hint  which  is  now  given. 

Trade  is  a  very  noble  subject  in  itself,  more  pro- 
per than  any  for  an  Englishman,  and  particularly 
seasonable  at  this  juncture. 

We  have  more  specimens  of  good  writing  in 
every  province  than  in  the  sublime,  our  two 
famous  epic  poems  excepted.  I  was  willing  to 
make  an  attempt  where  I  had  the  fewest  rivals. 

If,  on  reading  this  Ode,  any  man  has  a  fuller 
idea  of  the  real  interest,  or  possible  glory  of  his 
country  than  before,  or  a  stronger  impression  from 
it,  or  a  warmer  concern  for  it,  I  give  up  to  the 
critic  any  further  reputation. 

We  have  many  copies  and  translations  that  pass 
for  originals.  This  Ode,  I  humbly  conceive,  is  an 
original,  though  it  professes  imitation.  No  man 
can  be  like  Pindar,  by  imitating  any  of  his  par- 
ticular works,  any  more  than  like  Raphael,  by 
copying  the  Cartoons.  The  genius  and  spirit  of 
such  great  men  must  be  collected  from  the  whole; 
and  when  thus  we  are  possessed  of  it,  we  mustex- 
ert  its  energy  in  subjects  and  designs  of  our  own. 


ODES. 


151 


Nothing  is  so  unpindarical  as  following  Pindar  on 
the  foot.  Pindar  is  an  original ;  and  he  must  be  so 
too  who  would  be  like  Pindar  in  that  which  is  his 
greatest  praise.  Nothing  so  unlike  as  a  close  copy 
and  a  noble  original. 

As  for  length,  Pindar  has  an  unbroken  ode  of 
six  hundred  linrs.  Nothing  is  long  or  short  in 
writing,  but  relatively  to  the  demand  of  the  sub- 
ject, and  the  manner  of  treating  it.  A  distich 
may  be  long,  and  a  folio  short.  However,  I  have 
broken  this  Ode  into  strains,  each  of  which  may 
be  considered  as  a  separate  ode,  if  you  please.  And 
if  the  variety  and  fulness  of  matter  be  considered, 
I  am  rather  apprehensive  of  danger  from  brevity 
in  this  Ode,  than  from  length.  But  lank  writing 
is  what  I  think  ought  most  to  be  declined,  if  for 
nothing  else,  for  our  plenty  of  it. 

The  Ode  is  the  most  spirited  kind  of  poetry, 
and  the  Pindaric  is  the  most  spirited  kind  of  ode. 
This  1  speak  at  my  own  very  great  peril;  but 
truth  has  an  eternal  title  to  our  confession,  though 
we  are  sure  to  suffer  by  it. 

THE  MERCHANT. 
AN  ODE. 

ON   THE    BRITISH   TRADE   AND   NAVIGATION. 

To  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Chandoe. 
PRELUDE. 

CONTENTS. 

The  Proposition.  An  Address  to  the  Vessel  that  brought 
over  the  King.  Who  should  sing  on  this  occasion.  Pindaric 
boast 

FAST  by  the  surge  my  limbs  are  spread, 

The  naval  oak  nods  o'er  my  head, 

The  winds  are  loud,  the  waves  tumultuous  roll ; 

Ye  winds !  indulge  your  rage  no  more ; 

Ye  sounding  billows !  cease  to  roar: 

The  god  descends,  and  transports  warm  my  souL 

The  waves  are  hushed,  the  winds  are  spent ; 
This  kingdom,  from  the  kingdoms  rent, 
I  celebrate  in  song.     Famed  Isle !  no  less, 

tare's  favour,  from  mankind, 
Than  by  the  foaming  sea  disjoined ; 
Alone  in  bliss:  an  isle  in  happiness! 

Though  Fate  and  Time  have  damped  my  strains, 
Though  youth  no  longer  fires  my  veins, 
Though  slow  their  streams  in  this  cold  climate  run, 
The  royal  eye  dispels  my  cares, 
Recalls  the  warmth  of  blooming  years ; 
Returning  George  supplies  the  distant  sun. 

Away,  my  Soul!  salute  the  Pine,* 
That  glads  the  heart  of  Caroline, 

'  The  vessel  in  which  the  King  came  orer. 


Its  grand  deposit  faithful  to  restore  ! 

Salute  the  bark  that  ne'er  shall  hold 

So  rich  a  freight  in  gems  or  gold, 

And  loaded  from*bQth  Indies  would  be  poor. 

My  soul !  to  thee  she  spreads  her  sails ! 
Their  bosoms  fill  with  sacred  gales ; 
With*  inspiration  from  the  Godhead  warm ; 
Now  bound  for  an  eternal  clime, 

0  send  her  down  the  tide  of  Time, 
Snatched  from  oblivion,  and  secure  from  storm. 

Or  teach  this  flag  like  that  to  soar, 
Which  gods  of  old  and  heroes  bore ; 
Bid  her  a  British  constellation  rise — 
The  sea  she  scorns;  and  now  shall  bound 
On  lofty  billows  of  sweet  sound : 

1  am  her  pilot,  and  her  port  the  skies ! 

Dare  you  to  sing,  ye  tinkling  Train ! 
Silence,  ye  Wretched !  ye  Profane ! 
Who  shackle  prose,  and  boast  of  absent  gods; 
Who  murder  thought,  and  numbers  maim, 
Who  write  Pindarics  cold  and  lame, 
And  labour  stiff  Anacreontic  odes. 

Ye  lawful  sons  of  Genius,  rise ! 

Of  genuine  title  to  the  skies; 

Ye  founts  of  learning !  and  ye  mints  of  Fame ! 

You  who  file  off  the  mortal  part 

Of  glowing  thought  with  Atticart, 

And  drink  pure  song  from  Cam's  or  Isis'  stream. 

I  glow,  Lburn!  the  numbers  pure, 

High-flavoured,  deh'cate,  mature, 

Spontaneous  stream  from  my  unlaboured  breast ; 

As  when  full-ripened  teems  the  vine, 

The  generous  bursts  of  willing  wine 

Distil  nectareous  from  the  grape  impressed. 


STRAIN  I. 

CONTENTS. 

How  the  King  attended.  A  prospect  of  happiness.  Indus- 
try. A  surprising  instance  of  it  in  Old  Rome.  The  mischief 
of  sloth.  What  happiness  is.  Sloth  its  greatest  enemy.  Trade 
natural  to  Britain.  Trade  invoked.  Described.  Wliat  the 
greatest  human  excellence.  The  praise  of  wealth.  Its  use, 
abuse,  end.  The  variety  of  Nature.  The  final  moral  cause 
of  it.  The  benefit  of  man's  necessities.  Britain's  naval  stores. 
She  makes  all  nature  serviceable  to  her  ends.  Of  reason.  Its 
excellence.  How  we  should  form  our  estimate  of  things.  Rea- 
son's difficult  task.  Why  the  first  glory  her's.  Her  effects  in 
Old  Britain. 

"  OCR  monarch  comes !  nor  comes  alone." 
What  shining  forms  surround  his  throne, 
O  sun !  as  planets  thee.     To  my  loud  strain 
See  Peace,  by  Wisdom  led,  advance ; 

t  The  Grace,  the  Muse,  the  Season,  dance! 

!  And  Plenty  spreads  behind  her  flowing  train ! 


152 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


"  Our  monarch  comes !  nor  comes  alone !" 
New  glories  kindle  round  his  throne. 
The  visions  rise !  I  triumph  as 
By  Pindar  led,  I  turned  of  late 
The  volume  dark,  the  folds  of  Fate, 
And  now  am  present  to  the  future  blaze. 

By  George  and  Jove  it  is  decreed, 

The  mighthy  Months  in  pomp  proceed, 

Fair  daughters  of  the  Sun !— O  thou  divine, 

Blessed  Industry !  a  smiling  earth 

From  thee  alone  derives  its  birth : 

By  thee  the  ploughshare  and  its  master  shine. 

From  thee,  mast,  cable,  anchor,  oar, 

From  thee  the  cannon,  and  his  roar  ! 

On  oaks  nursed,  reared  by  thee,  wealth,  empire 

grows. 

O  golden  fruit !  oak  well  might  prove 
The  sacred  tree,  the  tree  of  Jove ; 
All  Jove  can  give  the  naval  oak  bestows. 

What  can  not  Industry  complete1? 
When  punic  war  first  flamed,  the  great, 
Bold,  active,  ardent  Roman  Fathers  meet : 
"  Fell  all  your  groves,"  a  Flamen  cries;* 
As  soon  they  fall,  as  soon  they  rise ; 
One  moon  a  forest,  and  the  next  a.  fleet. 

Is  sloth  indulgence  1  'tis  a  toil ; 

Enervates  man,  and  damns  the  soil; 

Defeats  creation,  plunges  in  distress, 

Cankers  our  being ;  all  devours ; 

A  full  exertion  of  our  powers ! 

Thence,  and  thence  only,  glows  our  happiness. 

The  stream  may  stagnate,  yet  be  clear, 

The  sun  suspend  his  swift  career, 

Yet  healthy  Nature  feel  her  wonted  force ; 

Ere  man  his  active  springs  resigned, 

Can  rust  in  body  and  in  mind, 

Yet  taste  of  bliss,  of  which  he  chokes  the  source. 

Where,  Industry!  thy  daughter  fair  1 

Recall  her  to  her  native  air  : 

Here  was  Trade  born,  here  bred,  here  flourished 

long; 

And  ever  shall  she  flourish  here : 
What  though  she  languished  1  'twas  but  fear; 
She 's  sound  of  heart ;  her  constitution 's  strong. 

Wake,  sting  her  up.     Trade!  lean.no  more 
On  thy  fixed  anchor ;  push  from  shore ; 
Earth  lies  before  thee,  every  climate  court. 
And  see!  she's  roused;  absolved  from  fears, 
Her  brow  in  cloudless  azure  rears, 
Spreads  all  her  sail,  and  opens  every  port. 


L.  Floras. 


See  cherished  by  her  sister,  Peace, 
She  levies  gain  on  every  place, 
Religion,  habit,  custom,  tongue,  and  name  ! 
Again  she  travels  with  the  sun, 
Again  she  draws  the  golden  zone, 
Round  earth  and  main ;  bright  zone  of  wealth  and 
fame. 

Ten  thousand  active  hands,  that  hung 

In  shameful  sloth,  with  nerves  unstrung, 

The  nation's  languid  load,  defy  the  storms, 

The  sheets  unfurl,  and  anchors  weigh, 

The  long  moored  vessel  wings  to  sea. 

Worlds  worlds  salute,  and  peopled  ocean  swarms. 

His  sons,  Po,  Ganges,  Danube,  Nile, 
Their  sedgy  foreheads  lift  and  smile; 
Their  urns  inverted,  prodigally  pour 
Streams  charged  with  wealth,  and  vow  to  buy 
Britannia  for  their  great  ally, 
With  climes  paid  down.     What  can  the  gods  do 
more  1 

Cold  Russia  costly  furs,  from  far, 

Hot  China  sends  her  painted  jar, 

France  generous  wines  to  crown  it,  Arab  sweet, 

With  gales  of  incense  swells  our  sails, 

Nor  distant  Ind  our  merchant  fails. 

Her  richest  ore  the  ballast  of  our  fleet. 

Luxuriant  isle !  what  tide  that  flows, 

Or  stream  that  glides,  or  wind  that  blows, 

Or  genial  sun  that  shines,  or  shower  that  pours, 

But  flows,  glides,  breathes,  shines,  pours,  for  thee  7 

How  every  heart  dilates  to  see 

Each  land's  each  season  blending  on  thy  shores ! 

All  these  one  British  harvest  make? 

The  servant  Ocean,  for  thy  sake, 

Both  sinks  and  swells ;  his  arms  thy  bosom  wrap, 

And  fondly  give,  in  boundless  dower, 

To  mighty  George's  growing  power, 

The  wafted  world  into  thy  loaded  lap. 

Commerce  brings  riches,  riches  crown 

Fair  virtue  with  the  first  renown ; 

A  large  revenue,  and  a  large  expense, 

When  hearts  for  others'  welfare  glow, 

And  spend  as  free  as  gods  bestow, 

Gives  the  full  bloom  to  mortal  excellence. 

Glow,  then,  my  breast!  abound,  my  store; 

This,  and  this  boldly,  I  implore: 

Their  want  and  apathy  let  Stoics  boast; 

Passion  and  riches,  good  or  ill, 

As  used  by  man  demand  our  skill; 

All  blessings  wound  us  when  discretion's  lost. 

Wealth,  in  the  virtuous  and  the  wise, 

'Tis  vice  and  folly  to  despise: 

Let  those  in  praise  of  poverty  refine, 

Whose  heads  or  hearts  pervert  its  use, 

The  narrow  souled  or  the  profuse ! 

The  truly  great  find  morals  in  the  mine. 


DDES. 


153 


Happy  the  man !  who,  large  of  heart, 

Has  learnt  the  rare,  illustrious  art 

Of  being  rich :  stores  starve  us,  or  they  cloy, 

From  gold  if  more  than  chymic  skill 

Extract  not  what  is  brighter  still  : 

'Tis  hard  to  gain,  much  harder  to  enjoy. 

Plenty's  a  means,  and  joy  her  end : 

Exalted  minds  their  joys  extend. 

A  Chandos  shines  when  others'  joys  are  done  ; 

As  lofty  turrets,  by  their  height, 

When  humbler  scenes  resign  their  light, 

Retain  the  rays  of  the  declining  sun. 

Pregnant  with  blessings,  Britain !  swear, 

No  sordid  son  of  thine  shall  dare 

Offend  the  donor  of  thy  wealth  and  peace ; 

Who  now  his  whole  creation  drains 

To  pour  into  thy  tumid  veins 

That  blood  of  nations,  commerce  and  increase. 

How  various  Nature!  turgid  grain 

Here  nodding,  floats  the  golden  plain; 

There  worms  weave  silken  webs,  here  glowing 

vines 

Lay  forth  their  purple  to  the  sun : 
Beneath  the  soil  there  harvests  run, 
And  king's  revenues  ripen  in  the  mines. 

What's  various  Nature  1  art  divine, 
Man's  soul  to  soften  and  refine; 
Heaven  different  growths  to  different  lands  im- 
parts, 

That  all  may  stand  in  need  of  all, 
And  interest  draw  around  the  ball 
A  net  to  catch  and  join  all  human  hearts. 

Thus  has  the  great  Creator's  pen, 

His  law  supreme  to  mortal  men, 

In  their  necessities  distinctly  writ ; 

E'en  appetite  supplies  the  place 

Of  absent  virtue,  absent  grace, 

And  human  want  performs  for  human  wit. 

Vast  naval  ensigns  strowed  around, 

The  wondering  foreigner  confound ; 

How  stands  the  deep-awed  continent  aghast, 

As  her  proud  sceptred  sons  survey, 

At  every  port,  on  every  quay, 

Huge  mountains  rise,  of  cable,  anchor,  mast! 

The  unwieldedtun!  the  ponderous  bale! 

Each  prince  his  own  clime  set  to  sale 

Sees  here,  by  subjects  of  a  British  king. 

How  earth's  abridged!  all  nations  range 

A  narrow-spot !  our  thronged  Exchange, 

And  send  the  streams  of  plenty  from  their  spring. 

Nor  earth  alone,  all  nature  bends 

To  aid  in  Britain's  glorious  ends. 

Toils  she  in  trade 7  or  bleeds  in  honest  wars  ? 

Her  keel  each  yielding  sea  inthrals, 

Each  willing  wind  her  canvass  calls ; 

Her  pilot  into  service  lists  the  stars. 


In  size  confined,  and  humbly  made, 
What  though  we  creep  beneath  the  shade, 
And  seem  as  emmets  on  this  point  the  ball  1 
Heaven  lighted  up  the  human  soul, 
Heaven  bid  its  rays  transpierce  the  whole, 
And,  giving  godlike  reason,  gave  us  all. 

Thou  golden  chain  'twixt  God  and  men, 
Blessed  Reason !  guide  my  life  and  pen ; 
All  ills,  like  ghosts,  fly  trembling  at  thy  light, 
Who  thee  obeys  reigns  over  all ; 
Smiles,  though  the  stars  around  him  fall ; 
A  God  is  nought  but  reason  infinite. 

The  man  of  reason  is  a  god, 

Who  scorns  to  stoop  to  Fortune's  nod ; 

Sole  agent  he  beneath  the  shining  sphere. 

Others  are  passive,  are  impelled, 

Are  frightened,  flattered,  sunk,  or  swelled, 

As  Accident  is  pleased  to  domineer. 

Our  hopes  and  fears  are  much  to  blame ; 

Shall  monarchs  awe1?  or  crowns  inflame  1 

From  gross  mistake  our  idle  tumult  springs: 

Those  men  the  silly  world  disarm, 

Elude  the  dart,  dissolve  the  charm, 

Who  know  the  slender  worth  of  men  and  things. 

The  present  object,  present  day, 

Are  idle  phantoms,  and  away : 

What's  lasting,  only  does  exist.     Know  this, 

Life,  fame,  friends,  freedom,  empire,  all; 

Peace,  commerce,  freedom,  nobly  fall, 

To  launch  us  on  the  flood  of  endless  bliss. 

How  foreign  these,  though  most  in  view ! 

Go,  look  your  whole  existence  through, 

Thence  form  your  rule ;  thence  fix  your  estimate ; 

For  so  the  gods.     But  as  the  gains, 

How  great  the  toil  7  'twill  cost  more  pains 

To  vanquish  folly  than  reduce  a  state. 

Hence,  Reason !  the  first  palm  is  thine ; 

Old  Britain  learnt  from  thee  to  shine : 

By  thee,  Trade's  swarming  throng,  gay  Freedom's 

smile, 

Armies,  in  war  of  fatal  frown, 
Of  Peace  the  pride,  Arts  flowing  down, 
Enrich,  exalt,  defend,  instruct  our  isle. 

STRAIN  II. 


CONTENTS. 

Arts  from  commerce.  Why  Britain  should  pursue  it. 
What  wealth  includes.  An  historical  digression,  which  kind 
is  most  frequent  in  Pindar.  The  wealth  and  wonderful  glory 
of  Tyre.  The  approach  of  her  ruin.  The  cause  of  it.  Her 
crimes  through  all  ranks  and  orders.  Her  miserable  fall.  The 
neighbouring  kings'  just  reflection  on  it.  An  awful  image  of 
the  Divine  power  and  vengeance.  From  what  Tyre  fell,  and 
how  deep  her  calamity. 

OMMERCE  gives  arts  as  well  as  gain ; 
By  commerce  wafted  o'er  the  main, 


154 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


They  barbarous  climes  enlighten  as  they  run ; 

Arts,  the  rich  traffic  of  the  soul ! 

May  travel  thus  from  pole  to  pole, 

And  gild  the  world  with  learning's  brighter  sun. 

Commerce  gives  learning,  virtue,  gold ! 
Ply  Commerce  then  ye  Britons  bold, 
Inured  to  winds  and  seas  !  lest  gods  repent : 
The  gods  that  throned  you  in  the  wave, 
And,  as  the  trident's  emblem,  gave 
A  triple  realm  that  awes  the  continent: 

And  awes  with  wealth :  for  wealth  is  power : 
When  Jove  descends,  a  golden  shower, 

'Tis  navies,  armies,  empire,  all  in  one 

View,  emulate,  outshine  old  Tyre ; 
In  scarlet  robed,  with  gems  on  fire, 
Her  Merchants  princes !  every  deck  a  throne ! 

She  sat  an  empress !  awed  the  flood ! 

Her  stable  column  Ocean  trod ; 

She  called  the  nations,  and  she  called  the  seas, 

By  both  obeyed ;  the  Syrian  sings ; 

The  Cyprian's  art  her  viol  strings ; 

Togarmah's  steed  along  her  valley  neighs. 

The  fir  of  Senir  makes  her  floor, 

And  Bashan's  oak,  transformed,  her  oar ; 

High  Lebanon  her  mast ;  far  Dedan  warms 

Her  mantled  host ;  Arabia  feeds ; 

Her  sail  of  purple  Egypt  spreads ; 

Arvad  sends  mariners ;  the  Persian  arms. 

The  world's  last  limit  bounds  her  fame, 
The  Golden  City  was  her  name ! 
Those  stars  on  earth,  the  topaz,  onyx,  blaze 
Beneath  her  foot.     Extent  of  coast, 
And  rich  as  Nile's  let  others  boast, 
Her's  the  far  noblest  harvest  of  the  seas. 

O  merchant  land !  as  Eden  fair ! 

Ancient  of  empires !  Nature's  care ! 

The  strength  of  Ocean !  head  of  Plenty's  springs! 

The  pride  of  isles,  in  wars  revered ! 

Mother  of  crafts !  loved !  courted  !  feared ! 

Pilot  of  kingdoms !  and  support  of  kings !  . 

Great  mart  of  nations ! — but  she  fell : 

Her  pampered  sons  revolt !  rebel ! 

Against  his  favourite  isle  loud  roars  the  Main ! 

The  tempest  howls,  her  sculptured  dome 

Soon  the  wolf's  refuge,  dragon's  home ! 

The  land  one  altar !  a  whole  people  slain ! 

The  -destined  Day  puts  on  her  frown ; 

The  sable  Hour  is  coming  down  ; 

She's  on  her  march  from  yon  almighty  throne  : 

The  sword  and  storm  are  in  her  hand ; 

She  trumpets  shrill  her  dread  command : 

Dark  be  the  light  of  earth,  the  boast  unknown ! 

For,  oh !  her  sins,  as  red  as  blood, 
As  crimson  deep  outcry  the  flood  : 


The  dueen  of  Trade  is  bought,  once  wise  and  just; 

How  venal  is  her  council's  tongue : 

How  riot,  violence,  and  wrong, 

Turn  gold  to  dross,  her  blossom  into  dust ! 

To  things  inglorious,  far  beneath 

Those  high-born  souls  they  proudly  breathe 

Her  sordid  nobles  sink !  her  mighty  bow ! 

Is"  it  for  this  the  groves  around 

Return  the  tabret's  sprightly  sound  1 

[s  it  for  this  her  great  ones  toss  the  brow  1 

What  burning  feuds  'twixt  brothers  reign  1 
To  nuptials  cold  how  glows  the  vein, 

onfounding  kindred,  and  misleading  right  ? 
The  spurious  lord  it  o'er  the  land, 
Bold  Blasphemy  dares  make  a  stand, 
Assault  the  sky,  and  brandish  all  her  might ! 

Tyre's  artisan,  sweet  orator, 

Her  merchant,  sage,  big  man  of  war, 

Her  judge,  her  prophet,  nay,  her  hoary  heads, 

Whose  brows  with  wisdom  should  be  crowned,  s 

Her  very  priests  in  guilt  abound : 

Hence  the  world's  cedar  all  her  honours  sheds. 

What  dearth  of  truth,  what  thirst  of  gold  ! 
Chiefs  warm  in  peace,  in  battle  cold ! 
What  youth  unlettered !  base  ones  lifted  high ! 
What  public  boasts !  what  private  views! 
What  desert  temples !  crowded  stews ! 
What  women — practised  but  to  roll  an  eye ! 

O !  foul  of  heart,  her  fairest  dames 

Decline  the  sun's  intruding  beams, 

To  mad  the  midnight  in  their  gloomy  haunts. 

Alas !  there  is  who  sees  them  there ; 

There  is  who  flatters  not  the  fair, 

When  cymbals  tinkle,  and  the  virgin  chants. 

He  sees,  and  thunders ! — Now  in  vain 

The  courser  paws  and  foams  the  rein, 

And  chariots  stream  along  the  printed  soil : 

In  vain  her  high  presumptuous  air, 

In  gorgeous  vestments,  rich  and  rare, 

O'er  her  proud  shoulder  throws  the  poor  man's  toil 

In  robes  or  gems,  her  costly  strain, 

Green,  scarlet,  azure,  shine  in  vain ! 

In  vain  their  golden  heads  her  turrets  rear ; 

In  vain  high-flavoured,  foreign  fruits, 

Sidonian  oils,  and  Lydian  lutes, 

Glide  o'er  her  tongue,  and  melt  upon  her  ear. 

In  vain  wine  flows  in  various  streams, 
With  helm  and  spear  each  pillar  gleams ; 
Damascus,  vain !  unfolds  the  glossy  store, 
The  golden  wedge  from  Ophir's  coasts, 
From  Arab  incense,  vain,  she  boasts ; 
Vain  are  her  gods,  and  vainly  men  adore. 

Bell  falls !  the  mighty  Nebo  bends  ! 
The  nations  hiss  !  her  glory  ends ! 


ODES. 


155 


To  ships,  her  confidence !  she  flies  from  foes ; 
Foes  meet  her  there :  the  wind,  the  wave, 
That  once  aid.  strength,  and  grandeur  gave, 
Plunge  her  in  seas  from  which  her  glory  rose. 

Her  ivory  deck,  embroidered  sail, 

And  mast  of  cedar,  nought  avail, 

Or  pilot  learned  !  she  sinks,  nor  sinks  alone ! 

Her  gods  sink  with  her !  to  the  sky, 

Which  never  more  shall  meet  her  eye, 

She  sends  her  soul  out  in  one  dreadful  groan. 

What  though  so  vast  her  naval  might, 

In  her  first  dawned  the  British  right, 

All  flags  abased  her  sea-dominion  greet.* 

What  though  she  longer  warred  than  Troy  ? 

At  length  her  foes  that  isle  destroy. 

Whose  conquest  sailed  as  far  as  sailed  her  fleet. 

The  kings  she  clothed  in  purple,  shake 
Their  awful  brows :  "  O  foul  mistake ! 
O  fatal  pride !"  they  cry,  "  this,  this  is  she 
Who  said — With  my  own  art  and  arm 
In  the  world's  wealth  I  wrap  me  warm — 
And  swelled  at  heart  vain  empress  of  the  sea ! 

"  This,  this  is  she  who  meanly  soared : 

Alas !  how  low  to  be  adored, 

And  style  herself  a  god  I—Through  stormy  wara 

This  eagle-isle  her  thunder  bore, 

High-fed  her  young  with  human  gore, 

And  would  have  built  her  nest  among  the  stars. 

"  But  ah,  frail  man !  how  impotent 

To  stand  heaven's  vengeance,  or  prevent ! 

To  turn  aside  the  great  Creator's  aim ! 

Shall  island  kings  with  him  contend, 

Who  makes  the  poles  beneath  him  bend, 

And  shall  drink  up  the  sea  herself  with  flame  7 

"  Earth,  ether,  empyreum,  bow, 

When  from  the  brazen  mountain's  brow, 

The  God  of  battles  takes  his  mighty  bow : 

Of  wrath  prepares  to  pour  the  flood, 

Puts  on  his  vesture  dipped  in  blood, 

And  marches  out  to  scourge  the  world  below. 

"  Ah  wretched  isle,  once  called  the  great ! 
Ah  wretched  isle !  and  wise  too  late ! 
The  vengeance  of  Jehovah  is  gone  out ; 
Thy  luxury,  corruption,  pride, 
And,  freedom  lost,  the  realms  deride ; 
Adored  thee  standing ;  o'er  thy  ruins  shout : 

"  To  scourge  with  war,  or  peace  bestow, 
Was  thine,  O  fallen  !  fallen  low ! 
'Twas  thine  of  jarring  thrones  to  still  debate: 
How  art  thou  fallen,  down,  down,  down ! 
Wide  Waste,  and  Night,  and  Horror  frown, 
Where  Empire  flamed  in  gold,  and  balanced  states.' 


•Q-Cunia. 


STRAIN  III. 


CONTENTS. 

An  inference  from  this  history.  Advice  to  Britain.  More 
proper  to  her  than  other  nations.  How  far  the  stroke  of  ty- 
ranny reaches.  What  supports  our  endeavours.  The  uncon- 
sidered  benefits  of  liberty.  Britain's  obligation  to  pursue 
trade.  Why  above  half  the  globe  is  sea.  Britain's  grandeur 
rom  her  situation.  The  winds,  the  seas,  the  constellations, 
described.  Sir  Isaac  Newton's  praise.  Britain  compared  with 
other  states.  The  leviathan  described.  Britain's  site  and  an- 
cient title  to  the  seas.  Who  rivals  her.  Of  Venice.  Holland. 
Some  despise  trade  as  mean ;  censured  for  it.  Trade's  glory. 
The  late  Czar.  Solomon.  A  surprising  instance  of  magnifi- 
cence. The  merchant's  dignity.  Compared  with  men  of 


HENCE  learn,  as  hearts  are  foul  or  pure, 

Our  fortunes  wither  or  endure : 

Nations  may  thrive  or  perish  by  the  wave. 

What  storms  from  Jove's  unwilling  frown, 

A  people's  crimes  solicit  down ! 

Ocean 's  the  womb  of  riches  and  the  grave. 

This  truth,  O  Britain !  ponder  well : 

Virtues  should  rise  as  fortunes  swell. 

What  is  large  property'? — the  sign  of  good, 

Of  worth  superior :  if  'tis  less, 

Another's  treasure  we  possess, 

And  charge  the  gods  with  favours  misbestowed. 

This  counsel  suits  Britannia's  isle, 
High-flushed  with  wealth  and  Freedom's  smile : 
To  vassals  prisoned  in  the  continent, 
Who  starve  at  home  on  meagre  toil, 
And  suck  to  death  their  mother  soil, 
'Twere  useless  caution,  and  a  truth  mispent. 

Fell  tyrants  strike  beyond  the  bone, 

And  wound  the  soul ;  bow  genius  down, 

Lay  virtue  waste !  For  worth  or  arts  who  strain, 

To  throw  them  at  a  monster's  foot  7 

JTis  property  supports  pursuit. 

Freedom  gives  eloquence,  and  freedom  gain. 

She  pours  the  thought,  and  forms  the  style ; 

She  makes  the  blood  and  spirits  boil : 

I  feel  her  now !  and  rouse,  and  rise,  and  rave 

In  Theban  song.     O  Muse !  not  thine, 

Verse  is  gay  Freedom's  gift  divine ; 

The  man  that  can  think  greatly  is  no  slave. 

Others  may  traffic  if  they  please ; 

Britain,  fair  daughter  of  the  seas, 

Is  born  for  trade,  to  plough  her  field,  the  wave, 

And  reap  the  growth  of  every  coast : 

A  speck  of  land !  but  let  her  boast 

Gods  gave  the  world,  when  they  the  waters  gave. 

Britain !  behold  the  world's  wide  face ; 

Nor  covered  half  with  solid  space, 

Three  parts  are  fluid.     Empire  of  the  sea ! 


156 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


And  why  1  for  commerce.     Ocean  streams 
For  that,  through  all  his  various  names ; 
And  if  for  commerce,  Ocean  flows  for  thee. 

Britain,  like  some  great  potentate 

Of  Eastern  clime,  retires  in  state, 

Shuts  out  the  nations !  Would  a  prince  draw  nigh? 

He  passes  her  strong  guards,  the  waves, 

Of  servant  winds  admission  craves, 

Her  empire  has  no  neighbour  but  the  sky. 

There  are  her  friends ;  soft  Zephyr  there, 

Keen  Eurus,  Notus  never  fair, 

Rough  Boreas  bursting  from  the  pole  j  all  urge, 

And  urge  for  her,  their  various  toil ; 

The  Caspian,  the  broad  Baltic  boil, 

And  into  life  the  dead  Pacific  scourge. 

There  are  her  friends,  a  marshalled  train ! 
A  golden  host !  and  azure  plain ! 
By  turns  do  duty,  and  by  turns  retreat ; 
They  may  retreat,  but  not  from  her ; 
The  stars  that  quit  this  hemisphere, 
Must  quit  the  skies  to  want  a  British  fleet. 

Hyad,  for  her,  leans  o'er  her  urn ; 

For  her  Orion's  glories  burn, 

The  Pleiads  gleam.    For  Britons  set  and  rise    j 

The  fair  faced  sons  of  Mazaroth, 

Near  the  deep  chambers  of  the  South, 

The  raging  dog  that  fires  the  midnight  skies.      : 

These  nations  Newton  made  his  own ; 

All  intimate  with  him  alone, 

His  mighty  soul  did,  like  a  giant,  run 

To  the  vast  volume's  closing  star ; 

Deciphered  every  character : 

His  reason  poured  new  light  upon  the  sun. 

Let  the  proud  brothers  of  the  land 
Smile  at  our  rock  and  barren  strand ; 
Not  such  the  sea ;  let  Fohe's  ancient  line 
Vast  tracks  and  ample  beings  vaunt ! 
The  camel  low,  small  elephant ; 
O  Britain !  the  leviathan  is  thine. 

Leviathan  !  whom  Nature's  strife 

Brought  forth  her  largest  piece  of  life ! 

He  sleeps  an  isle !  his  sports  the  billows  warm! 

Dreadful  Leviathan !  thy  spout 

Invades  the  skies ;  the  stars  are  out : 

He  drinks  a  river,  and  ejects  a  storm. 

The  Atlantic  surge  around  our  shore, 
German  and  Caledonian  roar ; 
Their  mighty  Genii  hold  us  in  their  lap. — 
Hear  Egbert,  Edgar,  Ethelred ; 
"The  seas  are  ours," — the  monarchs  said — 
The  floods  their  hands,  their  hands  the  nations, 
clap. 


Whence  is  a  rival  then  to  rise  1 

Can  he  be  found  beneath  the  skies  7 

No,  there  they  dwell  that  can  give  Britain  fear: 

The  powers  of  earth,  by  rival  aim, 

Her  grandeur  but  the  more  proclaim, 

And  prove  their  distance  most  as  they  draw  near. 

Proud  Venice  sits  amid  the  waves, 

Her  foot  ambitious  Ocean  laves ; 

Art's  noblest  boast !  but,  O  !  what  wondrous  odds 

'Twixt  Venice  and  Britannia's  isle? 

'Twixt  mortal  and  immortal  toil? 

Britannia  is  a  Venice  built  by  gods. 

Let  Holland  triumph  o'er  her  foes, 
But  not  o'er  friends  by  whom  she  rose ; 
The  child  of  Britain!  and  shall  she  contend  1 

It  were  no  less  than  parricide 

What  wonders  rise  from  out  the  tide! 
Her  High  and  Mighty  to  the  rudder  bend. 

And  are  there,  then,  of  lofty  brow, 
Who  think  trade  mean,  and  scorn  to  bow 
So  far  beneath  the  state  of  noble  birth  1 
Alas !  these  chiefs  but  little  know 
Commerce  how  high,  themselves  how  low, 
The  sons  of  nobles  are  the  sons  of  earth. 

And  what  have  earth's  mean  sons  to  do 
But  reap  her  fruits,  and  warm  pursue 
The  world's  chief  good,  not  glut  on  others'  toil  1 
High  Commerce  from  the  gods  came  down, 
With  compass,  chart,  and  starry  crown, 
Their  delegate  to  make  the  nations  smile. 

Blush,  and  behold  the  Russian  bow ; 

From  forty  crowns  his  mighty  brow 

To  trade — to  toil  he  turns  his  glorious  handj 

That  arm  which  swept  the  bloody  field, 

See !  the  huge  axe  or  hammer  wield, 

While  sceptres  wait,  and  thrones  impatient  stand. 

O  shame  to  subjects !  first  renown, 

Matchless  example  to  the  crown ! 

Old  Time  is  poor ;  what  age  boasts  such  a  sight  1 

He  drones !  adore  the  man  divine — 

No ;  virtue  still  as  mean  decline ; 

Call  Russians  barb'rous  and  yourselves  polite. 

He,  too,  of  Judah,  great  as  wise, 

With  Hiram  strove  in  merchandise; 

Monarchs  with  monarchs  struggle  for  an  oar ! 

That  Merchant  sinking  to  his  grave, 

A  flood  of  treasure  swells  the  cave  ; 

The  king  left  much,  the  merchant  buried  more.* 


Vast  treasure  taken  from  Solomon's  tomb  thirteen  hun- 
dred years  after  his  death,  three  thousand  talents  at  one  time, 
and  an  immense  sum  the  next. 


ODES. 


157 


Is  Merchant  an  inglorious  name  1 

No ;  fit  for  Pindar  such  a  theme, 

Too  great  for  me ;  I  pant  beneath  the  weight ! 

If  loud  as  Ocean's  were  my  voice, 

If  words  and  thoughts  to  court  my  choice 

Outnumbered  sands,  I  could  not  reach  its  height. 

Merchants  o'er  proudest  heroes  reign ; 
Those  trade  in  blessing,  these  in  pain, 
At  slaughter  swell,  and  shout  while  nations  groan : 
With  purple  monarchs  merchants  vie  : 
If  great  to  spend,  what  to  supply? 
Priests  pray  for  blessings,  merchants   pour  'em 
down. 

Kings  Merchants  are,  in  league,  and  love, 
Earth's  odours  pay  soft  airs  above, 
That  o'er  the  teeming  field  prolific  range. 
Planets  are  Merchants,  take,  return, 
Lustre  and  heat;  by  traffic  burn: 
The  whole  creation  is  one  vast  Exchange. 

Is  Merchant  an  inglorious  name? 

What  say  the  sons  of  lettered  Fame, 

Proud  of  their  volumes,  swelling  in  their  cells  ? 

In  open  liie,  in  change  of  scene, 

'Mid  various  manners,  throngs  of  men, 

Experience,  arts,  and  solid  wisdom  dwells. 

Trade,  Art's  mechanic,  Nature's  stores 
Well  weighs ;  to  starry  science  soars  : 
Reads  warm  in  life  (dead-coloured  by  the  pen) 
The  sites,  tongues,  interests,  of  the  ball : 
Who  studies  trade,  he  studies  all. 
Accomplished  Merchants  are  accomplished  men. 


STRAIN  IV. 

CONTENTS. 

Pindar  invoked.  His  praise.  Britain  should  decline  war, 
but  boldly  aasert  her  trade.  Encouraged  from  the  throne. 
Britain's  condition  without  trade.  Trade's  character,  and  sur- 
prising deeds.  Carthage.  Solomon's  temple.  St.  Paul's  Church. 
The  miser's  character.  The  wonderful  effects  of  trade.  Why 
religion  recommended  to  the  Merchant.  What  false  joy. 
What  true.  What  religion  is  to  the  Merchant.  Why  trade 
more  glorious  in  Britons  than  others.  How  warmly  and  how 
long  to  be  pursued  by  us.  The  Briton's  legacy.  Columbus. 
His  praise.  America  described  Worlds  still  unknown.  Queen 
King  George  H  His  glory  navally  represented 


How  shall  I  farther  rouse  the  soul ! 

How  Sloth's  lascivious  reign  control 

By  verse  with  unextinguished  ardour  wrought? 

How  every  breast  inflame  with  mine  1 

How  bid  my  theme  still  brighter  shine, 

With  wealth  of  words  and  unexhausted  thought? 

O  thou  Dirczean  swan  on  high, 

Round  whom  familiar  thunders  fly ! 

While  Jove  attends  a  language  like  his  own, 


Thy  spirit  pour  like  vernal  showers ; 
My  verse  shall  burst  out  with  the  flowers, 
While  Britain's  trade  advances  with  her  sun 

Though  Britain  was  not  born  to  fear, 

Grasp  not  at  bloody  fame  for  war ; 

Nor  war  decline,  if  thrones  your  right  invade : 

Jove  gathers  tempest  black  as  night ; 

Jove  pours  the  golden  flood  of  light : 

Let  Britain  thunder,  or  let  Britain  trade. 

Britain,  a  comet  or  a  star, 
In  commerce  this,  or  that  in  war ; 
Let  Britons  shout !  earth,  seas,  and  skies  resound! 
Commerce  to  kindle,  raise,  preserve,          ,   • 
And  spirit  dart  through  every  nerve, 
Hear  from  the  throne*  a  voice  through  time  re- 
nowned. 

So  fall  from  heaven  the  vernal  showers, 

To  cheer  the  glebe,  and  wake  the  flowers : 

The  bloom  called  forth,  sees  azure  skies  displayed : 

The  bird  of  voice  is  proud  to  sing, 

Industrious  bees  ply  every  wing, 

Distend  their  cells,  and  urge  their  golden  trade. 

Trade  once  extinguished,  Britain's  sun 

Is  gone  out  too ;  his  race  is  run ; 

He  shines  in  vain ;  her  isle 's  an  isle  indeed, 

A  spot  too  small  to  be  o'ercome : 

Ah,  dreadful  safety!  wretched  doom! 

No  foe  will  conquer  what  no  foe  can  feed. 

Trade 's  the  source,  sinew,  soul  of  all: 
Trade's  all  herself:  her's,  her's  the  ball: 
Where  most  unseen,  the  goddess  still  is  there. 
Trade  leads  the  dance,  Trade  lights  the  blaze; 
The  courtier's  pomp !  the  student's  ease ! 
'Twas  Trade  at  Blenheim  fought,  and  closed  the 


What  Rome  and  all  her  gods  defies  ? 

The  Punic  oar ;  behold  it  rise 

And  battle  for  the  world !  Trade  gave  the  call : 

Rich  cordials  from  his  naval  art 

Sent  the  strong  spirits  to  his  heart, 

That  bid  an  Afric  Merchant  grasp  the  ball. 

Where  is,  on  earth,  Jevovah's  home? 
Trade  marked  the  soil,  and  built  the  dome, 
In  which  his  majesty  first  deigned  to  dwell ; 
The  walls  with  silver  sheets"  o'erlaid, 
Rich  as  the  sun,  through  gold  unweighed, 
Bent  the  mooned  arch,  and  bid  the  column  swell. 

Grandeur  unknown  to  Solomon  !t 
Methinks  the  lab'ring  earth  should  groan 
Beneath  yon  load ;  created,  sure,  not  made ! 


•The  King's  Speech. 

1 SL  Paul's  built  by  the  coal-tax. 


158 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Servant  and  rival  of  the  skies ! 

Heaven's  arch  alone  can  higher  rise ; 

What  hand  immortal  raised  theel — Humble  Trade. 

Where  had'st  thou  been  if  left  at  large, 

Those  sinewy  arms  that  tugged  the  barge 

Had  caught  at  Pleasure  on  the  flowery  green  ? 

If  they  that  watched  the  midnight  star 

Had  swung  behind  the  rolling  car, 

Or  filled  it  with  disgrace,  where  had'st  thou  been  1 

As  by  repletion  men  consume, 

Abundance  is  the  miser's  doom. 

Expend  it  nobly ;  he  that  lets  it  rust, 

Which,  passing  numerous  hands,  would  shine ; 

Is  not  a  man,  but  living  mine, 

Foe  to  the  gods,  and  rival  to  the  dust. 

Trade  barbarous  lands  can  polish  fair, 
Make  earth  well  worth  the  wise  man's  care, 
Call  forth  her  forests,  charm  them  into  fleets : 
Can  make  one  house  of  human  race, 
Can  bid  the  distant  poles  embrace ; 
Her's  every  sun ;  and  India  India  meets. 

Trade  monarchs  crown,  and  arts  imports, 
With  bounty  feeds  with  laurel  courts ; 
Trade  gives  fair  Virtue  fairer  still  to  shine, 
Enacts  those  guards  of  gain,  the  laws, 
Exalts  e'en  Freedom's  glorious  cause: 
Trade,  warned  by  Tyre,  O  make  religion  thine ! 

You  lend  each  other  mutual  aid : 

Why  is  heaven's  smile  in  wealth  conveyed! 

Not  to  place  vice,  but  virtues,  in  our  power. 

Pleasure  declined  is  luxury, 

Boundless  in  time  and  in  degree ; 

Pleasure  enjoyed,  the  tumult  of  an  hour. 

False  joy  's  a  discomposing  thing, 

That  jars  on  Nature's  trembling  string, 

Tempests  the  spirits,  and  untunes  the  frame : 

True  joy  the  sunshine  of  the  soul, 

A  bright  serene  that  calms  the  whole, 

Which  they  ne'er  knew  whom  other  joys  inflame. 

Merchant !  religion  is  the  care 

To  grow  as  rich — as  angels  are ; 

To  know  false  coin  from  true;  to  sweep  the  main, 

The  mighty  stake  secure,  beyond 

The  strongest  tie  of  field  or  fund : 

Commerce  gives  gold,  religion  makes  it  gain. 

Join  then  religion  to  thy  store, 
Or  India's  mines  will  make  thee  poor. 
Greater  than  Tyre!  O  bear  a  nobler  mind, 
Sea  sovereign  isle !  proud  War  decline, 
Trade  patronize!  What  glory  thine, 
Ardent  to  bless,  who  could  subdue  mankind  1 

Rich  Commerce  ply,  with  warmth  divine, 
By  day,  by  night ;  the  stars  are  thine: 


Wear  out  the  stars  in  trade !  eternal  run 
From  age  to  age,  the  noble  glow, 
A  rage  to  gain  and  to  bestow : 
While  ages  last!  in  trade  burn  out  the  sun. 
Trade,  Britain's  all,  our  sires  sent  down, 
With  toil,  blood,  treasure,  ages  won: 
This  Edgar  great  bequeathed ;  this  Edward  bold ; 
Let  Forbisher's,  let  Raleigh's  fire! 
I  O  let  Columbus'  shade  inspire ! 
New  worlds  disclose,  with  Drake  surround  an  old. 
Columbus!  scare  inferior  fame 
For  thee  to  find,  than  heaven  to  frame, 
That  womb  of  gold  and  gem:*  her  wide  domain 
An  universe !  her  rivers  seas ! 
Her  fruits,  both  men  and  gods  to  please ! 
Heaven's  fairest  birth!  and  but  for  thee  in  vain. 

Worlds  still  unknown  deep  shadows  wrap; 
Call  wonders  forth  from  Nature's  lap; 
New  glory  pour  on  her  eternal  sire : 
O  noble  search !  O  glorious  care ! 
Are  you  not  Britons'?  why  despair? 
New  worlds  are  due  to  such  a  godlike  sire. 

Swear  by  the  great  Eliza's  soul, 

That  trade  as  long  as  waters  roll: 

Ah!  no;  the  gods  chastise  my  rash  decree: 

By  great  Eliza  do  not  swear; 

For  thee,  O  George!  the  gods  declare, 

And  thou  for  them!  late  time  shall  swear  by  thee. 

Truth,  bright  as  stars,  with  thee  prevails; 

Full  be  thy  fame  as  swelling  sails; 

Constant  as  tides,  thy  mind;  as  masts  elate; 

Thy  justice  an  unerring  helm, 

To  steer  Britannia's  fickle  realm; 

Thy  numerous  race  sure  anchor  of  her  state. 


STRAIN  V. 

CONTENTS. 

What  is  the  bound  -of  Britain's  power.  Beyond  that  of  the 
most  famed  in  history.  The  sign  Lyra.  What  the  constella- 
tions are.  Argo.  The  Whale.  The  Dolphin.  Eridamis. 
The  Lion.  Libra.  Virgo.  Berenice.  The  British  lady  cen- 
sured. The  Moon.  What  the  sea  is.  Apostrophe  to  the  Em- 
peror. The  Spanish  Armada.  How  Britain  should  speak 
her  resentment.  What  gives  power.  What  natives  do  in  war. 
The  Tartar.  Mogul.  Africa.  China.  Who  master  of  the 
world.  What  the  history  of  the  world  is.  The  genealogy  of 
Glory.  Mistakes  about  it.  Peace  the  Merchant's  harvest. 
Ships  of  divine  origin.  Merchants  ambassadors.  The  Briton's 
voyage.  Praise  the  food  of  Glory.  Britain's  record. 


BRITANNIA'S  state  what  bounds  confine! 
(Of  rising  thought!  O  golden  mine!) 
Mountains,  Alps,  streams,  gulfs,  oceans,  set  no 

bound ; 

She  sallies  till  she  strikes  the  star; 
Expanding  wide,  and  launching  far 
As  wind  can  fly,  or  rolling  wave  resound. 


*  Vide  Descriptions  of  America. 


ODES. 


159 


Small  isle !  for  Caesars,  for  the  son 

Of  Jove,  who  burst  from  Maccdon,  « 

For  gorgeous  Easterns  blazing  o'er  mankind, 

Then,  when  they  called  the  world  their  own, 

Not  equal  fame  from  fable  shown: 

They  rose  to  gods,  in  half  thy  sphere  confined. 

Here  no  demand  for  Fancy's  wing; 

Plain  Truth's  illustrious:  as  I  sing, 

Oh  hear  yon  spangled  harp  repeat  my  lay ! 

Yon  starry  Ivre  has  caught  the  sound, 

And  spreads  it  to  the  planets  round, 

Who  best  can  tell  where  ends  Britannia's  sway. 

The  skies  (fair  printed  page!)  unfold 

The  naval  fame  of  heroes  old, 

As  in  a  mirror  show  the  adventurous  throng. 

The  deeds  of  Grecian  mariners 

Are  read  by  gods,  are  writ  in  stars, 

And  noble  verse  that  shall  endure  as  long. 

The  skies  are  records  of  the  main ; 

Thence  Argo  listens  to  my  strain : 

Chiron  for  song  renowned,  his  noble  rage    • 

For  naval  fame  and  song  renews, 

As  Britain's  fame  he  hears  and  views; 

Chiron,  the  Shovel  of  a  former  age. 

The  Whale  (for  late  I  sung  his  praise) 

Pours  grateful  lustre  on  my  lays. 

How  smiles  Arion's*  friend  with  partial  beams'? 

Eridanus  would  flatter  too, 

But  jealousies  his  smiles  subdue; 

He  fears  a  British  rival  in  the  Thames. 

In  pride  the  lion  lifts  his  mane, 

To  see  his  British  brothers  reign 

As  stars  below;  the  Balance,  George !  from  thine. 

Which  weighs  the  nations,  learns  to  weigh 

More  accurate  the  night  and  day; 

From  thy  fair  daughters  Virgo 'learns  to  shine. 

Of  Britain's  courts,  ye  lesser  lights ! 
How  could  the  wise  men  gaze  whole  nights 
On  Richmond's  eye,  on  Berenice's  air? 
But,  oh!  you  practise  shameful  arts: 
Your  own  retain,  seize  others'  hearts; 
Pirates,  not  merchants,  are  the  British  fair. 

'Tis  truth  I  sing  by  Cynthia's  beam, 
Pale  Glueen!  be  flushed  at  Britain's  fame; 
And,  rolling,  tell  the  nations — o'er  the  main 
"  To  share  her  empire  is  thy  pride." 
He,  mighty  Power!  who  curbs  the  tide, 
Uncurbs,  extends,  throws  wide  Britannia's  reign. 

What  is  the  main,  ye  kings  renowned ! 
Britannia's  centre  and  your  bound  ? 
Austrian!  where'er  Leviathan  can  roll 
Is  Britain's  home !  and  Britain's  mine 
Where'er  the  ripening  sun  can  shine! 
Parts  are  for  emperors ;  for  her  the  whole. 

*  The  Dolphin. 


Why,  Austrian !  wilt  thou  hover  still 

On  doubtful  wing,  and  want  the  skill 

To  see  thy  welfare  in  the  world's  1  too  late 

Another  Churchill  thou  may'st  find, 

Another  Churchill  not  so  kind, 

And  other  Blenheims  big  with  other  fate. 

Ill  thou  remember'st  ill,  dost  own 

Who  rescued  an  ungrateful  throne; 

111  thou  consider'st  that  the  kind  are  brave ; 

111  thou  dost  weigh  that  in  Time's  womb 

A  day  may  sleep,  a  day  of  doom, 

As  great  to  ruin  as  was  that  to  save. 

How  would'st  thou  smile  to  hear  my  strain, 
Whose  boasted  inspiration's  vain  1 
Yet  what  if  my  prediction  should  prove  true  7 
Know'st  thou 'the  fatal  pair  who  shine 
O'er  Britain's  trading  empire !  thine 
As  one  rejected,  what  if  one  subdue  1 

What  naval  scene*  adorns  the  seat 

Of  awful  Britain's  high  debate, 

Inspires  her  councils,  and  records  her  power? 

The  nations  know,  in  glowing  balls 

On  sinking  thrones  the  tempest  falls 

When  her  august  assembled  senates  lower. 

O  language,  fit  for  thought  so  bold ! 
Would  Britain  have  her  anger  told? 
Ah !  never  let  a  meaner  language  sound, 
Than  that  which  prostrates  human  souls, 
Through  heaven's  dark  vault  impetuous  rolls, 
And  Nature  rocks  when  angry  Jove  has  frowned. 

Nor  realms  unbounded,  not  a  flood 

Of  natives,  not  expense  of  bleod, 

Or  reach  of  council,  gives  the  world  a  lord; 

Trade  calls  him  forth,  and  sets  him  high, 

As  mortal  man  o'er  men  can  fly. 

Trade  leaves  poor  gleanings  to  the  keenest  sword. 

N"ay,  hers  the  sword,  for  fleets  have  wings, 

Like  lightning  fly  to  distant  kings : 

Like  gods  descend  at  once  on  trembling  states. 

[s  war  proclaimed  ?  Our  wars  are  hurled 

To  farthest  confines  of  the  world, 

Surprise  your  ports,  and  thunder  at  your  gates. 

The  King  of  tempests,  jEolus, 

Sends  forth  his  pinioned  people  thus, 

On  rapid  errands,  as  they  fly  they  roar, 

And  carry  sable  clouds,  and  sweep 

The  land,  the  desert,  and  the  deep  ! 

Sarth  shakes!  proud  cities  fall,  and  thrones  adore ! 

The  fools  of  Nature  ever  strike 

On  bare  outsides,  and  loathe,  or  like 

As  glitter  bids:  in  endless  error  vie ; 

Admire  the  purple  and  the  crown ; 

Of  human  welfare  and  renown 

Trade's  the  big  heart ;  bright  empire  but  their  eye. 

*  The  Spaniih  Armada,  in  the  House  of  Lords. 


160 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Whence  Tartar  grand,  or  Mogul  great  1 

Trade  gilt  their  titles,  powered  their  state ; 

While  Afric's  black,  lascivious,  slothful  breed; 

To  clasp  their  ruin,  fly  from  toil, 

That  meanest  product  of  their  soil. 

Their  people  sell;  one  half  on  the'  other  feed. 

Of  Nature's  wealth,  from  commerce  rent, 

Afric's  a  glaring  monument : 

Mid  citron  forests,  and  pomegranate  groves, 

(Cursed  hi  a  paradise !)  she  pines ; 

O'er  generous  glebes,  o'er  golden  mines, 

Her  beggared,  famished,  tradeless  native  roves: 

Not  so  thine,  China !  blooming  wide, 
Thy  numerous  fleets  might  bridge  the  tide  ; 
Thy  products  would  exhaust  both  Indias'  mines, 
Shut  be  that  gate  of  trade !  or  wo 
To  Britains !  Europe  'twill  o'erflow. 
Ungrateful  song !  her  growth*  inspires  thy  lines. 

> 

Britain !  to  these,  and  such  as  these, 
The  river  broad,  and  foaming  seas, 
Which  sever  lands  to  mortals  less  renowned, 
Devoid  of  naval  skill  or  might : 
Those  severed  parts  of  earth  unite : 
Trade's  the  full  pulse  that  sends  their  vigour  round. 

Could,  O  could  one  engrossing  hand 
The  various  streams  of  trade  command  ? 
That,  like  the  sun,  would  gazing  nations  awe; 
That  awful  power  the  world  would  brave, 
Bold  War,  and  Empire  proud,  his  slave : 
Mankind  his  subjects,  and  his  will  their  law. 

Hast  thou  looked  roirhd  the  spacious  earth  1 
From  commerce,  Grandeur's  humble  birth ; 
To  George  from  Noah,  Empires  living,  dead, 
Their  pride,  their  shame,  their  rise,  their  fall, 
Time's  whole  plain  chronicle  is  all 
One  bright  encomium,  undesigned,  on  trade. 

Trade  springs  from  peace,  and  wealth  from  trade, 
And  power  from  wealth:  of  power  is  made 
The  god  on  earth ;  hail,  then,  the  dove  of  peace ! 
Whose  olive  speaks  the  raging  flood 
Of  War  repressed ;  what's  loss  of  blood  1 
War  is  the  death  of  Commerce  and  Increase. 

Then  perish  War— detested  War  ! 

Shalt  thou  make  gods,  like  Csesar's  star  ? 

What  calls  man  fool  so  loud  as  this  has  done, 

From  Nimrod's  down  to  Bourbon's  line  7 

Why  not  adore,  too,  as  divine, 

Wide  wasting  storms  before  the  genial  sun  1 

Peace  is  the  merchant's  summer  clear ; 
His  harvest — harvest  round  the  year ! 
For  Peace  with  laurel  every  mast  be  bound; 


Each  deck  carouse,  each  flag  stream  out, 
Each  cannon  sound,  each  sailor  shout ; 
For  peace,  let  every  sacred  ship  be  crowned ! 

Sacred  are  ships,  of  birth  divine ! 

An  angel  drew  the  first  design ; 

With  which  the  Patriarch*  Nature's  ruin  braved: 

Two  world's  abroad,  an  old  and  new, 

He  safe  o'er  foaming  billows  flew, 

The  gods  made  human  race,  a  pilot  saved. 

How  sacred,  too,  the  Merchant's  name ! — 

When  -Britain  blazed  meridian  fame.t 

Bright  shone  the  sword,  but  brighter  trade  gave 

law; 

Merchants  in  distant  courts  revered, 
Where  prouder  statesmen  ne'er  appeared, 
Merchants  ambassadors  !  and  thrones  in  awe : 

'Tis  theirs  to  know  the  tides,  the  times, 
The  march  of  stars,  the  birth  of  climes: 
Summer  and  winter  theirs ;  theirs  land  and  sea : 
Theirs  are  the  seasons,  months  and  years, 
And  each  a  different  garland  wears : 
O  that  my  song  could  add  eternity  ! 

Praise  is  the  sacred  oil  that  feeds 
The  burning  lamp  of  godlike  deeds: 
Immortal  glory  pays  illustrious  cares. 
Whither,  ye  Britons !  are  ye  bound  1 
O  noble  voyage,  glorious  round  ! 
Launch  from  the  Thames,  and  end  among  the 
stars. 

If  to  my  subject  rose  my  soul, 

Your  fame  should  last  while  oceans  roll : 

When  other  worlds  in  depths  of  time  shall  rise, 

As  we  the  Greeks  of  mighty  name, 

May  they  Britannia's  fleet  proclaim, 

Look  up  and  read  her  stories  in  the  skies,  t 

Ye  Syrens!  sing;  ye  Tritons!  blow; 
Ye  Nereids !  dance ;  ye  Billows  !  flow ;  • 
Roll  to  my  measures  O  ye  starry  throng  ! 
Ye  Winds !  in  concert  breathe  around ; 
Ye  Navie§ !  to  the  concert  bound 
From  pole  to  pole !  to  Britain  all  belong. 


THE  MORAL. 


CONTENTS. 

The  most  happy  should  be  the  most  virtuous.    Of  eternity. 
What  Britain's  art  should  be.    Whence  slavery. 


BRITAIN!  thus  blessed,  thy  blessing  know, 
Or  bliss  in  vain  the  gods  bestow ; 


*  Noah.  t  In  Queen  Elizabeth's  reign. 

}It  is  Sir  Isaac  Newton's  opinion  that  the  principal  constel- 
lations took  their  names  from  the  Argonauts,  to  perpetuate 
that  great  action. 


ODES. 


161 


Its  end  fulfil,  means  cherish,  source  adore : 
Vain  swellings  of  thy  soul  repress ; 
They  most  may  lose  who  most  possess. 
Then  let  us  bless  with  awe,  and  tremble  at  thy  store 

Nor  be  too  fond  of  life  at  best ; 

Her  cheerful,  not  enamoured  guest : 

Let  thought  fly  forward ;  'twill  gay  prospects  give 

Prospects  immortal !  that  deride 

A  Tynan  wealth,  a  Persian  pride, 

And  make  it  perfect  fortitude  to  live. 

O  for  eternity !  a  scene 

To  fair  adventurers  serene ! 

O,  on  that  sea  to  deal  in  pure  renown ! 

Traffic  with  gods !  what  transports  roll ! 

What  boundless  import  to  the  soul ! 

The  poor  man's  empire  !  and  the  subject's  crown ! 

Adore  the  gods,  and  plough  the  seas : 

These  be  thy  arts,  O  Britain !  these. 

Let  others  pant  for  an  immense,  command ; 

Let  others  breathe  War's  fiery  god : 

The  proudest  victor  fears  thy  nod, 

Long  as  the  trident  fills  thy  glorious  hand. 

Glorious  while  heaven-born  freedom  lasts, 
Which  Trade's  soft  spurious  daughter  blasts  : 
For  what  is  tyranny  1  a  monstrous  birth 
From  luxury,  by  bribes  caressed, 
By  glowing  power  in  shades  compressed, 
Which  stalks  around,  and  chains  the  groaning 
earth. 


THE  CLOSE. 

CONTEXTS. 

This  subject  now  first  sung.    How  sung.  'Preferable  to 
Pindar's  subject    How  Britain  should  be  sung  by  all. 


THEE,  Trade  !  I  first,  who  boast  no  store, 

Who  owe  thee  nought,  thus  snatch  from  shore, 

The  shore  of  prose,  where  thou  hasf  slumbered  long, 

And  send  thy  flag  triumphant  down 

The  tide  of  time  to  sure  renown : 

O  bless  my  country !  and  thou  payest  my  song. 

Thou  art  the  Briton's  noblest  theme : 

Why  then  unsung!  my  simple  aim 

To  dress  plain  sense,  and  fire  the  generous  blood, 

Nor  sport  imaginations  vain ; 

But  list  with  yon  ethereal  train* 

The  shining  muse,  to  serve  the  public  good. 


The  Stare. 


Of  ancient  art,  and  ancient  praise, 

The  springs  are  opened  hi  my  lays  :* 

Olympic  heroes'  ghosts  around  me  throng, 

And  think  their  glory  sung  anew, 

Till  chiefs  of  equal  fame  they  view, 

Nor  grudge  to  Britons  bold  their  Theban  song. 

Not  Pindar's  theme  with  mine  compares ; 
As  far  surpassed  as  useful  cares 
Transcend  diversion  light,  and  glory  vain : 
The  wreath  fantastic,  shouting  throng, 
And  panting  steed  to  him  belong ; 
The  charioteer's,  not  empire's  golden  rein. 

Nor,  Chandos !  thou  the  Muse  despise 

That  would  to  glowing  Mtna.  rise, 

(Such  Pindar's  breast)  thou  Theron  of  our  time ! 

Seldom  to  man  the  gods  impart 

A  Pindar's  head  or  Theron's  heart. 

In  life  or  song  how  rare  the  true  sublime ! 

None  British  born  will  sure  disdain 

This  new,  bold,  moral,  patriot  strain, 

Though  not  with  genius,  with  some  virtue  crowned ; 

(How  vain  the  muse !)  the  lay  may  last, 

Thus  twined  around  the  British  mast, 

The  British  mast  with  nobler  laurels  bound ! 

Weak  ivy  curls,  round  naval  oak, 

And  smiles  at  winds  and  storms  unbroke ; 

By  strength  not  her's  sublime :  thus  proud  to  soar, 

To  Britain's  grandeur  cleaves  my  strain, 

And  lives  and  echoes  through  the  plain, 

While  o'er  the  billows  Britain's  thunders  roar. 

Be  dumb,  ye  groveling  sons  of  verse, 

Who  sing  not  actions,  but  rehearse, 

And  fool  the  muse  with  impotent  desire ! 

Ye  sacrilegious !  who  presume 

To  tarnish  Britain's  naval  bloom, 

Sing  Britain's  fame,  with  all  her  hero's  fire. 

CHORUS. 
Ye  Syrens,  sing ;  ye  Tritons,  blow ; 
Ye  Nereids,  dance ;  ye  billows,  flow ; 
Eloll  to  my  measures,  O  ye  starry  throng ! 
Ye  winds,  in  concert  breathe  around ; 
Ye  navies,  to  the  concert  bound 
?rom  pole  to  pole ;  to  Britain  all  belong : 
Britain  to  heaven :  from  heaven  descends  my  song. 


-Tibi  res  antiquae  laudis,  et  artis 


Ingredior,  sanctos  ausus  recludere  fontes ; 
Aseraumque  cano  Romana  per  oppida  carmen,—  Virg. 


162 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


ON  PART  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  JOB.* 


THRICE  happy  Jobt  long  lived  in  regal  state, 
Nor  saw  the  sumptuous  East  a  prince  so  great ; 
Whose  worldly  stores  in  such  abundance  flowed, 
Whose  heart  with  such  exalted  virtue  glowed. 
At  length  misfortunes  take  their  turn  to  reign, 
And  ills  on  ills  succeed,  a  dreadful  train  ! 
What  now  but  deaths,  and  poverty,  and  wrong, 
The  sword  wide-wasting,  the  reproachful  tongue, 
And  spotted  plagues,  that  marked  his  limbs  all  o'er 
So  thick  with  pains,  they  wanted  room  for  more  1 
A  change  so  sad  what  mortal  heart  could  bear! 
Exhausted  wo  had  left  him  nought  to  fear, 
But  gave  him  all  to  grief.    Low  earth  he  pressed, 
W^ept  in  the  dust,  and  sorely  smote  his  breast. 
His  friends  around  the  deep  affliction  mourned, 
Felt  all  his  pangs,  and  groan/or  groan  returned ; 
In  anguish  of  their  hearts  their  mantles  rent, 
And  seven  long  days  in  solemn  silence  spent ; 
A  debt  of  reverence  to  distress  so  great ! 
Then  Job  contained  no  more,  but  cursed  his  fate. 
His  day  of  birth,  its  inauspicious  light, 
He  wishes  sunk  in  shades  of  endless  night, 
And  blotted  from  the  year,  nor  fears  to  crave 
Death,  instant  death,  impatient  for  the  grave, 
That  seat  of  peace,  that  mansion  of  repose, 
Where  rest  and  mortals  are  no  longer  foes ; 


*  It  is  disputed  among  the  critics,  who  was  the  author  of 
the  book  of  Job ;  some  give  it  to  Moses,  some  to  others.  As  I 
was  engaged  in  this  little  performance,  some  arguments  oc- 
curred to  me  which  favour  the  former  of  these  opinions ;  argu- 
ments I  have  flung  into  the  following  notes,  where  little  else 
is  to  be  expected. 

1  The  Almighty's  speech,  chap,  xxxviii.  &c.  which  is  what 
I  paraphrase  in  this  little  work,  is  by  much  the  finest  part  of 
the  noblest  and  most  ancient  poem  in  the  world.  Bishop  Pa- 
trick says,  '*:  grandeur  is  as  much  above  all  other  poetry,  as 
thunder  is  louder  than  a  whisper.  In  order  to  set  this  distin- 
guished part  of  the  poem  in  a  fuller  light,  and  give  the-reader 
a  clearer  conception  of  it,  I  have  abridged  the  preceding  and 
subsequent  parts  of  the  poem,  and  joined  them  to  it ;  so  that 
this  book  is  a  sort  of  an  epitome  of  the  whole  book  of  Job. 

I  use  the  word  paraplvra.se,  because  I  want  another  which 
might  better  answer  to  the  uncommon  liberties  I  have  taken. 
I  have  omitted,  added,  and  transposed.  The  mountain,  the 
comet,  the  sun,  and  other  parts,  are  entirely  added :  those  up- 
on the  peacock,  the  lion,  &c.  are  much  enlarged ;  and  I  have 
thrown  the  whole  into  a  method  more  suitable  to  our  notions 
of  regularity.  The  judicious,  if  they  compare  this  piece  with 
the  original,  will,  I  flatter  myself,  find  the  reasons  for  the  great 
liberties  I  have  indulged  myself  in  through  the  whole. 

Longinus  has  a  chapter  on  interrogations,  which  shows  that 
they  contribute  very  much  to  the  sublime.  This  speech  of  the 
Almighty  is  made  up'  of  them.  Interrogation  seems,  indeed, 
the  proper  style  of  majesty  incensed.  It  differs  from  other 
manner  of  reproof  as  bidding  a  person  execute  himself  does 
from  a  common  execution ;  for  he  that  asks  the  guilty  a  pro- 
per question,  makes  him,  in  effect,  pass  sentence  on  himself. 


Where  counsellors  are  hushed,  and  mighty  kings 
(O  happy  turn  !)  no  more  are  wretched  things. 

His  words  were  daring,  and  displeased  his  friends ; 
His  conduct  they  reprove,  and  he  defends; 
And  now  they  kindled  into  warm  debate, 
And  sentiments  opposed  with  equal  heat ; 
Fixed  in  opinoin,  both  refuse  to  yield, 
And  summon  all  their  reason  to  the  field : 
So  high,  at  length,  their  arguments  were  wrought, 
They  reached  the  last  extent  of  human  thought : 
A  pause  ensued  :— Jwhen  lo.  heaven  interpot-ed, 
And  awfully  the  long  contention  closed. 
Full  o'er  their  heads,  with  terrible  surprise, 
A  sudden  whirlwind  blackened  all  the  skies : 
(They  saw,  and  trembled !)  from  the  darkness  broke 
A  dreadful  voice,  and  thus  th'  Almighty  spoke.* 

Who  gives  his  tongue  a  loose  so  bold  and  vain, 
Censures  my  conduct,  and  reproves  my  reign. 
Lifts  up  his  thought  against  me  from  the  dust, 
And  tells  the  world's  Creator  what  is  just : 
Of  late  so  brave,  now  lift  a  dauntless  eye, 
Face  my  demand,  and  give  it  a  reply — 
Where  didst  thou  dwell  at  Nature's  early  birth! 
Who  laid  foundations  for  the  spacious  earth  1 
WTio  on  its  surface  did  extend  the  line, 
Its  form  determine,  and  its  bulk  confine  1 
Who  fixed  the  corner-stone?  What  hand,  declare, 
Hung  it  on  nought,  and  fastened  it  on  air, 
When  the  bright  morning  stars  in  concert  sung, 
When  heaven's  high  arch  with  loud  hosannas 

rung,  . 

When  shouting  sons  of  God  the  triumph  crowned, 
And  the  wide  conclave  thundered  with  the  sound? 
Earth's  numerous  kingdoms,  hast  thou  viewed  them 

all? 

And  can  thy  span  of  knowledge  grasp  the  bah"? 
Who  heaved  the  mountain  which  sublimely  stands, 
And  casts  its  shadow  into  distant  lands  ? 

Who,  stretching  forth  kis  sceptre  o'er  the  deep, 
Can  the  wide  world  indue  subjection  keep? 
I  broke  the  globe,  I  scooped  its  hollow  side, 
And  did  a  bason  for  the  floods  provide : 
I  chained  them  with  my  word :  the  boiling  sea, 
Worked  up  in  tempests,  hears  my  great  decree ; 


*  The  book  of  Job  is  well  known  to  be  dramatic,  and,  like 
the  tragedies  of  old  Greece,  is  fiction  built  on  truth.  Probably 
this  most  noble  part  of  it,  the  Almighty  speaking  out  of  the 
whirlwind  (so  suitable  to  the  after-practice  of  the  Greek  stage, 
when  there  happened  dignus  vindice  nodus)  is  fictitious; 
but  it  is  a  fiction  more  agreeable  to  the  time  in  which  Job 
lived  than  to  any  since.  Frequent  before  the  law  were  the 
appearances  of  the  Almighty  after  this  manner,  "Exod.ch.  xix. 
Eeek.  ch.  i,  &c.  Hence  is  he  said  to  dwell  in  thick  darkness, 
and  /tare  Aw  way  in  the  whirlwind. 


A  PARAPi : 


163 


"Thus  far  thy  floating  tide  shall  be  coin. 
And  here,  O  Main  !  be  thy  proud  billows  stayed."* 
Hast  thou  explored  the  secrets  of  the  deep, 
Where,  shut  from  use.  unnumbered  treasures  sleep"? 
Whore,  down  a  thousand  fathoms  from  the  day, 

fountain,  mother  of  the  seal 
v  paths  did  thy  bold  foot  e'er  tread, 
Whole  worlds  of  waters  rolling  o'er  thy  head. 
Hath  the  cleft  centre  opened  wide  to  thee? 
Death's  inmost  chambers  didst  thou  ever  see  7 
nock  at  his  tremendous  gate,  and  wade 
To  '.he  black  portal  through  the  incumbent  shade? 
Deep  are  those  shades ;  but  shades  still  deeper  hide 
My  counsels  from  the  ken  of  human  pride. 

Where  dwells  the  Light"?   in  what  refulgent 

dome? 

And  where  has  darkness  made  her  dismal  home  1 
Thou  know'st,  no  doubt,  since  thy  large  heart  is 

fraught 

With  ripened  wisdom,  through  long  ages  brought, 
Since  Nature  was  called  forth  when  thou  wast  by, 
And  igto  being  rose  beneath  thine  eye ! 

Are  mists  begotten  1  who  their  father  knew  ? 
From  whom  descend  the  pearly  drops  of  dew  1 
To  bind  the  stream  by  night  what  hand  can  boast? 
Or  whiten  morning  with  the  hoary  frost? 

powerful  breath,  from  northern  regions 
blown. 

Touches  the  sea,  and  turns  it  into  stone  1 
A  sudden  desart  spreads  o'er  realms  defaced, 
And  lays  one  half  of  the  creation  waste  7 
Thou  know'st  me  not;  thy  blindness  can  not  see 
How  vast  a  distance  parts  thy  God  from  thee.  • 
Can'st  thou  in  whirlwinds  mount  aloft?  can'st 

thou 

In  clouds  and  darkness  wrap  thy  awful  brow ! 
And  when  day  triumphs  in  meridian  light, 
Put  forth  thy  hand  and  shade  the  world  with  night? 

Who  launched  the  clouds  in  air,  and  bid  them 

roll 

Susj>ended  seas  aloft,  from  pole  to  pole  7 
Who  can  refresh  the  burning  sandy  plain, 
And  quench  the  summer  with  a  waste  of  rain  ? 
Who  in  rough  desarts,  far  from  human  toil, 
Made  rocks  bring  forth,  and  desolation  smile  7 
There  blooms  the  rose  where  human  face  ne'er 

shone, 
And  spreads  its  beauties  to  the  sun  alone. 

To  check  the  shower  who  lifts  his  hand  on  high, 
And  shuts  the  sluices  of  the'  exhausted  sky, 


•  Tliere  is  a  very  great  air  in  all  that  precedes,  but  this  is 
signally  sublime.  We  are  struck  with  admiration  to  see  the 
vast  and  ungovernable  ocean  receiving  commands,  and  punc- 
tually obeying  them ;  to  find  it  like  a  managed  horse,  raging, 
tossing,  ami  foaming,  but  by  the  rule  and  direction  of  its  mas- 
ter. This  passage  yields  in  sublimity  to  that  of  Let  there  be 
light,  SfC.  so  much  only,  as  the  absolute  government  of  nature 
yields  to  the  creation  of  it. 

The  like  spirit  in  these  two  passages  is  no  bad  concurrent 
argument  that  Moses  is  author  of  the  book  of  Job. 


When  earth  no  longer  mourns  her  gaping  veins?, 
Her  naked  mountains,  and  her  russet  plains, 
But,  new  in  life,  a  cheerful  prospect  yields 
Of  shining  rivers,  and  of  verdant  fields ; 
When  groves  and  forests  lavish  all  their  bloom, 
And  earth  and  heaven  are  filled  with  rich  per- 
fume? 

Hast  thou  e'er  scaled  my  wint'ry  skies,  and  seen 
Of  hail  and  snows  my  northern  magazine? 
These  the  dread  treasures  of  mine  anger  are, 
My  fund  of  vengeance  for  the  day  of  war, 
When  clouds  rain  death,  and  storms,  at  my  com- 
mand, 
Rage  through  the  world,  or  waste  a  guilty  land. 

Who  taught  the  rapid  winds  to  fly  so  fast; 
Or  shakes  the  centre  with  his  eastern  blast  ? 
Who  from  the  skies  can  a  whole  deluge  pour  7 
Who  rides  through  nature  with  a  solemn  roar 
Of  dreadful  thunder,  points  it  where  to  fall, 
And  in  fierce  lightning  wraps  the  flying  ball  ? 
Not  he  who  trembles  at  the  darted  fires, 
Falls  at  the  sountt,  and  in  the  flash  expires. 

Who  drew  the  comet  out  to  such  a  size, 
And  poured  his  flaming  train  o'er  half  the  skies  7 
Did  thy  resentment  hang  him  out  ?   Does  he 
Glare  on  the  nations,  and  denounce  from  thee  7 

Who  on  low  earth  can  moderate  the  rein 
That  guides  the  stars  along  the  ethereal  plain  7 
Appoint  their  seasons,  and  direct  their  course, 
Their  lustre  brighten,  and  supply  their  force  7 
Can'st  thou  the  skies'  benevolence  restrain, 
And  cause  the  Pleiades  to  shine  in  vain  ? 
Or,  when  Orion  sparkles  from  his  sphere, 
Thaw  the  cold  season,  and  unbind  the  year  7 
Bid  Mazzaroth  his  destined  station  know, 
And  teach  the  bright  Arcturus  where  to  glow! 
Mine  is  the  Night,  with  all  her  stars ;  I  pour 
Myriads,  and  myriads  I  reserve'in  store. 

Dost  thou  pronounce  where  Daylight  shall  be 

born, 

And  draw  the  purple  curtains  of  the  Morn? 
Awake  the  Sun,  and  bid  him  come  away, 
And  glad  thy  world  with  his  obsequious  ray  ? 
Hast  thou,  enthroned  in  flaming  glory,  driven 
Triumphant  round  the  spacious  ring  of  heaven  ? 
That  pomp  of  light,  what  hand  so  far  displays, 
That  distant  earth  lies  basking  in  the  blaze  7 

Who  did  the  soul  with  her  rich  powers  invest, 
And  light  up  reason  in  the  human  breast, 
To  shine,  with  fresh  increase  of  lustre,  bright, 
When  stars  and  sun  are  set  in  endless  night? 
To  these  my  various  questions  make  reply. 
The  Almighty  spoke,  and,  speaking,  shook  the 
sky. 

What  then,  Chaldean  Sire !  was  thy  surprise? 
Thus  thou,  with  trembling  heart,  and  downcast 

eyes: 

<{  Once  and  again,  which  I  in  groans  deplore, 
My  tongue  has  erred,  but  shall  presume  no  more. 


164 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


My  voice  is  in  eternal  silence  bound, 

And  all  my  soul  falls  prostrate  to  the  ground." 

He  ceased :  when,  lo !  again  the'  Almighty  spoke ; 
The  same  dread  voice  from  the  black  whirlwind 
broke ! 

Can  that  arm  measure  with  an  arm  divine  7 
And  can'st  thou  thunder  with  a  voice  like  mine  1 
Or  in  the  hollow  of  thy  hand  contain 
The  bulk  of  waters,  the  wide-spreading  main, 
When,  mad  with  tempests,  all  the  billows  rise 
In  all  their  rage,  and  dash  the  distant  skies  1 

Come  forth,  in  Beauty's  excellence  arrayed, 
And  be  the  grandeur  of  thy  power  displayed; 
Put  on  omnipotence,  and,  frowning,  make 
The  spacious  round  of  the  creation  shake ; 
Despatch  thy  vengeance,  bid  it  overthrow 
Triumphant  Vice,  lay  lofty  tyrants  low, 
And  crumble  them  to  dust.  When  this  is  done, 
I  grant  thy  safety  lodged  in  thee  alone ; 
Of  thee  thou  art,  and  may'st  undaunted  stand 
Behind  the  buckler  of  thine  own  right  hand. 

Fond  man  !  the  vision  of  a  moment  made ! 
Dream  of  a  dream !  and  shadow  of  a  shade ! 
What  worlds  hast  thou  produced,  what  creatures 

framed, 

What  insects  cherished,  that  thy  God  is  blamed  ? 
When,  pained  with  hunger,  the  wild  raven's  brood 
Loud  calls  on  God,*  importunate  for  food ; 
Who  hears  their  cry,  who  grants  their  hoarse  re- 
quest, 

And  still  the  clamour  of  the  craving  nest  1 
Who  in  the  stupid  ostricht  has  subdued 
A  parent's  care,  and  fond  inquietude  1 
While  far  she  flies,  her  scattered  eggs  are  found, 
Without  an  owner  on  the  sandy  ground  ; 
Cast  out  on  fortune,  they  at  mercy  lie, 
And  borrow  life  from  an  indulgent  sky : 
Adopted  by  the  Sun,  in  blaze  of  day, 
They  ripen  under  his  prolific  ray ; 


*  Another  argument  that  Moses  was  the  author  is,  that  most 
of  the  creatures  here  mentiened  are  Egyptian.  The  reason 
given  why  the  raven  is  particularly  mentioned  as  an  object 
of  the  care  of.  Providence  is,  because  by  her  clamorous,  and 
importunate  voice  she  particularly  seems  always  calling  upon 
it  And  since  there  were  ravens  on  the  Nile  more  clamorous 
than  the  rest  of  that  species,  those  probably  are  meant  in  this 
place. 

t  There  are  many  instances  of  this  bird's  stupidity :  let  two 
suffice.  First,  it  covers  its  head  in  the  reeds,  and  thinks  it- 
self out  of  sight. 

Secondly,  They  that  go  in  the  pursuit  of  them  draw  the  skin 
of  an  ostrich's  neck  on  one  hand,  which  proves  a  sufficient  lure 
to  take  them  with  the  other. 

They  have  so  little  brain,  that  Heliogabalus  had  six  hundred 
heads  for  his  supper. 

Here  we  may  see  that  our  judicious  as  well  as  sublime  au- 
thor just  touches  the  points  of  distinction  in  each  creature,  and 
then  hastens  to  another.  A  description  is  exact  when  you  can 
not  add,  but  what  is  common  to  another  thing ;  nor  withdraw, 
but  something  peculiarly  belonging  to  the  thing  described.  A 
likeness  is  lost  in  too  much  description,  as  a  meaning  often  in 
too  much  illustration. 


Unmindful  she  that  some  unhappy  tread 
May  crush  her  young  in  their  neglected  bed : 
What  time  she  skims  along  the  field  with  speed,* 
She  scorns  the  rider  and  pursuing  steed.t 

How  rich  the  peacock  !t  what  bright  glories  run 
From  plume  to  plume,  and  vary  in  the  sun ! 
He  proudly  spreads  them  to  the  golden  ray, 
Gives  all  his  colours,  and  adorns  the  day ; 
With  conscious  state  the  spacious  round  displays, 
And  slowly  moves  amid  the  waving  blaze. 

Who  taught  the  Hawk  to  find,  in  seasons  wise, 
Perpetual  summer,  and  a  change  of  skies  1 
When  clouds  deform  the  year,  she  mounts  the  wind, 
Shoots  to  the  south,  nor  fears  the  storm  behind ; 
The  sun  returning,  she  returns  again, 
Lives,  in  his  beams,  and  leaves  ill  days  to  men. 

Though  strong  the  hawk,  though  practised  well 

to  fly,§ 

An  eagle  drops  her  in  a  lower  sky : 
An  eagle,  when,  deserting  human  sight, 
She  seeks  the  sun  in  her  unwearied  flight : 
Did  thy  command  her  yellow  pinion  lift 
So  high  in  air,  and  seat  her  on  the  clift, 
Where  far  above  thy  world  she  dwells  alone, 
And  proudly  makes  the  strength  of  rocks  her  own ; 
Thence  wide  o'er  nature  takes  her  dread  survey, 
And  with  a  glance  predestinates  her  prey  1\\ 
She  feasts  her  young  with  blood,  and,  hovering  o'er 
The  unslaughtered  host,  enjoys  the  promised  gore. 

Knowest  thou  how  many  moons,  by  me  assigned, 
Roll  o'er  the  mountain  goat  and  forest  hind,1T 


*  Here  is  marked  another  peculiar  quality  of  this  creature, 
which  neither  flies  nor  runs  directly,  but  has  a  motion  com- 
posed of  both,  and  using  its  wings  as 'sails,  makes  great  speed. 

t  Xenophon  says,  Cyrus  had  horses  that  could  overtake  the 
goat  and  the  wild  ass,  but  none  that  could  reach  this  creature. 
A  thousand  golden  ducats,  or  an  hundred  camels,  was  the 
stated  price  of  a  horse  that  could  equal  their  speed. 

J  Though  this  bird  is  but  just  mentioned  in  my  author,  I 
could  not  forbear  going  a  little  further,  and  spreading  those 
beautiful  plumes  (which  are  shut  up)  into  half  a  dozen  lines. 
The  circumstance  I  have  marked  of  his  opening  his  plumes  to 
the  sun  is  true :  Expandit  colores  adversa  maxim  sole,  quia 
sicfulgentius  radiant.-  Plin.  Ix.  c.  20. 

§  Thuanus  (De  re  Accip.)  mentions  a  hawk  that  flew  from 
Paris  to  London  in  a  night. 

And  the  Egyptians,  in  regard  to  its  swiftness,  made  it  their 
symbol  for  the  wind ;  for  which  reason  we  may  suppose  the 
hawk,  as  well  as  the  crow  above,  to  have  been  a  bird  of  note 
in  Egypt. 

II  The  eagle  is  said  to  be  of  so  acute  a  sight,  that  when  she  is 
so  high  in  the  air  that  man  can  not  see  her,  she  can  discern  the 
smallest  fish  under  water.  My  author  accurately  understood 
the  nature  of  the  creatures  he  describes,  and  seems  to  have 
been  a  naturalist  as  well  as  a  poet,  which  the  next  note  will 
confirm. 

H  The  meaning  of  this  question  is,  Knowest  thou  the  time 
and  circumstances  of  their  bringing  forth  ?  for  to  know  the 
time  only  was  easy,  and  had  nothing  extraordinary  in  it;  but 
the  circumstance  had  something  peculiarly  expressive  of  God's 
providence,  which  makes  the  question  proper  in  this  place. 
Pliny  observes,  that  the  hind  with  young  is  by  instinct  direct- 
ed to  a  certain  herb  called  Scselis,  which  facilitates  the  birth. 
Thunder  also  (which  looks  like  the  more  immediate  hand  of 


SE, 


While  pregnant,  they  a  mother's  lo:ul  sustain? 
They  bend  in  anguish,  and  cast  forth  their  pain. 
Hale  are  their  you  HIT.  from  human  frailties  freed, 
Walk  unsustaim-d,  and  unassisted  ; 
They  live  at  once,  forsake  the  dam's  warm  side, 
Take  the  wide  world,  with  Nature  for  their  guide ; 
Bound  o'er  the  lawn,  or  seek  the  distant  glade, 
And  find  a  home  in  each  delightful  shade. 

Will  the  tall  reem,  which  knows  no  lord  but  me 
Low  at  the  crib,  and  ask  an  alms  of  thee  1 
Submit  his  unworn  shoulder  to  the  yoke, 
Break  the  stiff  clod,  and  o'er  thy  furrow  smoke? 
Since  great  his  strength,  go  trust  him,  void  of  care 
Lay  on  his  neck  the  toil  of  all  the  year ; 
Bid  him  bring  home  the  seasons  to  thy  doors, 
And  cast  his  load  among  the  gathered  stores. 

Didst  thou  from  service  the  wild  ass  discharge, 
And  break  his  bonds,  and  bid  him  live  at  large ; 
Through  the  wide  waste,  his  ample  mansion,  roam, 
And  lose  himself  in  his  unbounded  home  ? 

ure's  hand  magnificently  fed, 
His  meal  is  on  the  range  of  mountains  spread ; 
As  in  pure  air  aloft  he  bounds  along, 
He  sees  in  distant  smoke  the  city  throng ; 
Conscious  of  freedom,  scorns  the  smothered  train, 
The  threatening  driver,  and  the  servile  rein. 

Survey  the  warlike  horse !  didst  thou  invest 
With  thunder  his  robust  distended  chest  1 
No  sense  of  fear  his  dauntless  soul  allays ; 
'Tis  dreadful  to  behold  his  nostrils  blaze : 
To  paw  the.  vale  he  proudly  takes  delight, 
And  triumphs  in  the  fulness  of  his  might : 
High  raised,  he  snuffs  the  battle  from  afar, 
And  burns  to  plunge  amid  the  raging  war ; 
And  mocks  at  death,  and  throws  his  foam  around, 
And  in  a  storm  of  fury  shakes  the  ground. 
How  does  his  firm,  his  rising  heart,  advance 
Full  on  the  brandished  sword  and  shaken  lance 
While  his  fixed  eye-balls  meet  the  dazzling  shield, 
Gaze,  and  return  the  lightning  of  the  field ! 
He  sinks  the  sense  of  pain  in  generous  pride, 
Nor  feels  the  shaft  that  trembles  in  his  side; 
But  neighs  to  the  shrill  trumpet's  dreadful  blast, 
Till  death,  and  when  he  groans,  he  groans  his  last. 

But  fiercer  still,  the  lordly  lion  stalks, 
Grimly  majestic  in  his  lonely  walks  : 
When  round  he  glares,  all  living  creatures  fly; 
He  clears  the  dcsart  with  his  rolling  eye. 
Say,  mortal,  does  he  rouse  at  thy  command, 
And  roar  to  thee,  and  live  upon  thy  hand  1 
Dost  thou  for  him  in  forests  bend  thy  bow, 
And  to  his  gloomy  den  the  morsel  throw, 
Where,  bent  on  death,  lie  hid  his  tawny  brood, 
And,  crouched  in  dreadful  ambush,  pant  for  blood ; 
Or  stretched  on  broken  limbs,  consume  the  day, 
In  darkness  wrapt,  and  slumber  o'er  their  prey  ? 


Providence)  has  the  same  effect,  Pa.  xxix.    In  so  early  an 
age  to  observe  these  things  may  style  our  author  a  naturalist. 


By  the  pale  moon  they  take  their  destined  round,* 
And  lash  their  sides  and  furious  tear  the  ground. 
Now  shrieks  aijd.  dying  groans  the  desart  fill ; 
They  rage,  they  rend;  their  ravenous  jaws  distil 
With  crimson  foam  j  and  when  the  banquet's  o'er 
They  stride  away,  and  paint  their  steps  with  gore: 
In  flight  alone  the  shepherd  puts  his  trust, 
And  shudders  at  the  talon  in  the  dust. 

Mild  is  my  Behemoth,  though  large  his  frame; 
Smooth  is  his  temper,  and  repressed  his  flame; 
While  unprovoked.    This  native  of  the  flood 
Lifts  his  broad  foot,  and  puts  ashore  for  food : 
Earth  sinks  beneath  him  as  he  moves  along 
To  seek  the  herbs,  and  mingle  with  the  throng. 
See,  with  what  strength  his  hardened  loins  are 

bound, 

All  over  proof,  and  shut  against  a  wound! 
How  like  a  mountain  cedar  moves  his  tail ! 
Nor  can  his  complicated  sinews  fail. 
Built  high  and  wide,  his  solid  bones  surpass 
The  bars  of  steel;  his  ribs  are  ribs  of  brass; 
His  port  majestic,  and  his  armed  jaw, 
Give  the  wide  forest  and  the  mountain  law. 
The  mountains  feed  him;  there  the  beasts  admire 
The  mighty  stranger,  and  in  dread  retire; 
At  length  his  greatness  nearer  they  survey, 
Graze  in  his  shadow,  and  his  eye  obey. 
The  fens  and  marshes  are  his  cool  retreat, 
His  noontide  shelter  from  the  burning  heat ; 
Their  sedgy  bosoms  his  wide  couch  are  made, 
And  groves  of  willows  give  him  all  their  shade. 

His  eye  drinks   Jordan  up,  when,  fired  with 

drought, 

He  trusts  to  turn  its  current  down  his  throat; 
In  lessened  waves  it  creeps  along  the  plain  ; 
He  sinks  a  river,  and  -he  Jhirsts  again. 

Go  to  the  Nile,  and,  from  its  fruitful  side, 
Cast  forth  thy  line  into  the  swelling  tide ; 
With  slender  hair  Leviathant  command, 
And  stretch  his  vastness  on  the  loaded  strand. 
Will  he  become  thy  servant  7  will  he  own 
Thy  lordly  nod,  and  tremble  at  thy  frowji? 
Or  with  his  sport  amuse  thy  leisure  day, 
And,  bound  in  silk  with  thy  soft  maidens  play  ? 

Shall  pompous  banquets  swell  with  such  a  prize  1 
And  the  bowl  journey  round  his  ample  size  1 
Or  the  debating  merchant  share  the  prey, 
And  various  limbs  to  various  marts  convey? 
Through  his  firm  skull  what  steel  its  way  can  win? 
What  forceful  engine  can  subdue  his  skin  1 


'  Pursuing  their  prey  by  night  is  true  of  most  wild  beasts, 
Jarticularly  the  lion,  Psal.  civ.  20.  The  Arabians  have  one 
among  their  five  hundred  names  for  the  lion,  which  signifies 
he  hunter  by  moonshine. 

T  The  taking  the  crocodile  is  most  difficult  Diodorus  says, 
hey  are  not  to  be  taken  but  by  iron  nets.  When  Augustus 
conquered  Egypt,  he  struck  a  medal,  the  impress  of  which 
was  a  crocodile  chained  to  a  palm-tree,  with  this  inscription, 
Nemo  antea  religavit. 


166 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Fly  far,  and  live;  tempt  not  his  matchless  might; 
The  bravest  shrink  to  cowards  in  his  sight; 
Therashest  dare  not  rouse  him  up:*  who  then 
Shall  turn  on  me,  among  the  sons  of  men  1 

Am  I  a  debtor  1  hast  thou  ever  heard 
Whence  come  the  gifts  which  are  on  me  conferred  1 
My  lavish  fruit  a  thousand  vallies  fills, 
And  mine  the  herds  that  graze  a  thousand  hills : 
Earth,  sea,  and  air,  all  Nature  is  my  own, 
And  stars  and  sun  are  dust  beneath  my  throne; 
And  dar'st  thou  with  the  world's  great  Father  vie, 
Thou,  who  dost  tremble  at  my  creature's  eye? 

At  full  my  huge  Leviathan  shall  rise, 
Boast  all  his  strength,  and  spread  his  wondrous 

size: 

Who,  great  in  arms,  e'er  stript  his  shining  mail, 
Or  crowned  his  triumph  with  a  single  scale  1 
Whose  heart  sustains  him  to  draw  near?  Behold 
Destruction  yawns  ;t  his  spacious  jaws  unfold, 
And,  marshalled  round  the  wide  expanse,  disclose 
Teeth  edged  with  death,  and  crowding  rows  on 

rows: 

What  hideous  fangs  on  either  side  arise ! 
And  what  a  deep  abyss  between  them  lies ! 
Mete  with  thy  lance,  and  with  thy  plumbet  sound, 
The  one  how  long,  the  other  how  profound  ! 

His  bulk  is  charged  with  such  a  furious  soul, 
That  clouds  of  smoke  from  his  spread  nostrils  roll 
As  from  a  furnace ;  and,  when  roused  his  ire, 
Fate  issues  from  his  jaws  in  streams  of  fire.t 
The  rage  of  tempests,  and  the  roar  of  seas, 
Thy  terror,  this  thy  great  superior  please ; 
Strength  on  his  ample  shoulder  sits  in  state ; 
His  well  joined  limbs  are  dreadfully  complete; 
His  flakes  of  solid  flesh  are  slow  to  part ; 
As  steel  his  nerves,  as  adamant  his  heart. 
When,  late  awaked,  he  rears  him  from  the  floods, 
And  stretching  forth  his  stature  to  the  clouds, 
Writhes  in  the  sun  aloft  his  scaly  height, 
And  strikes  the  distant  hills  with  transient  light, 


*  This  alludes  to  a  custom  of  this  creature,  which  is  when 
sated  with  fish,  to  come  ashore  and  sleep  among  the  reeds. 

t  The  crocodile's  mouth  is  exceeding  wide.  When  he  gapes, 
says  Pliny,  sit  totum  os.    Martial  says  to  his  old  woman, 
Cum  comparata  rictibus  tuis  ora 
Niliacus  habet  crocodilus  augusta. 

So  that  the  expression  there  is  barely  just 

J  This  too  is  nearer  truth  than  at  first  view  may  be  imagined. 
The  crocodile,  say  the  naturalists,  lying  long  underwater,  and 
being  there  forced  to  hold  its  breath,  when  it  emerges,  the 
breath  long  repressed  is  hot,  and  bursts  out  so  violently,  that 


Far  round  are  fatal  damps  of  terror  spread, 
The  mighty  fear,  nor  blush  to  own  their  dread. 
Large  is  his  front ;  and  when  his  burnished  eyes 
Lift  their  broad  lids,  the  morning  seems  to  rise.* 

In  vain  may  death  in  various  shapes  invada, 
The  swift-winged  arrow,  the  descending  blade; 
His  naked  breast  their  impotence  defies; 
The  dart  rebounds,  the  brittle  faulchion  flies. 
Shut  in  himself,  the  war  without  he  hears, 
Safe  in  the  tempest  of  their  rattling  spears ; 
The  cumbered  strand  their  wasted  vollies  strow ; 
His  sport  the  rage  and  labour  of  the  foe. 

His  pastimes  like  a  caldron  boil  the  flood, 
And  blacken  ocean  with  a  rising  mud; 
The  billows  feel  him  as  he  works  his  way, 
His  hoary  footsteps  shine  along  the  sea ; 
The  foam  high-wrought,  with  white  divides  the 

green, 
And  distant  sailors  point  where  death  has  been. 

His  like  earth  bears  not  on  her  spacious  face ; 
Alone  in  nature  stands  his  dauntless  race, 
For  utter  ignorance  of  fear  renowned : 
In  wrath  he  rolls  his  baleful  eye  around ; 
Makes  every  swoln  disdainful  heart  subside, 
And  holds  dominion  o'er  the  sons  of  Pride. 

Then  the  Chaldean  eased  his  labouring  breast, 
With  full  conviction  of  his  crime  oppressed. 
.  "  Thou  can'st  accomplish  all  things,  Lord  of 

might! 

And  every  thought  is  naked  to  thy  sight : 
But,  oh  !  thy  ways  are  wonderful,  and  lie 
Beyond  the  deepest  reach  of  mortal  eye. 
Oft  have  I  heard  of  thine  Almighty  power, 
But  never  saw  thce  till  this  dreadful  hour. 
O'erwhelmed  with  shame,  the  Lord  of  life  I  see, 
Abhor  myself,  and  give  my  soul  to  thee ; 
Nor  shall  my  weakness  tempt  thine  anger  more : 
Man  is  not  made  to  question,  but  adore." 


*  His  eyes  are  like  the  eyelids  of  the  morning.  I  think  this 
gives  us  as  great  an  image  of  the  thing  it  would  express  as 
can  enter  the  thought  of  man.  It  is  not  improbable  that  the 
Egyptia'ns  stole  their  hieroglyphic  for  the  morning,  which  is 
the  crocodile's  eye,  from  this  passage,  though  no  commentator 
I  have  seen  mentions  it  It  is  easy  to  conceive  how  the  Egyp- 
tians should  be  both  readers  and  admirers  of  the  writings  of 
Moses,  whom  I  suppose  the  author  of  this  poem. 

I  have  observed  already  that  three  or  four  of  the  creatures 
here  described  are  Egyptian ;  the  two  last  are  notoriously  so ; 
they  are  the  river-horse  and  the  crocodile,  those  celebrated  in- 
habitants of  the  Nile ;  and  on  these  two  it  is  that  our  author 
chiefly  dwells.  It  would  have  been  expected  from  an  author 
more  remote  from  that  river  than  Moses,  in  a  catalogue  of 


it  resembles  fire  and  smoke.    The  horse  suppresses  not  his  !  c^txma.  produced !°  "Jf  ?"*  thf  Crefr'  *  ^  ^f  °n 
breath  by  any  means  so  long,  neither  is  he  so  fierce  and  ani- 1 the  two  largest  W°rks  °f  hl3  hand>  *** the  elePhant  and  the 
mated ;  yet  the  most  correct  of  poets  ventures  to  use  the  same 
metaphor  concerning  him. 

Collectumque  premens  volvit  sub  naribus  ignem. 

By  this  and  the  foregoing  note,  I  would  caution  against  a  false  j  immediate  terror  of  the  hippopotamus  and  crocodile,  from  their 
opinion  of  the  Eastern  boldness,  from  passages  in  them  ill  un-  daily  mischiefs  and  ravages  around  him,  it  is  very  accountable 
dersuxxL  |  why  he  should  permit  them  to  take  place. 


elephant  and  the 

whale.  This  is  so  natural  an  expectation,  that  some  com- 
mentators have  rendered  behemoth  and  leviathan  the  elephant 
and  whale,  though  the  descriptions  in  our  author  will  not  ad- 
mit of  it ;  but  Moses  being,  as  we  may  well  suppose,  under  an- 


RESIGNATION. 


167 


IN  TWO  PARTS. 

AXD  A  POSTSCRIPT 

TO  MRS.  B  *****  . 


My  soul  shall  be  satisfied,  even  as  it  were  with  marrow  and  fatness ;  when  my  mouth  praiseth  thee  with  joyful  Mpa 


PART  I. 

THE  days  how  few,  how  short  the  years, 
Of  man's  too  rapid  race ! 
Each  leaving  as  it  swiftly  flies, 
A  shorter  in  its  place. 

They  who  the  longest  lease  enjoy, 
Have  told  us  with  a  sigh, 
That  to  be  born  seems  little  more 
Than  to  begin  to  die. 

Numbers  there  are  who  feel  this  truth 
With  fears  alarmed;  and  yet, 
In  life's  delusion  lulled  asleep, 
This  weighty  truth  forget. 

And  am  I  not  to  these  akin  1 
Age  slumbers  o'er  the  quill ; 
Its  honour  blots  whate'er  it  writes, 
And  am  I  writing  still? 

Conscious  of  Nature  in  decline, 
And  languor  in  my  thoughts, 
To  soften  censure  and  abate 
Its  rigour  on  my  faults, 

Permit  me,  Madam !  ere  to  you 
The  promised  verse  I  pay, 
To  touch  on  felt  Infirmity, 
Sad  si.ster  of  Decay. 

One  world  deceased,  another  "born, 

Like  Xoah  they  behold, 

O'er  whose  white  hairs  and"  furrowed  brows 

Too  many  suns  have  rolled. 

H;i|ipy  the  patriarch!  he  rejoiced 
His  second  world  to  see ; 
My  second  world,  though  gay  the  scene, 
Can  boast  no  charms  for  me. 

To  me  this  brilliant  age  appears 
With  desolation  spread ! 

:ill  with  whom  I  lived  and  smiled, 
Whilst  life  was  life,  are  dead  ; 

And  with  them  died  my  joys :  the  grave 
Has  broken  Nature's  laws, 
And  closed  ag;iinst  this  feeble  frame 
Its  partial  cruel  jaws : 


Cruel  to  spare  !  condemned  to  life ! 
A  cloud  impairs  my  sight ! 
My  weak  hand  disobeys  my  will, 
And  trembles  as  I  write. 

What  shall  I  write  1  Thalia  tell ; 
Say,  long  abandoned  muse! 
What  field  of  fancy  shall  I  range? 
What  subject  shall  I  choose? 

A  choice  of  moment  high  inspire, 
And  rescue  me  from  shame, 
For  doting  on  thy  charms  so  late, 
By  grandeur  in  my  theme. 

Beyond  the  themes  which  most  admire, 
Wliich  dazzle  or  amaze ; 
Beyond  renowned  exploits  of  war, 
Bright  charms,  or  empire's  blaze, 

Are  themes,  which,  in  a  world  of  wo, 
Can  best  appease  our  pain, 
And  in  an  age  of  gaudy  guilt, 
Gay  Folly's  flood  restrain ; 

Amidst  the  storms  of  life  support 
A  calm  unshaken  mind, 
And  with  unfading  laurels  crown 
The  brow  of  the  resigned. 

0  Resignation !  yet  unsung, 
Untouched  by  former  strains, 
Though  claiming  every  muse's  smile, 
And  every  poet's  pains : 

Beneath  life's  evening  solemn  shade 

1  dedicate  my  page 

To  thee,  thou  safest  guard  of  youth ! 
Thou  sole  support  of  age ! 

All  other  duties  crescents  are 
Of  virtue  faintly  bright ; 
The  glorious  consummation  thou ! 
Which  fills  her  orb  with  light : 

How  rarely  filled  !  the  love  divine 
In  evils  to  discern : 
This  the  first  lesson  which  we  want, 
The  latest  which  we  learn : 

A  melancholy  truth !  for  know, 
Could  our  proud  hearts  resign, 


168 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


The  distance  greatly  would  decrease 
'Twixt  human  and  divine. 

But  though  full  noble  is  my  theme, 
Full  urgent  is  my  call 
To  soften  sorrow,  and  forbid 
The  bursting  tear  to  fall : 

The  task  I  dread:  dare  I  to  leave 
Of  human  prose  the  shore, 
And  put  to  sea!  a  dangerous  sea ! 
What  throngs  have  sunk  before ! 

How  proud  the  poet's  billows  swell ! 
The  God !  the  God!  his  boast ; 
A  boast  how  vain!  what  wrecks  abound! 
Dead  bards  stench  every  coast. 

What  then  am  I?  shall  I  presume, 
On  such  a  moulten  wing, 
Above  the  general  wreck  to  rise 
And  in  my  winter  sing  1 

When  nightingales,  when  sweetest  bards, 
Confine  their  charming  song 
To  summer's  animating  heats. 
Content  to  warble  young. 

Yet  write  I  must ;  a  lady*  sues ; 
How  shameful  her  request ! 
My  brain  in  labour  for  dull  rhyme  ! 
Hers  teeming  with  the  best! 

But  you  a  stranger  will  excuse. 
Nor  scorn  his  feeble  strain ; 
To  you  a  stranger,  but,  through  fate, 
No  stranger  to  your  pain. 

The  ghost  of  Grief  deceased  ascends, 
His  old  wound  bleeds  anew ; 
His  sorrows  are  recalled  to  life 
By  those  he  sees  in  you : 

Too  well  he  knows  the  twisted  strings 
Of  ardent  hearts  combined, 
When  rent  asunder,  how  they  bleed, 
How  hard  to  be  resigned. 

Those  tears  you  pour  his  eyes  have  shed ; 
The  pang  you  feel  he  felt ; 
Thus  Nature,  loud  as  Virtue,  bids 
His  heart  at  yours  to  melt. 

But  what  can  heart  or  head1  suggest  1 
What  sad  Experience  say? 
Through  truths  austere  to  peace  we  work 
Our  rugged  gloomy  way. 

What  are  we 7  whence?  for  what?  and  whither? 
Who  know  not  needs  must  mourn : 
But  Thought,  bright  daughter  of  the  Skies ! 
Can  tears  to  triumph  turn. 


'Mrs.  M- 


Thought  is  our  armour ;  'Tis  the  mind's 
Impenetrable  shield, 
When,  sent  by  Fate,  we  meet  our  foes 
In  sore  Affliction's  field : 

It  plucks  the  frightful  mask  from  ills, 
Forbids  pale  fear  to  hide, 
Beneath  that  dark  disguise  a  friend, 
Which  turns  Affection's  tide. 

Affection  frail !  trained  up  by  Sense, 
From  Reason's  channel  strays, 
And  whilst  It  blindly  points  at  peace, 
Our  peace  to  pain  betrays. 

Thought  winds  its  fond  erroneous  stream 

From  daily-dying  flowers, 

To  nourish  rich  immortal  blooms, 

In  amaranthine  bowers  : 

Whence  throngs,  in  ecstacy,  look  down 
On  what  once  shocked  their  sight, 
And  thank  the  terrors  of  the  past 
For  ages  of  delight. 

All  withers  here  ?  who  most  possess 
Are  losers  by  their  gain ; 
Stung  by  full  proof,  that,  bad  at  best, 
Life's  idle,  all  is  vain : 

Vain,  in  its  course,  life's  murm'ring  stream ; 
Did  not  its  course  offend, 
But  murmur  cease,  life,  then,  would  seem 
Still  vainer  from  its  end. 

How  wretched !  who,  through  cruel  fate, 
Have  nothing  to  lament, 
With  the  poor  alms  this  world  affords, 
Deplorably  content  ? 

Had  not  the  Greek  his  world  mistook, 
His  wish  had  been  most  wise ; 
To  be  content  with  but  one  world, 
Like  him,  we  should  despise. 

Of  earth's  revenue  would  you  state    • 
A  full  account  and  fair  ? 
We  hope,  and  hope,  and  hope,  then  cast 
The  total  up — despair. 

Since  vain  all  here,  all  future,  vast, 
Embrace  the  lot  assigned ; 
Heaven  wounds  to  heal;  its  frowns  are  friends; 
Its  strokes  severe  most  kind. 

But  in  lapsed  nature  rooted  deep, 
Blind  Error  domineers, 
And  on  fools'  errands  in  the  dark, 
Sends  out  our  hopes  and  fears  j 

Bids  us  for  ever  pains  deplore, 
Our  pleasures  over-prize; 
These  oft  persuade  us  to  be  weak, 
Those  urge  us  to  be  wise. 


RESIGNATION. 


From  Virtue's,  rugged  path  to  right, 
By  pleasure  are  we  brought 
To  flowery  fields  of  wrong,  and  there 
Pain  chides  us  for  our  fault  : 

Yet  whilst  it  chides  it  speaks  of  peace, 
If  folly  is  withstood, 
And  says,  Time  pays  an  easy  price, 
For  our  eternal  good. 

In  earth's  dark  cot,  and  in  an  hour, 
And  in  delusion  great, 
What  an  economist  is  man ! 
To  spend  his  whole  estate, 

And  beggar  an  eternity ! 

For  which,  as  he  was  born, 

More  worlds  than  one  against  it  weighed, 

As  feathers  he  should  scorn. 

Say  not  your  loss  in  triumph  leads, 
Religion's  feeble  strife ; 
Joys  future  amply  reimburse 
Joys  bankrupts  of  this  life. 

But  not  deferred  your  joy  so  long, 
It  bears  an  early  date ; 
Affliction's  ready  pay  in  hand 
Befriends  our  present  state. 

What  are  the  tears  which  trickle  down 
Her  melancholy  face, 
Like  liquid  pearl  1  like  pearls  of  price, 
They  purchase  lasting  peace. 

Grief  softens  hearts,  and  curbs  the  will, 
Impetuous  passion  tames, 
And.  keeps  insatiate  keen  desire 
From  launching  in  extremes. 

Through  Time's  dark  womb,  our  judgment  right, 
If  our  dim  eye  was  thrown, 
Clear  should  we  see  the  will  divine 
Has  but  forestalled  our  own. 

At  variance  with  our  future  wish, 
Self-severed,  we  complain: 
If  so,  the  wounded,  not  the  wound, 
Must  answer  for.the  pain. 

The  day  shall  come,  and  swift  of  wing, 
Though  you  may  think  it  slow, 
When,  in  the  list  of  Fortune's  smiles, 
You'll  enter  frowns  of  wo. 

For  mark  the  path  of  Providence ; 
This  course  it  has  pursued, 
"  Pain  is  the  parent,  wo  the  womb, 
Of  sound  important  good  :" 

Our  hearts  are  fastened  to  this  world 
By  strong  and  endless  ties ; 
And  every  sorrow  cuts  a  string, 
And  urges  us  to  rise. 


'Twill  sound  severe — yet  rest  assured 
I'm  studious  of  your  peace ; 
Though  I  should  dare  to  give  you  joy — 
Yes,  joy  of  his  decease. 

An  hour  shall  come,  (you  question  this) 
An  hour,  when  you  shall  bless, 
Beyond  the  brightest  beams  of  life, 
Dark  days  of  your  distress. 

Hear  then,  without  surprise,  a  truth, 
A  daughter  truth  to  this, 
Swift  turns  of  fortune  often  tie 
A  bleeding  heart  to  bliss. 

Esteem  yoli  this  a  paradox  ? 
My  sacred  motto  read; 
A  glorious  truth,  divinely  sung 
By  one  whose  heart  had  bled. 

To  resignation  swift  he  flew ; 

In  her  a  friend  he  found; 

A  friend  which  blessed  him  with  a  smile, 

When  gasping  with  his  wound. 

On  earth  nought  precious  is  obtained 
But  what  is -painful  too; 
By  travel,  and  to  travel  born. 
Our  sabbaths  are  but  few. 

To  real  joy  we  work  our  way, 
Encountering  many  a  shock, 
Ere  found  what  truly  charms,  as  found 
A  Venus  in  the  block. 

[n  some  disaster,  some  severe 
Appointment  for  our  sins, 
That  mother-blessing,  (not  so  called 
True  happiness,  begins. 

N"o  martyr  e'er  defied  the  flames 

By  stings  of  life  unvexed ; 

First  rose  some  quarrel  with  this  world, 

Then  passion  for  the  next. 

You  see  then  pangs  are  parent  pangs, 
The  pangs  of  happy  birth ; 
Pangs,  by  which  only  can  be  born 
True  happiness  on  earth. 

The  peopled  earth  look  all  around, 
Or  through  times  records  run, 
And  say,  what  is  a  man  unstruck  1 
t  is  a  man  undone. 

This  moment  am  I  deeply  stung — 

Vly  bold  pretence  is  tried. 

When  vain  man  boasts,  heaven  puts  to  proof 

The  vauntings  of  his  pride. 

Vow  need  I,  Madam !  your  support. — 
low  exquisite  the  smart ! 
low  critically  timed  the  news* 
AThich  strikes  me  to  the  heart! 


•  The  death  of  Mr.  Richardson. 


170 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


The  pangs  of  which  I  spoke  I  feel: 
If  worth  like  thine  is  borne, 

0  long  beloved !  I  bless  the  blow, 
And  triumph  whilst  I  mourn. 

Nor  mourn  I  long;  by  grief  subdued 
Be  reason's  empire  shown, 
Deep  anguish  comes  by  heaven's  decree. 
Continues  by  our  own;  * 

And  when  continued  past  its  point, 
Indulged  in  length  of  time, 
Grief  is  disgrace,  and  what  was  fate 
Corrupts  into  a  crime. 

And  shall  I,  criminally  mean, 
Myself  and  subject  wrong? 
No;  my  example  shall  support 
The  subject  of  my  song. 

Madam!  I  grant  your  loss  is  great, 

Nor  little  is  your  gain : 

Let  that  be  weighed ;  when  weighed  aright, 

It  richly  pays  your  pain. 

When  heaven  would  kindly  set  us  free, 
And  earth's  enchantments  end, 
It  takes  the  most  effectual  means, 
And  robs  us  of  a  friend. 

But  such  a  friend ! — and  sigh  no  more ! 
'Tis  prudent,  but  severe : 
Heaven  aid  my  weakness,  and  I  drop 
All  sort ow — with  this  tear. 

Perhaps  your  settled  grief  to  sooth 

1  should  not  vainly  strive, 

But  with  soft  balm  your  pain  assuage, 
Had  he  been  still  alive ; 

Whose  frequent  aid  brought  kind  relief 
In  my  distress  of  thought, 
Tinged  with  his  beams  my  cloudy  page, 
And  beautified  a  fault. 

To  touch  our  passions'  secret  springs 
Was  his  peculiar  care; 
And  deep  his  happy  genius  dived 
In  bosoms  of  the  fair. 

Nature,  which  favours  to  the  few 
All  art  beyond  imparts, 
To  him  presented,  at  his  birth, 
The  key  of  human  hearts. 

But  not  to  me  by  him  bequeathed   ' 
His  gentle  smooth  address; 
His  tender  hand  to  touch  the  wound 
In  throbbings  of  distress. 

Howe'er,  proceed  I  must,  unblessed 
With  ,/Esculapian  art : 
Know,  Love,  sometimes,  mistaken  Love ! 
Plays  Disaffection's  part. 


Nor  lands,  nor  seas,  nor  suns,  nor  stars, 
Can  soul  from  soul  divide; 
They  correspond  from  distant  worlds, 
Though  transports  are  denied. 

Are  you  not  then  unkindly  kind  1 
Is  not  your  love  severe  1 
O !  stop  that  crystal  source  of  wo, 
Nor  wound  him  with  a  tear. 

As  those  above  from  human  bliss 
Receive  increase  of  joy, 
May  not  a  stroke  from  human  wo, 
In  part  their  peace  destroy  1 

He  lives  in  those  he  left;— to  what ! 
Your  now  paternal  care: 
Clear  from  its  clouds  your  brightened  eye, 
It  will  discern  him  there ; 

In  features,  not  of  form  alone, 
But  those,  I  trust  of  mind, 
Auspicious  to  the  public  weal,. 
And  to  their  fate  resigned. 

Think  on  the  tempests  he  sustained, 
Revolve  his  battles  won, 
And  let  those  prophesy  your  joy 
From  such  a  father's  son. 

Is  consolation  what  you  seek  1 
Fan  then  his  martial  fire, 
And  animate  to  flame  the  sparks 
Bequeathed  him  by  his  sire. 

As  nothing  great  is  born  in  haste, 
Wise  Nature's  time  allow ; 
His  father's  laurels  may  descend, 
And  flourish  on  his  brow. 

Nor,  Madam !  be  surprised  to  hear, 
That  laurels  may  be  due 
Not  more  to  heroes  of  the  field 
(Proud  boasters !)  than  to  you. 

Tender  as  is  the  female  frame, 
Like  that  brave  man  you  mourn, 
You  are  a  soldier,  and  to  fight 
Superior  battles  born. 

Beneath  a  banner  nobler  far 
Than  ever  was  unfurled 
In  fields  of  blood ;  a  banner  bright ! 
High-waved  o'er  all  the  world ; 

It,  like  a  streaming  meteor,  casts 
An  universal  light ; 
Sheds  day,  sheds  more,  eternal  day, 
On  nations  whelmed  in  night. 

Beneath  that  banner,  what  exploit 
Can  mount  our  glory  higher, 
Than  to  sustain  the  dreadful  blow, 
When  those  we  love  expire  7 


RESIGNATION. 


171 


Go  forth  a  moral  Amazon, 
Armed  with  undaunted  thought; 
The  battle  won,  though  costing  dear, 
You'll  think  it  cheaply  bought. 

The  passive  hero,  who  sits  down 
Unactive-,  and  can  sinile 
Beneath  A  tHict  ion's  galling  load, 
Outacts  a  Caesar's  toil. 

The  billows  stained  by  slaughtered  foes 
Interior  praise  afford ; 
Reason's  a  bloodle.ss  conqueror 
More  glorious  than  the  sword. 

Nor  can  the  thunder  of  huzzas 
From  shouting  nations,  cause 
Such  sweet  delight,  as  from  your  heart 
Soft  whispers  of  applause. 

The  dear  deceased  so  famed  hi  arms, 
With  what  delight  he'll  view 
His  triumphs  on  the  main  outdone, 
Thus  conquered  twice  by  you ! 

Share  his  delight ;  take  heed  to  shun 
Of  bosoms  most  diseased 
That,  odd  distemper,  and  absurd 
Reluctance  to  be  pleased. 

Some  seem  in  love  with  Sorrow's  charms, 
And  that  foul  fiend  embrace ; 
This  temper  let  me  justly  brand 
And  stamp  it  with  disgrace. 

Sorrow!  of  horrid  parentage! 

Thou  second-born  of  hell ! 

Against  heaven's  endless  mercies  poured 

How  dar'st  thou  to  rebel  1 

From  black  and  noxious  vapours  bred, 
And  nursed  by  want  of  thought, 
And  to  the  door  of  Frenzy's  self 
By  Perseverance  brought. 

Thy  most  inglorious  coward  tears, 
From  brutal  eyes  have  ran; 
Smiles,  incommunicable  smiles ! 
Are  radiant  marks  of  man ; 

They  cast  a  sudden  glory  round 
The  illumined  human  face; 
And  light,  in  sons  of  honest  Joy, 
Some  beams  of  Moses'  face. 

Is  Resignation's  lesson  hard? 
Examine,  we  shall  find 
That  duty  gives  up  little  more 
Than  anguish  of  the  mind. 

;  and  all  the  load  of  life 
That  moment  you  remove  j 
Its  heavy  tax,  ten  thousand  cares 
Devolve  on  One  above ; 


Who  bids  us  lay  our  burden  down 
On  his  Almighty  hand, 
Softens  our  duty  to  relief, 
To  blessing  a  command. 

For  joy  what  cause !  how  every  sense 
Is  courted  from  above, 
The  year  around,  with  presents  rich, 
The  growth  of  endless  love ! 

But  must  o'erlook  the  blessings  poured, 
Forget  the  wonders  done, 
And  terminate,  wrapt  up  in  sense, 
Their  prospect  at  the  sun ; 

From  that  their  final  point  of  view, 
From  that  their  radiant  goal, 
On  travel  infinite  of  thought, 
Sets  out  the  nobler  soul. 

Broke  loose  from  Time's  tenacious  ties, 
And  earth's  involving  gloom, 
To  range  at  large  its  vast  domain, 
And  talk  with  worlds  to  come: 

They  let  unmarked,  and  unemployed 
Life's  idle  moments  run ; 
And  doing  nothing  for  themselves, 
[magine  nothing  done. 

Fatal  mistake !  their  fate  goes  .on, 
Their  dread  account  proceeds, 
And  their  not-doing  is  set  down    • 
Amongst  their  darkest  deeds. 

Though  man  sits  still,  and  takes  his  ease, 

3rod  is  at  work  on  man : 

$o  means,  no  moments  unemployed, 
To  bless  him,  if  he  can. 

But  man  consents  not,  boldly  bent 
To  fashion  his  own  fate ; 
Vlan,  a  mere  bungler  in  the  trade, 
iepents  his  crime  too  late. 

3ence  loud  laments.    Let  me  thy  cause, 
"ndulgent  Father !  plead; 
Of  all  the  wretches  we  deplore, 
Not  one  by  thee  was  made. 

What  is  thy  whole  creation  fair? 
Of  love  divine  the  child : 

-ove  brought  it  forth,  and,  from  its  birth, 

3Eas  o'er  it  fondly  smiled. 

Sow,  and  through  periods  distant  far, 
jOng  ere  the  world  began, 
leaven  is,  and  has  in  travail  been, 
ts  birth  the  good  of  man. 

tfan  holds  in  constant  service  bound 
The  blustering  winds  and  seas ; 
Vor  suns  disdain  to  travel  hard, 
Their  master,  man,  to  please. 


172 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


To  final  good  the  worst  events 
Through  secret  channels  run ; 
Finish,  for  man,  their  destined  course, 
As  'twas  for  man  begun. 

One  point  (observed,  perhaps,  by  few) 
Has  often  smote,  and  smites 
My  mind,  as  demonstration  strong 
That  heaven  in  man  delights. 

What 's  known  to  man  of  things  unseen, 
Of  future  worlds  or  fates? 
So  much,  nor  more,  than  what  to  man's 
Sublime  affairs  relates. 

What 's  revelation  then?  a 'list, 
An  inventory  just, 
Of  that  poor  insects  goods  so  late 
Called  out  of  night  and  dust. 

W^hat  various  motives  to  rejoice ! 
To  render  joy  sincere, 
Has  this  no  weight?  Our  joy  is  felt 
Beyond  this  narrow  sphere. 

Would  we  in  heaven  new  heaven  create, 
And  double  its  delight? 
A  smiling  world,  when  heaven  looks  down, 
How  pleasing  in  its  sight ! 

Angels  stoop  forward  from  the  thrones 
To  hear  its  joyful  lays ; 
As  incense  sweet  enjoy,  and  join, 
Its  aromatic  praise.   • 

Have  we  no  cause  to  fear  the  stroke 
Of  heaven's  avenging  rod, 
When  we  presume  to  counteract 
A  sympathetic  God? 

If  we  resign^  our  patience  makes 
His  rod  an  harmless  wand; 
If  not,  it  darts  a  serpent's  sting, 
Like  that  in  Moses'  hand ; 

Like  that  it  swallows  up  whate'er 
Earth's  vain  magicians  bring, 
Whose  baffled  arts  would  boast  below 
Of  joys  a  rival  spring. 

Consummate  love !  the  list  how  large 
Of  blessings  from  thy  hand? 
To  banish  sorrow,  and  be  blessed, 
Is  thy  supreme  command. 

Are  such  commands  but  ill  obeyed? 
Of  bliss  shall  we  complain  ? 
The  man  who  dares  to  be  a  wretch 
Deserves  still  greater  pain. 

Joy  is  our  duty,  glory,  health ; 
The  sunshine  of  the  soul ; 
Our  best  encomium  on  the  power 
Who  sweetly  plans  the  whole. 


Joy  is  our  Eden  still  possessed : 
Begone,  ignoble  Grief! 
'Tis  joy  makes  gods,  and  men  exalts, 
Their  nature  our  relief: 

Relief,  for  man  to  that  must  stoop, 
And  his  due  distance  know ; 
Transport 's  the  language  of  the  skies, 
Content  the  style  below. 

Content  is  joy ;  and  joy  in  pain 
Is  joy  and  virtue  too ; 
Thus,  whilst  good  present  we  possess, 
More  precious  we  pursue. 

Of  joy  the  more  we  have  in  hand 
The  more  have  we  to  come ; 
Joy,  like  our  money,  interest  bears, 
Which  daily  swells  the  sum. 

'  But  how  to  smile,  to  stem  the  tide 
Of  nature  in  our  veins ; 
Is  it  not  hard  to  weep  in  joy? 
What  then  to  smile  in  pains?" 

Victorious  joy !  which  breaks  the  clouds, 
And  struggles  through  a  storm, 
Proclaims  the  mind  "as  great  as  good, 
And  bids  it  doubly  charm. 

[f  doubly  charming  in  our  sex,  ' 

A  sex  by  nature  bold, 

What  then  in  yours  ?  'tis  diamond  there, 

Triumphant  o'er  our  gold. 

And  should  not  this  complaint  repress 
And  check  the  rising  sigh  ? 
Yet  farther  opiate  to  your  pain 
[  labour  to  supply. 

Since  spirits  greatly  damped  distort 
[deas  of  delight, 

Look  through  the  medium  of  a  friend, 
To  set  your  notions  right. 

As  tears  the  sight,  grief  dims  the  soul ; 
[ts  object  dark  appears ; 
True  friendship,  like  a  rising  sun, 
The  soul's  horizon  clears. 

A  friend 's  an  optic  to  the  mind 
With  sorrow  clouded  o'er ; 
And  gives  it  strength  of  sight  to  see 
Redress  unseen  before. 

Reason  is  somewhat  rough  in  man  j 
Extremely  smooth  and  fair, 
When  she,  to  grace  her  manly  strength, 
Assumes  a  female  air. 

A  friend  you  have,*  and  I  the  same, 
Whose  prudent  soft  address 


Mrs.  M- 


RESIGNATION. 


173 


Will  bring  to  lilt-  those  healing  thoughts, 
Which  died  in  your  di>: 

That  friend,  the  spirit  of  my  theme 
Extracting  for  your  ease, 
Will  leave'  me  to  the  dreg,  in  thoughts 
Too  common,  such  as  these. 

Let  those  lament,  to  whom  full  bowls 
Of  sparkling  joys  are  given ; 
That  triple  bane  inebriates  life, 
Imbitters  death,  and  hazards  heaven, 

Wo  to  the  soul  at  perfect  ease ! 

'Tis  brewing  perfect  pains ; 

Lulled  Reason  sleeps,  the  Pulse  is  king; 

Despotic  Body  reigns. 

Have  you  ne'er  pitied  Joy's  gay  scenes, 
And  deemed  their  glory  dark? 
Alas,  poor  Envy  !  she  's  stone  blind, 
And  quite  mistakes  her  mark : 

Her  mark  lies  hid  in  Sorrow's  shades, 
But  'sorrow  well  subdued ; 
And  in  proud  Fortune's  frown  defied 
By  meek,  unborrowed  good. 

By  Resignation ;  all  in  that 

A  double  friend  may  find, 

A  wing  to  heaven,  and,  while  on  earth, 

The  pillow  of  mankind. 

On  pillows  void  of  down  for  rest 
Our  restless  hopes  we  place ; 
When  hopes  of  heaven  lie  warm  at  least, 
Our  hearts  repose  in  peace. 

That  peace  which  resignation  yields, 
Who  feel  alone  can  guess : 
'Tis  disbelieved  by  murmuring  minds, 
They  must  conclude  it  less. 

The  loss  or  gain  of  that  alone 
Have  we  to  hope  or  fear ; 
That  Fate  controls,  and  can  invert 
The  seasons  of  the  year. 

O !  the  dark  days,  the  year  around, 

Of  an  impatient  mind ; 

Through  clouds,  and  storms,  a.  summer  breaks, 

To  shine  on  the  resigned. 

While  man,  by  that,  of  every  grace 
And  virtue  is  possessed, 
Foul  Vice  her  Pandsemonium  builds 
In  the  rebellious  breast. 

By  Resignation  we  defeat 
The  worst  that  can  annoy, 
And  suffer  with  far  more  repose 
Than  worldlings  can  enjoy. 


From  small  experience  this  I  speak ; 
O  grant  to  those  I  love 
Experience  fuller  far,  ye  powers 
Who  form  our  fates  above ! 

My  love  where  due,  if  not  to  those 
Who  leaving  grandeur,  came 
To  shine  on  age  in  mean  recess, 
And  light  me  to  my  theme  1 

A  theme  themselves !  a  theme  how  rare ! 
The  charms  which  they  display 
To  triumph  over  captive  heads, 
Are  set  in  bright  array. 

With  his  own  arms  proud  man's  o'ercome, 
His  boasted  laurels  die ; 
Learning  and  Genius,  wiser  grown, 
To  female  bosoms  fly. 

This  revolution,  fixed  by  Fate, 
In  fable  was  foretold ; 
The  dark  prediction  puzzleti  wits, 
Nor  could  the  learned  unfold. 

But  as  those  ladies'*  works  I  read, 
They  darted  such  a  ray, 
The  latent  sense  burst  out  at  once, 
And  shone  hi  open  day. 

So  burst  full  ripe  distended  fruits, 
When  strongly  strikes  the  sun ; 
And  from  the  purple  grape  unpressed, 
Spontaneous  nectars  run. 

Pallas,  ('tis  said)  when  Jove  grew  dull, 
Forsook  his  drowsy  brain, 
And  sprightly  leaped  into  the  throne 
Of  Wisdom's  brighter  reign ; 

Her  helmet  took;  that  this,  shot  rays 
Of  formidable  wit ; 
And  lance, — or  genius  most  acute, 
Which  lines  immortal  writ ; 

And  Gorgon  shield,— or,  power  to  fright 
Man's  folly  dreadful  shone ; 
And  many  a  blockhead  (easy  change !) 
Turned  instantly  to  stone. 

Our  authors  male,  as  then  did  Jove, 
Sow  scratch  a  damaged  head, 
And  call  for  what  once  quartered  there, 
But  find  the  goddess  fled. 

The  fruit  of  knowledge,  golden  fruit ! 
That  once  forbidden  tree, 
ledged  in  by  surly  man,  is  now 
To  Britain's  daughters  free. 


'  Mr*  Montague,  Mrs.  Carter. 


174 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


In  Eve  (we  know)  of  fruit  so  fair 
The  noble  thirst  began ; 
And  they,  like  her,  have  caused  a  fall, 
A  fall  of  fame  in  man. 

And  since  of  genius  in  our  sex, 

0  Addison !  with  thee 
The  sun  is  set,  how  I*rejoice 
This  sister  lamp  to  sec ! 

It  sheds,  like  Cynthia,  silver  beams 

On  man's  nocturnal  state : 

His  lessened  light,  and  languid  powers, 

1  show,  whi^t  I  relate. 


PART  II. 

BUT  what  in  either  sex,  beyond 
All  parts,  our  glory  crowns'? 
"  In  ruffling  seasons  to%be  calm, 
And  smile  while  fortune  frowns." 

Heaven's  choice  is  safer  than  our  own : 

Of  ages  past  inquire. 

What'  the  most  formidable  fate  1 

"  To  have  our  own  desire." 

If,  in  your  wrath,  the  worst  of  foes 
You  wish  extremely  ill ; 
Expose  him  to  the  thunder's  stroke, 
Or  that  of  his  own  will. 

What  numbers  rushing  down  the  steep 
Of  inclination  strong, 
Have  perished  in  the  ardent  wish ! 
Wish  ardent,  ever  wrong ! 

'Tis  Resignation's  full  reverse, 
Most  wrong,  as  it  implies 
Error  most  fatal  in  our  choice, 
Detachment  from  the  skies.  - 

By  closing  with  the  skies,  we  make 
Omnipotence  our  own ; 
That  done,  how  formidable  Ill's 
Whole  army  is  o'erthrown ! 

No  longer  impotent  and  frail, 
Ourselves  above  we  rise ; 
We  scarce  believe  ourselves  below ; 
We  trespass  on  the  skies. 

The  Lord,  and  Soul,  and  source  of  all, 
Whilst  man  enjoys  his  ease, 
Is  executing  human  will 
In  earth,  and  air,  and  seas. 

Beyond  us  what  can  angels  boast  ? 
Archangels  what,  require  1 
Whate'er  below,  above,  is  done, 
Is  done  as — we  desire. 


What  glory  this  for  man  so  mean, 
Whose  life  is  but  a  span  1 
This  is  meridian  majesty ! 
This  the  sublime  of  man ! 

Beyond  the  boast' of  Pagan  song 
My  sacred  subject  shines, 
And  for  a  soil  the  lustre  takes         , 
Of  Rome's  exalted  lines/ 

"  All  that  the  sun  surveys  subdued, 
But  Cato's  mighty  mind'"' — 
How  grand !  most  true :  yet  far  beneath 
The  soul  of  the  resigned. 

To  more  than  kingdoms,  more  than  worlds, 
To  passion  that  gives  law : 
Its  matchless  empire  could  have  kept 
Great  Cato's  pride  in  awe. 

That  fatal  pride,  whose  cruel  point 
Transfixed  his  noble  breast ; 
Far  nobler !  if  his  fate  sustained 
Had  left  to  Heaven  the  rest : 

Then  he  the  palm  had  borne  away, 
At  distance  Caesar  thrown : 
Put  him  off  cheaply  with  the  world, 
And  made  the  ski«s  his  own. 

What  can  not  Resignation  do  ? 

It  wonders  can  perform : 

That  powerful  charm,  "  Thy  will  be  done," 

Can  lay  the  loudest  storm. 

Come,  Resignation !  then,  from  fields, 
Where,  mounted  on  the  wing, 
A  wing  of  flame,  blessed  martyrs'  souls 
Ascended  to  their  King. 

Who  is  it  calls  thee  ?  One  whose  need 
Transcends  the  common  size ; 
Who  stands  in  front  against  a  foe 
To  which  none  equal  rise : 

In  front  he  stands,  the  brink  he  treads 
Of  an  eternal  state ! 
How  dreadful  his  appointed  post ! 
How  strongly  armed  by  fate ! 

His  threatening  foe !  what  shadows  deep 
O'erwhelm  his  gloomy  brow ! 
His  dart  tremendous ! — at  fourscore 
My  sole  asylum  thou. 

Haste  then,  O  Resignation !  haste, 
'Tis  thine  to  reconcile 
My  foe  and  me ;  at  thy  approach, 
My  foe  begins  to  smile. 

O  for  that  summit  of  my  wish, 
Whilst  here  I  draw  my  breath, 
That  promise  of  eternal  life, 
A  glorious  smile  in  death. 


RESIGNATION. 


175 


What  sight,  heaven's  azure  arch  beneath, 
Hast  most  of  Heaven  to  boast  7 
The  man  resigned,  at  once  serene, 
And  giving  up  the  ghost. 

At  death's  arrival  they  shall  smile 
Who,  not  in  life  o'er-gay, 
Serious  and  frequent  thought  send  out 
To  meet  him  in  his  way. 

My  gay  coevals  !  (such  there  are) 
If  happiness  is  dear, 
Approaching  Death's  alarming  day 
Discreetly  let  us  fear. 

The  fear  of  death  is  truly  wise, 
Till  wisdom  can  rise  higher; 
And,  armed  with  pious  fortitude, 
Death,  dreaded  once,  desire. 

Grand  climacteric  vanities 

The  vainest  will  despise ; 

Shocked  when,  beneath  the  snow  of  age, 

Man  immaturely  dies. 

But  am  not  I  myself  the  man  1 
No  need  abroad  to  roam 
In  quest  of  faults  to  be  chastised ; 
What  cause  to  blush  at  home ! 

In  life's  decline,  when  men  relapse 
Into  the  sports  of  youth, 
The  second  child  outfools  the  first, 
And  tempts  the  lash  of  Truth ; 

Shall  a  mere  truant  from  the  grave 
With  rival  boys  engage  ? 
His  trembling  voice  attempt  to  sing, 
And  ape  the  poet's  rage  1 

Here,  Madam!  let  me  visit  one, 
My  fault  who  partly  shares, 
And  tell  myself,  by  telling  him, 
What  more  becomes  our  years. 

And  if  your  breast  with  prudent  zeal 
For  Resignation  glows, 
You  will  not  disapprove  a  just 
Resentment  at  its  foes. 

In  youth,  Voltaire !  our  foibles  plead 

For  some  indulgence  due ; 

When  heads  are  white,  their  thoughts  and  aims 

Should  change  their  colour  too. 

How  are  you  cheated  by  your  wit ! 
Old  age  is  bound  to  pay, 
By  Nature's  law,  a  mind  discreet, 
For  joys  it  takes  away. 

_rhty  change  is  wrought  by  years, 
Reversing  human  lot ; 
In  age  'tis  honour  to  lie  hid, 
'Ti.s  praise  to  be  forgot ; 
25 


The  wise,  as  flowers,  which  spread  at  noon,' 
And  all  their  charms  expose, 
When  evening  damps  and  shades  descend, 
Their  evolutions  close. 

What  though  your  Muse  has  nobly  soared, 
Is  that  our  true  sublime  1 
Ours,  hoary  friend!  is  to  prefer 
Eternity  to  time. 

Why  close  a  life  so  justly  famed 
With  such  bold  trash  as  this?* 
This  for  renown  1  yes,  such  as  makes 
Obscurity  a  bliss. 

Your  trash,  with  mine  at  open  war 
Is  obstinately  bent,t 
Like  wits  below,  to  sow  your  tares 
Of  gloom  and  discontent. 

With  so  much  sunshine  at  command, 
Why  light  with  darkness  mix? 
Why  dash  with  pain  our  pleasure?  why 
Your  Helicon  with  Styx? 

Your  works  in  our  divided  minds 
Repugnant  passions  raise, 
Confouna  us  with  a  double  stroke ; 
We  shudder,  whilst  we  praise: 

A  curious  web,  as  finely  wrought 
As  genius  can  inspire, 
From  a  black  bag  of  poison  spun, 
With  horror  we  admire. 

Mean  as  it  is,  if  this  is  read 
With  a  disdainful  air, 
I  can't  forgive  so  great  a  foe 
To  toy  dear  friend  Voltaire. 

Early  I  knew  him,  early  praised, 
And  long  to  praise  him  late ; 
His  genius  greatly  I  admire, 
Nor  would  deplore  his  fate : 

A  fate  how  much  to  be  deplored, 
At  which  our  nature  starts ! 
Forbear  to  fall  on  your  own  sword, 
To  perish  by  your  parts. 

great  your  name"— To  feed  on  air 

then  immortals  born  1 
Nothing  is  great,  of  which  more  great, 
More  glorious  is  the  scorn. 

Can  fame  your  carcass  from  the  worm, 
Which  gnaws  us  in  the  grave, 
Or  soul  from  that  which  never  dies, 
Applauding  Europe  save  1 

But  fame  you  lose;  good  sense  alone 
Your  idol,  praise  can  claim ; 
When  wild  wit  murders  happiness, 
[t  puts  to  death  our  fame. 


•Candid 


t  Second  Part. 


176 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Nor  boast  our  genius ;  talents  bright 
E'en  dunces  will  despise, 
If  in  your  western  beams  is  missed 
A  genius  for  the  skies. 

Your  taste,  too,  fails:  what  most  excels, 
True  .taste  must  relish  most ; 
And  what,  to  rival  palms  above, 
Can  proudest  laurels  boast  1 

Sound  heads  salvation's  helmet*  seek ; 
Resplendent  are  its  rays  :t 
Let  that  suffice;  it  needs  no  plume 
Of  sublunary  praise. 

May  this  enable  couched  Voltaire 
To  see  that— all  is  right, 
His  eye,  by  flash  of  wit  struck  blind, 
Restoring  to  its  sight. 

If  so,  all's  well:  who  much  have  erred, 
That  much  have  been  forgiven ; 
I  speak  with  joy,  with  joy  he'll  hear, 
"  Voltaires  are  now  in  heaven." 

Nay,  such  philanthropy  divine,  4 

So  boundless  in  degree, 

Its  marvellous  of  love  extends 

(Stoop  most  profound !)  to  me. 

Let  others  cruel  stars  arraign, 
Or  dwell  OH  their  distress ; 
But  let  my  page,  for  mercies  poured, 
A  grateful  heart  express. 

Walking,  the  present  God  was  seen, 
Of  old,  in  Eden  fair; 
The  God  as  present,  by  plain  steps 
Of  providential  care, 

I  behold  passing  through  my  life ; 
His  awful  voice  I  hear; 
And  conscious  of  my  nakedness, 
Would  hide  myself  for  fear : 

But  where  the  trees,  or  where  the  clouds, 
Can  cover  from  his  sight  1 
Naked  the  centre  to  that  eye 
To  which  the  sun  is  night. 

As  yonder  glittering  lamps  on  high  • 
Through  night  illumined  roll ; 
May  thoughts  of  him  by  whom  they  shine 
Chase  darkness  from  m/  soul ! 

My  soul,  which  reads  his  hand  as  cleai 

In  my  minute  affairs, 

As  in  his  ample  manuscript 

Of  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars; 

And  knows  him  not  more  bent  aright 
To  wield  that  vast  machine, 


•Eph.  vi.  17. 


1  Which  his  romance  ridicules. 


Than  to  correct  one  erring  thought 
In  my  small  world  within. 

A  world  that  shall  survive  the  fall 
Of  all  his  wonders  here  ; 
Survive,  when  suns  ten  thousand  drop, 
And  leave  a  darkened  sphere. 

Yon  matter  gross,  how  bright  it  shines ! 
For  time  how  great  his  care ! 
Sure  spirit  and  eternity 
Far  richer  glories  share. 

Let  those  our  hearts  impress,  on  those 
Our  contemplation  dwell ; 
On  those  my  thoughts  how  justly  thrown, 
By  what  I  now  shall  tell ! 

When  backward  with  attentive  mind 
Life's  labyrinth  I  trace, 
I  find  him  far  myself  beyond 
Propitious  to  my  peace : 

Through  all  the  crooked  paths  I  trod 
My  folly  he  pursued ; 
My  heart  astray,  to  quick  return 
Importunately-  wooed. 

Due  Resignation  home  to  press 
On  my  capricious  will, 
How  many  rescues  did  I  meet 
Beneath  the  mask  of  ill ! 

How  many  foes  in  ambusIT  laid 
Beneath  my  soul's  desire ! 
The  deepest  penitents  are  made 
By  what  we  most  admire. 

Have  I  not  sometimes,  (real  good 
So  little  mortals  know  !) 
Mounting  the  summit  of  my  'wish, 
Profoundly  plunged  in  wo  1        .     • 

I  rarely  planned,  but  cause  I  found 
My  plan's  defeat  to  bless :  . 
Oft  I  lamented  an  event, 
It  turned  to  my  success. 

By  sharpened  appetite  to  give 
To  good  intense  delight, 
Through  dark  and  deep  perplexities 
He  led  me  to  the  right. 

And  is  not  this  the  gloomy  path 
Which  you  are  treading  now  ? 
The  path  most  gloomy  leads  to  light, 
When  our  proud  passions  bow. 

When  labouring  under  fancied  ill, 
My  spirits  to  sustain, 
He  kindly  cured  with  sovereign  draughts 
Of  unimagined  pain. 


RESIGNATION. 


177 


Pained  Sense  from  Fancy's  tyranny 
Alone  can  set  us  free : 
A  thousand  miseries  we  feel, 
Till  sunk  in  misery. 

Cloyed  with  a  glut  of  all  we  wish, 
Our  wish  we  relish  loss  : 
s  a  sort  of  suicide, 
Is  ruined  by  succ. 

Sometimes,  he  led  me  near  to  death, 
And,  pointing  to  the  grave, 
Bid  Terror  whisper  kind  advice, 
And  taught  the  tomb  to  save. 

To  raise  my  thoughts  beyond  where  worlds 

As  spangles  o'er  us  shine, 

One  day  he  gave,  and  bid  the  next 

My  soul's  delight  resign. 

We  to  ourselves,  but  through  the  means 

Of  mirrors  are  unknown ; 

In  this  my  fate  can  you  descry 

No  featur.es  of  your  own  1 

And  if  you  can,  let  that  excuse 
These  self  recording  lines; 
A  record  modesty  forbids, 
Or  to  small  bound  confines. 

In  grief  why  deep  ingulfed  1  you  see 
You  suffer  nothing  rare ; 
Uncommon  grief  for  common  fate ; 
That  Wisdom  can  not  hear. 

When  streams  flow  backward  to  their  source, 
And  humbled  flames  descend, 
And  mountains  winged  shall  fly  aloft, 
Then  human  sorrows  end: 

But  human  prudence,  too,  must  cease 
When  sorrows  domineer, 
When  fortitude  has  lost  its  fire, 
And  freezes  into  fear. 

The  pang  most  poignant  of  my  life 
Now  heightens  my  delight ; 
I  see  a  fair  creation  rise 
From  Chaos  and  old  Night. 

From  what  seemed  horror  and  despair, 
The  richest  harvest  rose, 
And  nave  me  in  the  nod  divine, 
An  absolute  repose. 

Of  all  the  blunders  of  mankind, 
More  gross,  or  frequent,  none, 
Than  in  their  ^rief  and  joy  misplaced 
Eternally  are  shown. 

But  whither  jHiints  all  this  parade  1 

t!i;tl  near  \ou  lies 
A  book,  perhaps,  yet  unperust-tl. 
Which  you  should  greatly  prize. 


Of  self-perusal,  science  rare ! 
Few  know  the  mighty  gain ; 
Learped  prelates,  self-unread,  may  read 
Their  Bibles  o'er  in  vain. 

Self-knowledge,  which  from  heaven  itself 
(So  sages  tell  us)  came, 
What  is  it  but  a  daughter  fair 
Of  my  maternal  theme  7 

Unlettered  and  untraveled  men 

An  oracle  might  find, 

Would  they  consult  their  own  contents, 

The  Delphos  of  the  mind. 

Entef  your  bosom;  there  you'll  find 
A  revolution  new, 
A  revolution  personal, 
Which  none  can  read  but  you. 

There  will  you  clearly  read  revealed 
In  your  enlightened  thought, 
By  mercies  manifold,  through  life, 
To  fresh  remembrance  brought, 

A  mighty  Being !  and  in  him 
A  complicated  friend, 
A  father,  brother,  spouse ;  nc^dread 
Of  death,  divorce,  or  end. 

Who  such  a  matchless  friend  embrace, 
And  lodge  him  in  their  heart, 
Full  well,  from  agonies  exempt, 
With  other  friends  may  part. 

As  when  o'erloaded  branches  bear 
Large  clusters  big  with  wine, 
We  scarce  regret  one  falling  leaf 
From  the  luxuriant  vine. 

My  short  advice  to  you  may  sound 
Obscure,  or  somewhat  odd, 
Though  'tis  the  best  that  man  can  give, 
"  E'en  be  content  with  God." 

Through  love  he  gave  you  the  deceased ; 
Through  greater  took  him  hence : 
This  reason  fully  could  evince, 
Though  murmured  at  by  Sense. 

This  friend  far  past  the  kindest  kind, 
Is  past  the  greatest  great ; 
His  greatness  let  me  touch  in  points 
Not  foreign  to  your  state. 

His  eye,  this  instant,  reads  your  heart, 
A  truth  less  obvious  hear, 
This  instant  its  most  secret  thoughts 
Are  sounding  in  his  ear. 

Dispute  you  this!  O  stand  in  awe, 
And  cease  your  sorrow ;  know, 
That  tear,  now  trickling  down,  he  saw 
Ten  thousand  years  ago ; 


178 


YOUNG'S  WORKS; 


And  twice  ten  thousand  hence,  if  you 
Your  temper  reconcile 
To  Reason's  bound,. will  he  behold 
Your  prudence  with  a  smile ; 

A  smile  which  through  eternity 
Diffuses  so  bright  rays, 
The  dimmest  deifies  e'en  guilt, 
If  guilt  at  last  obeys. 

Your  guilt  (for  guilt  it  is  to  mourn, 
When  such  a  Sovereign  reigns) 
Your  guilt  diminish,  peace  pursue; 
How  glorious  peace  in  pains ! 

Here,  then,  your  sorrows  cease,  if  not, 
Think  how  unhappy  they 
Who  guilt  increase  by  streaming  tears, 
Which  guilt  should  wash  away. 

Of  tears  that  gush  profuse  restrain ; 
Whence  burst  the  dismal  sighs  1 
They  from  the  throbbing  breast  of  one 
(Strange  truth !)  most  happy  rise. 

Not  angels  (hear  it,  and  exult !) 
Enjoy  a  larger  share 
Than  is  indulged  to  you,  and  yours, 
Of  God's  impartial  care. 

Anxious  for  each,  as  if  on  each 
His  care  for  all  was  thrown; 
For  all  his  care  as  absolute 
As  all  had  been  but  one. 

And  is  he  then  so  near  7  so  kind  ?— 
How  little  then,  and  great, 
That  riddle,  man!  O  let  me  gaze 
At  wonders  in  his  fate ! 

His  fate,  who  yesterday  did  crawl 
A  worm  from  darkness  deep, 
And  shall,  with  brother  worms,  beneath 
A  turf,  to-morrow  sleep. 

How  mean !  and  yet  if  well  obeyed 
His  mighty  master's  call, 
The  whole  creation  for  mean  man 
Is  deemed  a  boon  too  small : 

Too  small  the  whole  creation  deemed 
For  emmets  in  the  dust ! 
Account  amazing!  yet  most  true; 
My  song  is  bold,  yet  just. 

Man  born  for  infinite,  in  whom 
No  period  can  destroy 
The  power,  in  exquisite  extremes 
To  suffer,  or  enjoy. 

Give  him  earth's  empire  (if  no  more) 
He 's  beggared  and  undone ! 
Imprisoned  in  unbounded  space! 
Benighted  by  the  sun ! 


For  what 's  the  sun's  meridian  blaze 
To  the  most  feeble  ray 
Which  glimmers  in  the  distant  dawn 
Of  uncreated  day  1 

'Tis  not  the  poet's  rapture  feigned 
Swells  here,  the  vain  to  please : 
The  mind  most  sober  kindles  most 
At  truths  sublime  as  these. 

They  warm  e'en  me. — I  dare  not  say 
Divine  ambition  strove 
Not  to  bless  only,  .but  confound, 
Nay  fright  us,  with  its  love ; 

And  yet  so  frightful  what,  or  kind,  , 
As  that  the  rending  rock, 
The  darkened  suri,  and  rising  dead, 
So  formidably  spoke  1 

And  are  we  darker  than  the  sun  ? 
Than  rocks  more  hard  and  blind  1 
We  are ; — if  not  to  such  a  God 
In  agonies  resigned. 

Yea,  e'en  in  agonies  forbear 
To  doubt  almighty  love ; 
Whate'er  endears  eternity, 
Is  mercy  from  above. 

What  most  imbitters  time,  that  most 
Eternity  endears; 
And  thus  by  plunging  in  distress, 
Exalts  us  to  the  spheres : 

Joy's  fountain-head !  where  bliss  o'er  bliss, 
O'er  wonders  wonders  rise, 
And  an  Omnipotence  prepares 
Its  banquet  for  the  wise; 

Ambrosial  banquet!  rich  in  wines 
Nectareous  to  the  soul.! 
What  transports  sparkle  from  the  stream, 
As  angels  fill  the  bowl ! 

Fountain  profuse  of  every  bliss ! 
Good-will  immense  prevails : 
Man's  line  can't  fathom  its  profound ; 
An  angel's  plummet  fails. 

Thy  love  and  might,  by  what  they  know 
Who  judge,  nor  dream  of  more; 
They  ask  a  drop,  how  deep  the  sea? 
One  sand,  how  wide  the  shore? 

Of  thy  exuberant  good-will, 
Offended  Deity! 

The  thousandth  part  who  comprehends, 
A  deity  is  He. 

How  yonder  ample  azure  field 
With  radiant  worlds  is  sown ! 
How  tubes  astonish  us  with  those 
More  deep  in  ether  thrown ! 


RESIGNATION. 


179 


And  those  beyond  of  brighter  worlds 
Why  not  a  million  morel 
In  lieu  of  answer,  let  us  all 
Fall  prostrate  and  adore. 

Since  thou  art  infinite  in  power, 
Nor  thy  indulgence  less ; 
Since  man,  quite  impotent  and  blind, 
Oft  drops  into  distress ; 

Say,  what  is  Resignation?  'Tis 
Man's  weakness  understood ; 
And  Wisdom  grasping,  with  a  hand 
Far  stronger,  every  good. 

Let  rash  repiners  stand  appalled, 
In  thee  who  dare  not  trust; 
Whose  abject  souls,  like  demons  dark, 
Are  murm'ring  in  the  dust. 

For  man  to  murmur  or  repine 
At  what  by  thee  is  done, 
No  less  absurd  than  to  complain, 
Of  darkness  in  the  sun. 

Who  would  not,  with  a  heart  at  ease, 
Bright  eye,  unclouded  brow, 
Wisdom  and  Goodness  at  the  helm, 
The  roughest  ocean  plough  7 

What  though  I'm  swallowed  in  the  deep ! 
Though  mountains  o'er  me  roar! 
Jehovah  reigns !  As  Jonah  safe 
I'm  landed,  and  adore. 

Thy  will  is  welcome,  let  it  wear 

Its  most  tremendous  form : 

Roar,  Waves !  rage,  Winds !  I  know  that  thou 

Canst  save  me  by  a  storm. 

From  thee  immortal  spirits  born. 
To  thee  their  fountain- flow, 
If  wise,  as  curled  around  to  theirs 
Meand'ring  streams  below. 

Not  less  compelled  by  Reason's  call, 
To  thee  our  souls  aspire, 
Than  to  thy  skies,  by  Nature's  law 
High  mounts  material  fire : 

To  thee  aspiring  they  exult : 
I  feel  my  spirits  rise, 
I  feel  myself  thy  son,  and  pant 
For  patrimonial  skies. 

Since  ardent  thirst  of  future  good, 
And  generous  sense  of  past, 
To  thee  man's  prudence  strongly  ties, 
And  binds  affection  fast. 

Since  great  thy  love,  and  great  our  want, 
And  men  the  wisest  blind, 
And  bliss  our  aim,  pronounce  us  all 
Distracted  or  resigned. 


Resigned  through  duty,  interest,  shame ; 
Deep  shame !  dare  I  complain, 
When  (wondrous  truth ! )  in  heaven  itself 
Joy  owed  its  birth  to  pain*? 

And  pain  for  me !  for  me  was  drained 
Gall's  overflowing  bowl ; 
And  shall  one  drop,  to  murmur  bold 
Provoke  my  guilty  soul  1 

If  pardoned  this,  what  cause,  what  crime, 
Can  indignation  raise  1 
The  sun  was  lighted  up  to  shine, 
And  man  was  born  to  praise: 

And  when  to  praise  thee  man  shall  cease, 
Or  sun  to  strike  the  view; 
A  cloud  dishonours  both,  but  man's 
The  blacker  of  the  two. 

For,  oh !  ingratitude  how  black ! 
With  most  profound  amaze 
At  love,  which  man,  beloved,  o'erlooks, 
Astonished  angels  gaze. 

Praise  cheers  and  warms,  like  generous  wine ; 
Praise,  more  divine  than  prayer : 
Prayer  points  our  ready  path  to  heaven ; 
Praise  is  already  there. 

Let  plausive  Resignation  rise, 
And  banish  all  complaint ; 
All  virtues  thronging  into  one, 
It  finishes  the  saint ; 

Makes  the  man  blest  as  man  can  be ; 
Life's  labours  renders  light ; 
Darts  beams  through  Fate's  incumbent  gloom, 
And  lights  our  sun  by  night. 

'Tis  Nature's  brightest  ornament, 
The  richest  gift  of  Grace, 
Rival  of  angels,  and  supreme 
Proprietor  of  peace : 

Nay,  peace  beyond  no  small  degree 

Of  rapture  'twill  impart ; 

Know,  Madam!  "  when  your  heart's  in  heaven, 

"  All  heaven  is  in  your  heart." 

But  who  to  heaven  their  hearts  can  raise? 

Denied  divine  support, 

All  virtue  dies ;  support  divine 

The  wise  with  ardour  court: 

When  prayer  partakes  the  seraph's  fire, 
'Tis  mounted  on  his  wing, 
Bursts  through  heaven's  crystal  gates,  and  gains 
Sure  audience  of  its  King. 

The  labouring  soul  from  sore  distress 
That  blessed  expedient  frees; 

see  you  far  advanced  in  peace ; 
I  see  you  on  your  knees. 


180 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


How  on  that  posture  has  the  beam 
Divine  for  ever  shone? 
An  humble  heart,  God's  other  seat!* 
The  rival  of  his  throne. 

And  stoops  Omnipotence  so  low  7 
And  condescends  to  dwell 
Eternity's  inhabitant, 
Well-pleased  in  such  a  cell? 

Such  honour  how  shall  we  repay  1 
How  treat  our  guest  divine'? — 
The  sacrifice  supreme  be  slain  ! 
Let  self-will  die  :  Resign. 

Thus  far,  at  large  on  our  disease ; 
Now  let  the  cause  be  shown, 
Whence  rises,  and  will  ever  rise, 
The  dismal  human  groan. 

What  our  sole  fountain  of  distress? 
Strong  passion  for  this  scene ; 
That  trifles  make  important,  things 
Of  mighty  moment  mean. 

When  earth's  dark  maxims  poison  shed 
On  our  polluted  souls, 
Our  hearts  and  interests  fly  as  far 
Asunder  as  the  poles. 

Like  princes  in  a  cottage  nursed 
Unknown  their  royal  race, 
With  abject  aims  and  sordid  joys 
Our  grandeur  we  disgrace. 

O  for  an  Archimides  new 
Of  moral  powers  possessed, 
The  world  to  move  and  quite  expel 
That  traitor  from  the  breast ! 

No  small  advantage  may  be  reaped 
From  thought  whence  we  descend  ; 
From  weighing  well,  and  prizing,  weighed, 
Our  origin  and  end ;  - 

From  far  above  the  glorious  sun 
To  this  dim  scene  we  came ; 
And  may,  if  wise,  for  ever  bask 
In  great  Jehovah's  beam : 

Let  that  bright  beam,  on  reason  roused, 
In  awful  lustre  rise, 
Earth's  giant  ills  are  dwarfed  at  once, 
And  all  disquiet  dies ; 

Earth's  glories,  too,  their  splendour  lose, 
Those  phantoms  charm  no  more, 
Empire's  a  feather  for  a  fool, 
And  Indian  mines  are  poor: 

Then  leveled  quite,  whilst  yet  alive, 
The  monarch  and  his  slave] 


Isaiah  Ivii.  15. 


Nor  wait  enlightened  minds  to  learn 
That  lesson  from  the  grave. 

A  George  the  Third  would  then  be  low 
As  Lewis  in  renown, 
Could  he  not  boast  of  glory  more 
Than  sparkles  from  a  crown. 

When  human  glory  rises  high 
As  human  glory  can  ; 
When,  though  the  king  is  truly  great, 
Still  greater  is  the  man : 

The  man  is  dead  where  virtue  fails  : 
And  though  the  monarch  proud 
In  grandeur  shines,  his  gorgeous  robe 
Is  but  a  gaudy  shroud. 

Wisdom!  where  art  thou?  None  on  earth, 
Though  grasping  wealth,  fame,  power, 
But  what,  O  Death !  Ihrough  thy  approach 
Is  wiser  every  hour. 

Approach  how  swift !  how  unconfined ! 
Worms  feast  on  viands  rare : 
Those  little  epicures  have  kings 
To  grace  their  bill  of  fare. 

From  kings  what  resignation  due 

To  that  almighty  Will, 

Which  thrones  bestows,  and,  when  they  fail, 

Can  throne  them  higher  still ! 

Who  truly  great?  the  good  and  brave, 

The  masters,  of  a  mind 

The  will  divine  to  do  resolved ; 

To  suffer  it  resigned. 

Madam !  if  that  may  give  it  weight, 
The  trifle  you  receive 
Is  dated  from  a  solemn  scene, 
The  border  of  the  grave ; 

Where  strongly  strikes  the  trembling  soul 
Eternity's  dread  power, 
As  bursting  on  it  through  the  thin 
Partition  of  an  hour. 

Hear  this,  Voltaire !  but  this  from  me 
Runs  hazard  of  your  frown ; 
However,  spare  it ;  ere  you  die, 
Such  thoughts  will  be  your  own. 

In  mercy  to  yourself,  forbear 
My  notions  to  chastise, 
Lest  unawares  the  gay  Voltaire 
Should  blame  Voltaire  the  wise. 

Fame's  trumpet  rattling  in  your  ear 
Now  makes  us  disagree  ; 
When  a  far  louder  trumpet  sounds, 
Volt  niro  will  clrwn  with  me. 


RESIGNATION. 


181 


I  Tow  shocking  is  that  modesty 
Which  keeps  some  honest  men 
From  urging  what  their  hearts  suggest, 
When  braved  by  Folly's  pen, 

Assaulting  truths,  of  which  in  all 

:i  the  sacred  seed! 
Our  constitution  's  orthodox, 
And  closes  with  our  creed. 

What  then  are  they  whose  proud  conceits 
Superior  wisdom  boast  1 
Wretches,  who  fight  their  own  belief, 
And  labour  to  be  lost. 

Though  Vice  by  no  superior  joys 
Her  Heroes  keeps  hi  \ 
Through  pure  disinterested  love 
Of  ruin  they  obey  1 

Strict  their  devotion  to  the  wrong, 
Though  tempted  by  no  prize ; 
Hard  their  commandments,  and  their  creed 
A  magazine  of  lies 

From  Fancy's  forge:  gay  Fancy  smiles 
At  Reason  plain  and  cool ; 
Fancy,  whose  curious  trade  it  is 
To  make  the  finest  fool. 

Voltaire!  long  life's  the  greatest  curse 
That  mortals  can  receive 
When  they  imagine  the  chief  end 
Of  living  is  to  live. 

Quite  thoughtless  of  their  day  of  death,     * 
That  birthday  of  their  sorrow ; 
Knowing  it  may  be  distant  far, 
Nor  crush  them  till — to-morrow. 

These  are  cold,  northern  thoughts  conceived 

Beneath  an  humble  cot; 

Not  mine  your  genius  or  your  state, 

'No  Castle*  is  my  lot. 

But  soon,  quite  level  shall  we  lie : 
And  what  pride  most  bemoans, 
Our  parts,  in  rank  so  distant  now, 
As  level  as  their  bones. 

Hear  you  that  sound  1  alarming  sound  ! 
Prepare  to  meet  your  fate ! 
One  who  writes  finis  to  our  works, 
Is  knocking  at  the  gate. 

Far  other  works  will  soon  be  weighed ; 
Far  other  judges  sit : 
Far  other  crowns  be  lost,  or  won, 
Than  fire'ambitious  wit : 

Their  wit  far  brightest  will  be  proved 
Who  sunk  it  in  good  sense, 


And  veneration  most  profound 
Of  dread  Omnipotence. 

'Tis  that  alone  unlocks  the  gate 
Of  blessed  eternity ! 
O  may'st  thou  never,  never  lose 
That  more  than  golden  key!* 

Whate'er  may  seem  too  rough,  excuse ; 
Your  good  I  have  at  heart ; 
Since  from  my  soul  I  wish  you  well, 
A*s  yet  we  must  not  part : 

Shall  you  and  I,  in  love  with  life, 
Life's  future  schemes  contrive, 
The  world  in  wonder  not  unjust, 
That  we  are  stfll  alive  1 

What  have  we  left  1  how  mean  in  man 
A  shadow's  shade  to  crave  1 
When  life  so  vain !  is  vainer  still, 
'Tis  time  to  take  our  leave. 

Happier  than  happiest  life  his  death, 
Who,  falling  in  the  field 
Of  conflict  with  his  rebel  will, 
Writes  Vici  on  his  shield. 

So  falling  man,  immortal  heir 
Of  an  eternal  prize, 
Undaunted  at  the  gloomy  grave, 
Descends  into  the  skies. 

O  how  disordered  our  machine, 
When  contradictions  mix ! 
When  Nature  strikes  no  less  than  twelve, 
And  folly  points  at  six ! 

To  mend  the  movements  of  your  heart, 
How  great  is  my  delight ! 

ently  to  wind  your  morals  up, 
And  set  your  hand  aright ! 

That  hand  which  spread  your  wisdom  wide 
To  poison  distant  lands  : 
Repent,  recant :  the  tainted  age 
Your  antidote  demands. 

To  Satan  dreadfully  resigned 
Whole  herds  rush  down  the  steep 
Of  Folly,  by  lewd  wits  possessed, 
And  perish  in  the  deep. 

VLen's  praise  your  vanity  pursues: 
Tis  well,  pursue  it  still : 
3ut  lot  it  be  of  men  deceased, 
And  you'll  resign  the  will ; 

And  how  superior  they  to  those 
At  whose  applause  you  aim, 

3ow  very  far  superior  they 

n  number  and  in  name  ! 


'  Letter  to  Lord  Lyttleton. 


*  Alluding  to  Prussia. 


182 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

Thus  have  I  written,  when  to  write 
No  mortal  should  presume  ; 
Or  only  write,  what  none  should  blame, 
Hie  jacet — for  his  tomb. 

Though  public  frowns,  and  censures  loud, 
My  puerile  employ :     . 
Though  just  the  censure,  if  you  smile, 
The  scandal  I  enjoy. 

But  sing  no  more — no  more  I  sing, 
Or  re-assume  the  lyre, 
Unless  vouchsafed  an  humble  part 
Where  Raphael  leads  the  choir. 

What  myriads  swell  the  concert  loud ! 
Their  golden  harps  resound 
High  as  the  footstool  of  the  throne, 
And  deep  as  hell  profound : 

Hell  (horrid  contrast !)  chord  and  song 
Of  raptured  angels  drowns 
In  self-will's  peal  of  blasphemies, 
And  hideous  burst  of  groans  ; 

But  drowns  them  not  to  me ;  I  hear 
Harmonious  thunders  roll 
(In  language  low  of  men  to  speak) 
From  echoing  pole  to  pole ! 

Whilst  this  grand  chorus  shakes  the  skies — 
"  Above,  beneath  the  sun, 
Through  boundless  age,  by  men,  by  gods, 
Jehovah's  will  be  done." 

'Tis  done  in  heaven ;  whence  headlong  hurled 

Self-will,  with  Satan  fell; 

And  must  from  earth  be  banished  too 

Or  earth's  another  hell. 

Madam !  self-will  inflicts  your  pains : 
Self-will's  the  deadly  foe 
Which  deepens  all  the  dismal  shades, 
And  points  the  shafts  of  wo. 

Your  debt  to  Nature  fully  paid, 
Now  Virtue  claims  her  due ; 
But  Virtue's  cause  I  need  not  plead, 
'Tis  safe ;  I  write  to  you. 

You  know  that  Virtue's  basis  lies 
In  ever  judging  right ; 
And  wiping  Error's  clouds  away, 
Which  dim  the  mental  sight. 

Why  mourn  the  dead  1  you  wrong  the  grave, 
From  storm  that  safe  resort; 
We  are  still  tossing  out  at  sea, 
Our  admiral  in  port. 


Was  death  denied,  this  world  a  scene 
How  dismal  and  forlorn ! 
To  death  we  owe,  that  'tis  to  man 
A  blessing  to  be  born. 

When  every  other  blessing  fails, 
Or  sapped  by  slow  decay, 
Or  stormed  by  sudden  blasts  of  fate, 
Is  swiftly  hurled  away ; 

How  happy !  that  no  storm,  or  time, 
Of  death  can  rob  the  just ! 
None  pluck  from  their  unaching  heads 
Soft  pillows  in  the  dust ! 

Well  pleased  to  bear  heaven's  darkest  frown, 
Your  utmost  power  employ ; 
'Tis  noble  chymistry  to  turn 
Necessity  to  joy. 

Whate'er  the  colour  of  my  fate, 
My  fate  shall  be  my  choice ; 
Determined  am  I,  whilst  I  breathe, 
To  praise  and  to  rejoice. 

What  ample  cause  1  triumphant  hope ! 

0  rich  eternity ! 

1  start  not  at  a  world  in  flames, 
Charmed  with  one  glimpse  of  thee. 

And  thou!  its  great  inhabitant! 

How  glorious  dost  thou  shine ! 

Arid  dart  through  sorrow,  danger,  death, 

A  beam  of  joy  divine. 

The  vofd  of  joy  (with  some  concern 
The  truth  severe  I  tell) 
Is  an  impenitent  in  guilt, 
A  fool  or  infidel. 

Weigh  this,  ye  pupils  of  Voltaire ! 
From  joyless  murmur  free ; 
Or,  let  us  know,  which  character 
Shall  crown  you  of  the  three. 

Resign,  resign ;  this  lesson  none 
Too  deeply  can  instil ; 
A  crown  has  been  resigned  by  more 
Than  have  resigned  the  will. 

Though  will  resigned  the  meanest  makes 

Superior  in  renown, 

And  richer  in  celestial  eyes 

Than  he  who  wears  a  crown. 

Hence  in  the  bosom  of  cold  age 
[s  kindled  a  strange  aim 
To  shine  in  song,  and  bid  me  boast 
The  grandeur  of  my  theme : 

But,  oh !  how  far  presumption  falls 
[ts  lofty  theme  below ! 
Our  thoughts  in  life's  December  freeze, 
And  numbers  cease  to  flow. 


iUlsiGNATION. 


183 


First !  Greatest !  Best !  grant  what  I  wrote 

For  others,  ne'er  may  rise 

To  brand  the  writer ;  thou  alone 

Canst  make  our  wisdom  wise. 

And  how  unwise,  how  deep  in  guilt, 
How  infamous  the  i'ault, 
•  _\  teacher  throned  in  pomp  of  words, 
In  deed  beneath  the  taught !" 

Means  most  infallible  to  make 
The  world  an  infidel, 
And  with  instructions  most  divine 
To  pave  a  way  to  hell. 

O  for  a  clean  and  ardent  heart ! 
O  for  a  soul  on  fire ! 


Thy  praise,  begun  on  earth,  to  sound 
Where  angels  strike  the  lyre ! 

How  cold  is  man !  to  him  how  hard, 
(Hard  what  most  easy  seems) 
"  To  set  a  just  esteem  on  that 
Which  yet  he  most  esteems." 

What  shall  we  say,  when  boundless  bliss 

Is  offered  to  mankind, 

And  to  that  offer  when  a  race 

Of  rationals  is  blind? 

Of  human  nature,  ne'er  too  high 
Are  our  ideas  wrought ; 
Of  human  merit,  ne'er  too  low 
Depressed  the  daring  thought. 


ON  THE 

DEATH  OF  QUEEN  ANNE, 

AND  THE 

ACCESSION  OF  KING  GEORGE. 

INSCRIBED  TO 
JOSEPH  ADDISON,  ESQ. 

Secretary  to  their  Excellencies  the  Lords  Justices. 


Guadia  curis. — Hor. 


SIR  !  I  have  long,  and  with  impatience,  sought 
To  ease  the  fulness  of  my  grateful  thought, 
My  fame  at  once  and  duty  to  pursue, 
And  please  the  public  by  respect  to  you. 

Though  you,  long  since  beyond  Britannia  known, 
Have  spread  your  country's  glory  with  your  own, 
To  me  you  never  did  more  lovely  shine, 
Than  when  so  late  the  kindled  wrath  divine 
Quenched  our  ambition  in  great  Anna's  fate, 
And  darkened  all  the  pomp  of  human  state. 
Though  ^ou  are  rich  in  fame,  and  fame  decay, 
Though  raised  in  life,  and  greatness  fade  away, 
Your  lustre  brightens ;  virtue  cuts  the  gloom 
With  purer  rays,  and  sparkles  near  a  tomb. 

Know,  Sir !  the  great  esteem  and  honour  due 
I  choose,  that  moment,  to  profess  to  you, 
When  sadness  reigned,  when  Fortune  so  severe 
Had  warmed  our  bosoms  to  be  most  sincere, 
And  when  no  motive  could  have  force  to  raise 
A  serious  value,  and  provoke  my  praise, 
But  such  as  rise  above,  and  far  transcend, 
Whatever  glories  with  this  world  shall  end, 
Then  shining  forth,  when  deepest  shades  shall  blot 
The  sun's  bright  orb,  and  Cato  be  forgot. 


I  sing !— but,  ah !  my  theme  I  need  not  tell ! 
See  every  eye  with  conscious  sorrow  swell : 
Who  now  to  verse  would  raise  his  humble  voice, 
Can  only  show  his  duty,  not  his  choice. 
How  great  the  weight  of  grief  our  hearts  sustain ! 
We  languish,  and  to  speak  is  to  complain. 

Let  us  look  back,  (for  who  too  oft  can  view 
That  most  illustrious  scene,,  for  ever  new !) 
See  all  the  seasons  shine  on  Anna's  throne, 
And  pay  a  constant  tribute  not  their  own. 
Her  summer  heats  not  fruits  alone  bestow, 
They  reap  the  harvests  and  subdue  the  foe ; 
And  when  black  storms  confess  the  distant  sun, 
Her  winters  wear  the  wreaths  her  summers  won : 
Revolving  pleasures  in  their  turns  appear, 
And  triumphs  are  the  product  of  the  year. 
To  crown  the  whole,  great  joys  in  greater  cease, 
And  glorious  victory  is  lost  in  peace. 

Whence  this  profusion  on  our  favoured  isle  1 
Did  partial  Fortune  on  out  virtue  smile  1 
Or  did  the  sceptre,  in  great  Anna's  hand, 
Stretch  forth  this  rich  indulgence  o'er  our  land  ? 
Ungrateful  Britain !  quit  thy  groundless  claim ; 
The  queen  and  thy  good  fortune  are  the  same. 

Hear,  with  alarms  our  trumpets  fill  the  sky ; 
'Tis  Anna  reigns ;  the  Gallic  squadrons  fly. 
We  spread  our  canvass  to  the  southern  shore ; 
'Tis  Anna  reigns !  the  South  resigns  her  store. 
Her  virtue  sooths  the  tumult  of  the  main. 
And  swells  the  field  with  mountains  of  the  slain ; 
Argyle  and  Churchill  but  the  glory  share, 
While  millions  lie  subdued  by  Anna's  prayer. 

How  great  her  zeal !  how  fervent  her  desire ! 
How  did  her  soul  in  holy  warmth  expire ! 
Constant  devotion  did  her  time  divide  ! 
Nor  set  returns  of  pleasure  or  of  pride  j 


184: 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Not  want  of  rest,  or  the  sun's  parting  ray, 
But  finished  duty,  limited  the  day. 
How  sweet  succeeding  sleep !  what  lovely  themes 
Smiled  in  herthoughts,  and  softened  all  her  dreams ! 
Her  royal  couch  descending  angels  spread, 
And  join  their  wings,  a  shelter  o'er  her  head. 

Though  Europe's  wealth  and  glory  claimed  a  part, 
Religion's  cause  reigned  mistress  of  her  heart ; 
She  saw,  and  grieved,  to  see  the  mean  estate 
Of  those  who  round  the  hallowed  altar  wait; 
She  shed  her  bounty  piously  profuse, 
And  thought  it  more  her  own  in  sacred  use. 

Thus  on  his  furrow  see  the  tiller  stand, 
And  fill  with  genial  seed  his  lavish  hand ; 
He  trusts  the  .kindness  of  the  fruitful  plain, 
And  providently  scatters  all  his  grain. 

What  strikes  my  sight !  does  proud"  Augusta  rise 
New  to  behold,  and  awfully  surprise ! 
Her  lofty  brow  more- numerous  turrets  crown, 
And  sacred  domes  on  palaces  look  down ; 
A  noble  pride  of  piety  is  shown, 
And  temples  cast  a  lustre  on;  the  throne. 
How  would  this  work  another's  glory  raise ; 
But  Anna's  greatness  robs  her  of  the  praise: 
Drowned  in  a  greater  blaze  it  disappears. 
Who  dried  the  widow's  and  the  orphan's  tears  1 
Who  stooped  from  high  to  succour  the  distressed, 
And  reconcile  the  wounded  hea'rt  to  rest! 
Great  in  her  goodness,  well  could  we  perceive, 
Whoever  sought,  it  was  a  queen  that  gave. 
Misfortune  lost  her  name :  her  guiltless'  frown 
But  ma<le>  another  debtor  to  the  crown, 
And  each  unfriendly  stroke  from  fate  we  bore, 
Became  our  title  to  the  regal  store. 

Thus  injured  trees  adopt  a  foreign  shoot, 
And  their  wounds  blossom  with  a  fairer  fruit. 

Ye  Numbers,  who  On  your  misfortunes  thrived, 
When  first  the  dreadful  blast  of  Fame  arrived, 
Say,  what  a  shock,  what  agonies  you  felt, 
How  did  your  souls  with  tender  anguish  melt !    • 
That  grief  which  living  Anna's  love  suppressed, 
Shook  like  a  tempest  every  grateful  breast. 
A  second  fate  our  sinking  fortunes  tried ; 
A  second  time  our  tender  parents  died ! 

Heroes  returning  from  the  field  we  crown, 
And  deify  the  haughty  victor's  frown ; 
His  splendid  wreath  too  rashly  we  admire, 
Catch  the  disease,  and  burn  with  equal  fire. 
Wisely  to  spend  is  the  great  art  of  gain  5 
And  one  relieved  transcends  a  million  slain. 
When  time  shall  ask  where  once  Ramillia  lay, 
Or  Danube  flowed  that  swept  whole  troops  away, 
One  drop  of  water,  that  refreshed  the  dry, 
Shall  raise  a  fountain  of  eternal  joy. 

But  ah !  to  that  unknown  and  distant  date 
Is  Virtue's  great  reward  pushed  off  by  Fate ; 
Here  random  shafts  in  every  breast  are  found, 
Virtue  and  merit  but  provoke  the  wound. 


August  in  native  worth  and  regal  state, 
Anna  sat  arbitress  of  Europe's  fate ; 
To  distant  realms  did  ev'ry  accent  fly, 
And  nations  watched  each  motion  of  her  eye. 
Silent,  nor  longer  awful  to  be  seen, 
How  small  a  spot  contains  the  mighty  Queen! 
No  throng  of  suppliant  princes  mark  the  place, 
Where  Britain's  greatness  is  composed  in  peace: 
The  broken  earth  is  scarce  discerned  to  rise, 
And  a  stone  tells  us  where  the  morfarch  lies. 

Thus  end  maturest  honours  of  the  crown ! 
This  is  the  last  conclusion  of  renown ! 

So  when,  with  idle  skill,  the  wanton  boy 
Breathes  through  his  tube,  he  sees,  with  eager  joy, 
The  trembling  bubble,  in  its  rising  small, 
And  by  degrees,  expands  the  glittering  ball ; 
But  when,  to  full  perfection  blown,  it  flies 
High  in  the  air,  and  shines  in  various  dyes, 
The  little  monarch,  with  a  falling  tear, 
Sees  his  world  burst  at  once,  and  disappear. 

'Tis  not  in  sorrow  to  reverse  our  doom; 
No  groans  unlock  the  inexorable  tomb ; 
Why  then  this  fond  indulgence  of  our  wo ! 
What  fruit  can  rise,  or  what  advantage  flow! 
Yes,  this  adyantagefrom  our  deep  distress, 
We  learn  how  much  in  George  the  gods  can  bless. 
Had  a  less  glorious  princess  left  the  throne, 
But  half  the  hero  had  at  first  been  shown; 
And  Anna  falling  all  the  King  employs, 
To  vindicate  from  guilt  our  rising  joys : 
Our  joys  arise,  and  innocently  shine, 
Auspicious  monarch!  what  a  praise  is  thine! 

Welcome,  great  Stranger !  to  Britannia's  throne ' 
Nor  let  thy  country  think  thee  all  her  own. 
Of  thy  delay  how  oft  did  we  complain !    " 
Our  hopes  reached  out.  and  met  thee  on  the  main. 
With  prayer  we  smoothed  the  billows  for  thy  fleet. 
With  ardent  wishes  filled  thy  swelling  sheet; 
And  when  thy  foot  took  place  on  Albion's  shore, 
We  bending  blessed  the  gods,  and  asked  no  more. 
What  hand  but  thine  should  conquer  and  com- 
pose, 
Join  those  whom  int'rest  joins,   and  chase  our 

foes? 

Repel  the  daring  youth's  presumptuous  aim, 
And  by  his  rival's  greatness  give  him  fame ! 
Now  in  some  foreign  court  he  may  sit  down, 
And  quit,  without  a  blush,  the  British  crown, 
Secure  his  honour,  though  he  lose  his  store, 
And  take  a  lucky  moment  to  be  poor. 

Nor  think,  great  Sir !  now  first,  at  this  late  hour, 
In  Britain's  favour  you  exert  your  power : 
To  us,  far  back  in  time,  I  joy  to  trace 
The  num'rous  tokens  of  your  princely  grace. 
Whether  you  choose  to  thunder  on  the  Rhine, 
Inspire  grave  councils,  or  in  courts  to  shine: 
In  the  more  scenes  your  genius  was  displayed, 
The  greater  debt  was  on  Britannia  laid : 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


185 


They  all  conspired  this  mighty  man  to  raise, 
And  your  new  subjects  proudly  shares  the  praise. 

AH  share:  but  may  not  we  have  leave  to  boast, 
That  we  contemplate  and  enjoy  it  most? 
This  ancient  nurso  of  arts,  indulged  by  Fate 
On  gentle  Jsis"  l>;mk.  a  calm  retreat, 
For  many  rolling  aurt-s  justly  t'ani-.'d. 
Has  through  the  world  her  loyalty  proclaimed ; 
And  often  jxmred  (too  well  the  truth  is  known!)' 
Her  blood  and  treasure  to  support  the  throne; 
F.>r  Knuland's  church  her  latest  accent  strained, 
And  freedom  with  lier  dying  hand  retained ; 
No  wonder  .then  her  various  ranks  agree 
In  all  the  fervencies  of  zeal  for  thce. 

What  though  thy  birth  a  distant  kingdom  boast, 
And  seas  divide  thee  from  the  British  coast  1 
The  crown 's  impatient  to  enclose  thy  head ; 
Why  stay  thy  feet !  The  cloth  of  gold  is  spread. 
Our  strict  obedience  through  the  world  shall  tell, 
That  king 's  a  Briton  who  can  govern  well. 


VERSES. 

Occasioned  by  that  famous  piece  of  the 
CRUCIFIXION. 

DONE  BY  MICHAEL  ANtfELO.* 

WHILE  his  Redeemer  on  his  canvass  dies, 

Stabbed  at  his  feet  his  brother  weltering  lies; 

The  daring  artist,  cruelly  serene, 

Views  the  pale  cheek  and  the  distorted  mien; 

He  drains  off  life  by  drops,  and,  deaf  to  cries, 

Examines  every  spirit  as  it  flies : 

He  studies  torment ;  dives  in  mortal  wo ; 

To  rouse  up  every  pang,  repeats  his  blow ; 

Each  rising  agony,  each  dreadful  grace, 

Yet  warm,  transplanting  to  his  Saviour's  face. 

O  glorious,  theft!  O  nobly  wicked  draught! 

With  its  full  charge  of  death  each  feature  fraught 

Such  wondrous  force  the  magic  colours  boast, 

From  his  own  skill  he  starts,  in  horror  lost. 


AN  HISTORICAL  EPILOGUE 

TO  TIIE  BROTHERS. 
DY  THE  AUTHOR. 

AN  Epilogue  through  custom  is  your  right, 
But  ne'er  [>erhaps  was  needful  till  this  night. 
To-night  the  virtuous  falls,  the  guilty  flies ; 
Guilt's  dreadful  close  our  narrow  scene  denies. 


In  history's  authentic  record  read 
What  ample  vengeance  gluts  Demetrius'  shade ! 
Vengeance  so  great,  that,  when  his  tale  is  told, 
With  pity  some  e'en  Perseus  may  behold. 
Perseus  survived,  indeed,  and  filled  the  throne, 
But  ceaseless  cares  in  conquest  made  him  groan: 
Nor  reigned  he  long ;  from  Rome  swift  thunder 

flew, 

And  headlong  from  his  throne  the  tyrant  threw : 
Thrown  headlong  down,  by  Rome  in  triumph  led, 
For  this  night's  deed  his  perjured  bosom  bled: 
His  brother's  ghost  each  moment  .made  him  start, 
And  all  his  father's  angujsh  rent  his  heart. 
When,  robed  in  black,  his  children  round  him 

hung, 

And  their  raised  arms  in  early  sorrow  wrung; 
The  yonger  smiled,  unconscious  of  their  wo, 
At  which  thy  tears,  O  Rome!  began  to  flow, 
So  sad  the  scene :    What  then  must  Perseus  feel, 
To  see  Jove's  race  attend  the  victor's  wheel! 
To  see  the  slaves  of  his  worst  foes  increase 
From  such  a  source ! — an  emperor's  embrace'? 
He  sickened  soon  to  death;  and,  what  is  worse, 
He  well  deserved,  and  felt  the  coward's  curse; 
Unpitied,  scorned,  insulted  his  last  hour, 
Far, -far  from  home,  and  in  a  vassal's  power. 
His  pale  cheek- rested  on  his  shameful  chain, 
No  friend  to  mourn,  no  flatterer  to  feign. 
No  suit  retards,  no  comfort  sooths  his  doom, 
And  not  one  tear  bedews  a  monarch's  tomb. 
Nor  ends  it  thus — Dire  vengeance  to  complete, 
His  ancient  empire  falling,  shares  his  fate. 
His  throne  forgot!  his  weeping  country  chained ! 
And  natio'ns  ask— where  Alexander  reigned  1 
As  public  woes  a  prince's  crimes  pursue, 
So  public  blessings  are  his  virtue's  due. 
Shout,  Britons!  shout; — auspicious  fortune  bless ! 
And  cry,  Long  live — our  title  to  success ! 


EPITAPH 

ON  LORD  AUBREY  BEAUCLERK,* 

In  Westminster  Abbey,  1740. 
WHILST  Briton  boasts  her  empire  o'er  the  deep, 
This  marble  shall  compel  the  brave  to  weep : 


*  Who  obtained  leave  to  treat  a  malefactor,  condemned  to  be 
broke  upon  the  wheel,  as  h>*  pleased  for  this  purpose.  The 
roan  being  extended,  this  wonderful  artist  directed  that  he 
should  be  stablied  in  such  parts  of  the  body  as  he  apprehended 
occasion  the  most  excruciating  torture,  that  lie  might 
L  the  agonies  of  death  in  the  must  natural  manner. 


*  Lord  Aubrey  Beauclerk  was  the  eighth  son' of  the  Duke 
of  St.  Alban's, -who  was  one  of  the  sons  of  King  Charles  the 
Second.  He  was  born  in  the  year  1711,  and  being  regularly 
bred  to  the  sea-service,  in  1731  he  was  appointed  to  the  com- 
mand of  his  Majesty's  ship  the  Ludlow  Castle ;  and  he  com- 
manded the  Prince  Frederick  at  the  attack  of  the  harbour  of 
Carthagena,  March  34,  1741 .  This  young  nobleman  was  one 
of  the  most  promising  commanders  in  the  King's  service. 
When  on  the  desperate  attack  of  the  castle  of  Bocca  Chica,  at 
the  entrance  of  the  said  harbour,  he  lost  his  life,  both  his  legs 
being  first  shot  off".  The  proee  part  of  the  inscription  on  his 
monument,  was  the  production  of  Mrs.  Mary  Jones,  of  Ox- 
ford, who  also  wrote  a  Poem  on  his  death,  printed  in  her  Mis- 
cellanies,  8vo.  1752. 


186 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


As  men,  as  Britons,  and  as  soldiers,  mourn ; 
"Pis  dauntless,  loyal,  virtuous  Beauclerk's  urn. 
Sweet  were  his  manners,  as  his  soul  was  great, 
And  ripe  4iis  worth,  though  immature  his  fate ; 
Each  tender  grace  that  joy  and  love  inspire, 
Living  he  mingled  with  his  martial  fire : 
Dying,  he  bid  Britannia's  thunders  roar ; 
And  Spain  still  felt  him,  when  he  breathed  no  more. 


TO  MR.  ADDISON, 

ON   THE   TRAGEDY   OP   CATO. 

WHAT  do  we  see — is  Cato  then  become 
A  greater  name  in  Britain  than  in  Rome  1 
Does  mankind  now  admire  his  virtues  more 
Though  Lucan,  Horace,  Virgil  wrote  before? 
How  will  posterity  this  truth  explain? 
"  Cato  begins  to  live  in  Anna's  reign." 
The  world's  great  chief,  in  council  or  in  arms, 
Rise  in  your  lines  with  more  exalted  charms : 
Illustrious  deeds  in  distant  nations  wrought, 
And  virtues  by  departed  heroes  taught, 
Raise  in  your  soul  a  pure  immortal  flame, 
Adorn  your  life,  and  consecrate  your  fame ; 


To  your  renown  all  ages  you  subdue, 
And  Caesar  fought,  and  Cato  bled  for  you. 
All  Soul's  Coll.  Oxon. 


EPITAPH 

AT  WELWYN,  HERTFORDSHIRE. 

IP  fond  of  what  is  rare,  attend ! 

Here  lies  an  honest  man, 

•  Of  perfect  piety, 

Of  lamb-like  patience, 

My  friend,  James  Barker ; 

To  whom  I  pay  this  mean  memorial, 

For  what  deserves  the  greatest. 

An  example 
Which  shone  through  all  the  clouds  of  fortune, 

Industrious  in  low  estate, 

The  lesson  and  reproach  of  those  above  him. 

To  lay  this  little  stone 

Is  my  ambition; 

While  others  rear 

The  polished  marbles  of  the  great! 

Vain  pomp! 

A  turf  o'er  virtue  charms  us  more. 
E.  Y.  1749. 


AS  PERFORMED  AT  THE  THEATRE  ROYAL,  COVENT  GARDEN. 


PROLOGUE 

BY  A  FRIEND. 

Oft  has  the  buskined  muse  with  action  mean, 
Debased  the  glory  of  the  tragic  scene : 
While  puny  villains,  drest  in  purple  pride, 
With  crimes  obscene  the  heaven-born  rage  belied. 
To  her  belongs  to  mourn  the  hero's  fate, 
To  trace  the  errors  of  the  wise  and  great ; 
To  mark  the  excess  of  passions  too  refined, 
And  paint  the  tumults  of  a  god-like  mind ; 
Where,  moved  with  rage,  exalted  thoughts  combine, 
And  darkest  deeds  with  beauteous  colours  shine. 
So  lights  and  shades  in  a  well-mingled  draught, 
By  curious  touch  of  artful  pencils  wrought, 
With  soft  deceit  amuse  the  doubtful  eye, 
Pleased  with  the  conflict  of  the  various  dye. 
Thus,  through  the  following  scenes,  with  sweet 

surprise, 
Virtue  and  guilt  in  dread  confusion  rise, 


And  love,  and  hate,  at  once,  and  grief  and  joy, 
Pity  and  rage,  their  mingled  force  employ. 
Here  the  soft  virgin,  sees,  with  secret  shame, 
Her  charms  excelled  by  friendship's  purer  flame, 
Forced  with  reluctant  virtues  to  approve 
The  generous  hero  who  rejects  her  love. 
Behold  him  there,  with  gloomy  passions  stained, 
A  wife  suspected,  and  an  injured  friend; 
Yet  such  the  toil  where  innocence  is  caught, 
That  rash  suspicion  seems  without  a  fault. 
We  dread  awhile  lest  beauty  should  succeed, 
And  almost  wish  e'en  virtue's  self  may  bleed. 
Mark  well  the  black  revenge,  the  cruel  guile, 
The  traitor-fiend,  trampling  the  lovely  spoil 
Of  beauty,  truth,  and  innocence  opprest, 
Then  let  the  rage  of  furies  fire  your  breast. 
Yet  may  his  mighty  wrongs]  his  just  disdain, 
His  bleeding  country,  his  loved  father  slain; 
His  martial  pride,  your  admiration  raise, 
And  crown  him  with  involuntary  praise. 


THE  REVENGE. 


187 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

DON  AI.ONZO, 
Do\  CARLOS, 
DON  ALVAREZ, 
DON  MANUEL, 
ZANGA, 
LEONORA, 
ISABELLA. 

SCENE — Spain. 


THE  REVENGE. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I — BATTLEMENTS,  WITH  A  SEA  PROSPECT. 

Enter  ZANGA. 
Zan.  Whether  first  nature,  or  long  want  of 

peace, 

Has  wrought  my  mind  to  this,  I  can  not  tell ; 
But  horrors  now  are  not  displeasing  to  me: 

[thunder. 

I  like  this  rocking  of  the  battlements. 
Rage  on,  ye  winds,  burst,  clouds,  and  waters,  roar! 
You  bear  a  just  resemblance  of  my  fortune, 
And  suit  the  gloomy  habit  of  my  soul. 

Enter  ISABELLA. 
Who's  there  1  my  love  ! 

Isa.  Why  have  you  left  my  bed7? 
Your  absence  more  affrights  me  than  the  storm. 

Zan.  The  dead  alone  in  such  a  night  can  rest, 
And  I  indulge  my  meditations  here. 
W6man,  away.     I  choose  to  be  alone. 

Isa.  I  know  you  do,  and  therefore  will  not  leave 

you ; 

Excuse  me,  Zanga,  therefore  dare  not  leave  you. 
Is  this  a  night  for  walks  of  contemplation  1   • 
Something  unusual  hangs  upon  your  heart 
And  I  will  know  it:  by  our  loves  I  will. 
To  you  I  sacrificed  my  virgin  fame. 
Ask  I  too  much  to  share  in  your  distress  1 

Zan.  In  tears  1  thou  fool !  then  hear  me  and  be 

plunged 

In  hell's  abyss,  if  ever  it  escape  thee, 
To  strike  thee  with  astonishment  at  once, 
I  hate  Alonzo.     First  recover  that, 
And  then  thou  shalt  hear  farther. 

Isa.  Hate  Alonzo  I 

I  own,  I  thought  Alonzo  most  your  friend, 
And  that  he  lost  the  master  in  that  name. 

Zan.  Hear  then.     'Tis  twice  three  years  since 

that  great  man, 

Great  let  me  call  him,  for  he  conquered  me, 
Made  me  the  captive  of  his  arm  in  fight. 
He  slew  my  father,  and  threw  chains  o'er  me, 
While  I  with  pious  rage  pursued  revenge. 
I  then  was  young,  he  placed  me  near  his  person, 


And  thought  me  not  dishonoured  by  his  service. 
One  day,  may  that  returning  day  be  night, 
The  stain,  the  curse  of  each  succeeding  year! 
For  something,  or  for  nothing,  in  his  pride 
He  struck  me.     While  I  tell  it,  do  I  live"? 
He  smote  me  on  the  cheek— — I  did  not  stab  him ; 
For  that  were  poor  revenge— e'er  since,  his  folly 
Has  strove  to  bury  it  beneath  a  heap 
Of  kindnesses,  and  thinks  it  is  forgot. 
Insolent  thought !  and  like  a  second  blow ! 
Affronts  are  innocent,  where  men  are  worthless; 
And  such  alone  can  wisely  drop  revenge. 

Isa.  But  with  more  temper,  Zanga,  tell  yourstory ; 
To  see  your  strong  emotions  startles  me. 

Zan.  Yes,  woman,  with  the  temper  that  befits  it. 
Has  the  dark  adder  venom's  so  have  I 
When  trad  upon.    Proud  Spaniard,  thou  shalt 

feel  me ! 

For  from  that  day,  that  day  of  my  dishonour, 
I  from  that  day  have  curst  the  rising  sun, 
Which  never  failed  to  tell  me  of  my  shame. 
I  from  that  day  have  blest  the  coming  nigtt, 
Which  promised  to  conceal  it ;  but  in  vain ; 
The  blow  returned  for  ever  in  my  dream. 
Yet  on  I  toiled,  and  groaned  for  an  occasion 
Of  ample  vengeance ;  none  is  yet  arrived. 
Howe'er,  at  present  I  conceive  warm  hopes 
Of  what  may  wound  him  sore,  in  his  ambition, 
Life  of  his  life,  and  dearer  than  his  soul. 
By  nightly  march  he  purposed  to  surprise 
The  Moorish  camp ;  but  I  have  taken  care 
They  shall  be  ready  to  receive  his  favour, 
Failing  in  this,  a  cast  of  utmost  moment, 
Would  darken  all  the  conquests  he  has  won. 

Isa.  Just  as  I  entered  an  express  arrived. 

Zan.  To  whom? 

Isa.  His  friend,  Don  Carlos. 

Zan.  Be  propitious, 
Oh,  Mahomet,  on  this  important  hour, 
And  give  at  length  my  famished  soul  revenge ! 
What  is  revenge,  but  courage  to  call  in 
Our  honour's  debts,  "and  wisdom  to  convert 
Other's  self-love  into  our  own  protection'?" 
But  see,  the  morning  dawns ; 
I  '11  seek  Don  Carlos  and  inquire  my  fate. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  II — THE  PALACE. 
Enter  DON  MANUAL  and  DON  CARLOS. 
Man.  My  Lord,  Don  Carlos,  what  brings  your 

express'? 

Car.  Alonzo's  glory,  and  the  Moors'  defeat. 
The  field  is  strewed  with  twice  ten  thousand  slain, 
Though  he  suspects  his  measures  were  betrayed. 
He  '11  soon  arrive.     Oh,  how  I  long  to  embrace 
The  first  of  heroes,  and  the  best  of  friends !     • 
I  loved  fair  Leonora  long  before 
The  chance  of  battle  gave  me  to  the  Moors, 


188 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


From  whom  so  late  Alonzo  set  me  free ; 
And  while  I  groaned  in  bondage,  I  deputed 
This  great  Alonzo,  whom  her  father  honours, 
To  be  my  gentle  advocate  in  love, 
To  stir  her  heart,  and  fan  its  fires  for  me. 

Man.  And  what  success? 

Car.  Alas,  the  cruel  maid 

Indeed  her  father,  who,  though  high  at  court, 
And  powerful  with  the  king,  has  wealth  at  heart 
To  heal  his  devastation  from  the  Moors, 
Knowing  I  'in  richly  freighted  from  the  east, 
My  fleet  now  sailing  in  the  sight  of  Spain, 
Heaven  guard  it  safe  through  such  a  dreadful 

storm } 
Caresses  me,  and  urges  her  to  wed. 

Man.  Her  aged  father,  see, 
.Leads  her  this  way. 

Car.  She  looks  like  radiant  truth, 

Brought  forward  by  the  hand  of  hoary  time 

You  to  the  port  with  speed,  'tis  possible    v 
Some  vessel  is  arrived.     Heaven  grant  it  bring 
Tidings,  which  Carlos  may  receive  with  joy ! 

Enter  DON  ALVAREZ  and  LEONORA. 

Alv.  Don  Carlos,.!'  am  labouring  in  your  favour 
With  all  a  parent's  soft  authority, 
And  earnest  counsel. 

Car.  Angels  second  you ! 
For  all  my  bliss  or  misery  hangs  on  it. 

Alv.  Daughter,  the  happiness  of  life  depends 
On  our  discretion,  and  a  prudent  Choice ; 
Look  into  those  they  call  unfortunate, 
And  closer  viewed,  you  '11  find  they  are  unwise : 
Some  flaw  in  their  own  conduct  lies  beneath, 
And  'tis  the  trick  of  fools  to  save  their  credit, 
Which  brought  another  language  into  use.  . 
Don  Carlos  is  of  ancient,  noble  blood, 
And  then  his  wealth  might  mend  a  prince's  fortune. 
For  him  the  sun  is  labouring  in  the  mines, 
A  faithful  slave,  and  turning  earth  to  gold. 
His  keels  are  freighted  with  that  sacred  power, 
By  wliich  even  kings  and  emperors  are  made. 
Sir,  you  have  my  good  wishes,  and  I  hope  (to  Car.) 
My  daughter  is  not  indisposed  to  hear  you.  [Exit. 

Car.  Oh,  Leonora  !  why  art  thou  in  tears? 
Because  I  am  less  wretched  than  I  was? 
Before  your  father  gave  me  leave  to  woo  you, 
Hushed  was  your  bosom,  and  your  eye  serene. 
Will  you  for  ever  help  me  to  new  pains, 
And  keep  reserves  of  torment  in  your  hand, 
To  let  them  loose  on  every  dawn  of  joy? 

Leon.  Think  you  my  father  too  indulgent  to  me, 
That  he  claims  no  dominion  o'er  my  tears  ? 
A  daughter  sure  may  be  right  dutiful, 
Whose  tears  alone  are  free  from  a  restraint. 

Car.  Ah,  my  torn  heart ! 

Leon.  Regard  not  me,  my  Lord, 
I  shall  obey  my  father. 


Car.  Disobey  him, 

Rather  than  come  thus  coldly,  than  come  thus 
With  absent  eyes  and  alienated  mien, 
Suffering  address,  the  victim  of  my  love. 
Oh,  let  me  be  undone  the  common  way, 
And  have  the  common  comfort  to  be  pitied, 
And  not  be  ruined  in  the  mask  of  bliss, 
And  so  be  envied,  and  be  wretched  too ! 
Love  calls  for  love.     Not  all  the  pride  of  beauty, 
Those  eyes  that  tell  us  what  the  sun  is  made  of, 
Those  lips,  whose  touch  is  to  be  bought  with  life, 
Those  hills  of  driven  snow,  which  seen  are  felt ; 
All  these  possessed,  are  nought,  but  as'  they  are 
The  proof,  the  substance  of  an  inward  passion, 
And  the  rich  plunder  of  a  taken  heart. 

Leon.  Alas,  my  lord,  we  are  too  delicate ; 
And  when  we  grasp  the  happiness  we  wished, 
We  call  on  wit  to  argue  it  away : 
A  plainer  man  would  not  feel  half  your  pains : 
But  some  have  too  much  wisdom  to  be  happy. 

Car.  Had  I  known  this  before,  it  had  been  well : 
I  had  not  then  solicited  your  father 
To  add  to  my  distress ;  as  you  behave, 
Your  father's  kindness  stabs  me  to  the  heart. 

Give  me  your  hand nay,  give  it,  Leonori ; 

You  give  it  not — nay,  yet  you  give  it  not 

I  ravish  it. 

Leon.  I  pray,  my  Lord,  no  more. 

Car.  Ah,  why  so  sad?   you  know  each  sigh 
does  shake  me : 

Sighs  there,  are  tempests  here. 

I  've  heard,  bad  men  would  be  unblest  in  heaven : 
What  is  my  guilt,  that  makes  me  so  with  you?" 
Have  I  not  languished  prostrate  at  thy  feet?  ' 
Have  I  not  lived  whole  days  upon  thy  sight? 
Have  I  not  seen  thee  where  thou  hast  not  been? 
And,  mad  with  the  idea,  clasped  the  wind 
And  doated  upon  nothing  ? 

Leon.  Court  me  not, 
Good  Carlos,  by  recounting  of  my  faults, 
And  telling  how  ungrateful  I  have  been. 
Alas,  my  lord,  if  talking  would  prevail, 
I  could  suggest  much  better  arguments 
Than  those  regards  you  threw  away  on  me ; 
Your  valour,  honour,  wisdom,  praised  by  all. 
But  bid  physicians  talk  our  veins  to  temper, 
And  with  an  argument  new-set  a  pulse ; 
Then  think,  my  Lord,  of  reasoning  into  love. 

Car.  Must  I  despair  then?  do  not  shake  me  thus: 
My  temper- beaten  heart  is  cold  to  death. 
Ah,  turn,  and  let  me  warm  me  in  thy  beauties. 
Heavens !  what  proof  I  gave,  but  two  nights  past, 
Of  matchless  love !  to  fling  me  at  thy  feet, 
1  slighted  friendship,  and  I  flew  from  fame ; 
Nor  heard  the  summons  of  the  next  day's  battle : 
But  darting  headlong  to  thy  arms,  I  left 
The  promised  fight,  I  left  Alonzo  too, 
To  stand  the  war  and  quell  a  world  alone. 

t  Trumpets.) 


THE  REVENGE. 


189 


Leon.  The  victor  comes,   My  lord,  I  must  with- 
draw. 

Car.  And  must  you  go  1 

Leon.  Why  should  you  wish  me  stay! 
Your  friend's  arrival  will  bring  comfort  to  you, 
My  presence  none ;  it  pains  you  and  myself; 
For  both  our  sakrs  permit  me  to  withdraw.  [Exit. 

Car.  Sure,  there 's  no  peril  but  in  love.    Oh,  how 
My  foes  would  boast  to  see  me  look  so  pale. 

Enter  DON  ALONZO. 

Car.  Alonzo ! 

A1  on  Carlos ! 1  am  whole  again ; 

Clasped  in  thy  arms,  it  makes  my  heart  entire. 

Car.  Whom  dare  I  thus  embrace!  the  conqueror 
Of  Afric. 

Alan.  Yes,  much  more — Don  Carlos'  friend. 
The  conquest  of  the  world  would  cost  me  dear, 
Should  it  beget  one  thought  of  distance  in  thee. 
I  rise  in  virtues  to  come  nearer  to  thee. 
I  conquer  with  Don  Carlos  in  my  eye, 
And  thus  I  claim  my  victory's  reward. 

(embracing  him.} 

Car.  A  victory  indeed !  your  godlike  arm 
Has  made  one  spot  the  grave  of  Africa ; 
Such  numbers  fell !  and  the  survivors  fled 
As  frighted  passengers  from  oft*  the  strand, 
When  the  tempestuous  sea  comes  roaring  on  them. 

Alon:  'Twas  Carlos  conquered,  'twas  his  cruel 

chains 

Inflamed  me  to  a  rage  unknown  before, 
And  threw  my  former  actions  far  behind. 

Car.  I  love  fair  Leonora.     How  I  love  her ! 
Yet  still  I  find,  I  know  not  how  it  is, 
Another  heart,  another  soul  for  thee. 
Thy  friendship  warms,  it  raises,  it  transports 
Like  music,  pure  the  joy,  without  allay, 
Whose  very  rapture  is  tranquillity : 
But  love,  like  wine,  gives  a  tumultuous  bliss, 
Heightened  indeed  beyond  all  mortal  pleasures ; 
But  mingles  pangs  and  madness  in  the  bowl. 

Enter  ZANGA. 

Zan.  Manuel,  my  lord,  returning  from  the  port, 
On  business  both  of  moment  and  of  haste, 
Humbly  begs  leave  tcr speak  in  private  with  you. 

Car.  In  private !  ha !  Alonzo,  I'll  return ; 
No  business  can  detain  me  long  from  thee.    [exit. 

Zan.  My  lord  Alonzo,  I  obeyed  your  orders. 

Alon.  Will  the  fair  Leonora  pass  this  way  1 

Zan.  She  will,  my  lord,  and  soon. 

Alon.  Come  near  me,  Zanjra ; 
For  I  dare  to  open  all  my  heart  to  thee. 
Never  was  such  a  day  of  triumph  known. 
There  's  not  a  wounded  captive  in  my  train, 
That  slowly  followed  my  proud  chariot  wheels, 
With  half  a  life,  a;.  and  chains, 

But  is  a  god  to  me :  I  am  m.  

In  his  captivity,  thou  know'st,  Don  Carlos, 


My  friend,  and  never  was  a  friend  more  dear, 
Deputed  me  his  advocate  in  love, 
To  talk  to  Leonora's  heart,  and  make 
A  tender  party  in  her  thoughts  for  him. 
What  did  I  do  7— I  loved  myself.     Indeed, 
t)ne  thing  there  is  might  lessen  my  offence, 
If  such  oflence  admits  of  being  lessened, 
I  thought  him 'dead;  for,  by  what  fate  I  know  not, 
His  letters  never  reached  me. 

•Zan.  Thanks  to  Zanga, 

Who  thence  contrived,  that  evil  which  has  hap- 
pened, [aside] 

Alon.  Yes,  curst  of  heaven !  I  loved  myself,  and 

now, 

In  a  late  action,  rescued  from  the  Moors, 
I  have  brought  home  my  rival  in  my  friend. 

Zan.  We  hear,  my  lord,  that  in  that  action  too, 
Your  interposing  arm  preserved  his  life,. 

Alon.  It  did— with  more  than  the  expense  of 

mine; 

For,  oh,  this  day  is  mentioned  for  their  nuptials. 
But  see,  she  comes— I'll  take  my  leave,  and  die. 
•Zan.  Had'st  thou  a  thousand  lives, 'thy  death 

would  please  me. 
Unhappy  fate !  my  country  overcome ! 

My  six  years  hope  of  vengeance  quite  expired ! 

Would  nature  were 1  will  not  fall  alone  : 

But  others'  groans  shall  tell  the  world  my  death. 

[aside  and  exit. 

• 

Enter  LEONORA. 

Alon.  When  nature  ends  with  anguish  like  to 

this, 

Sinners  shall  take  their  last  leave  of  the  sun, 
And  bid  his  light  adieu. 

Leon.  Th|  mighty  conqueror 
Dismayed!  1  thought  you  gave  the  foe  your  sor- 
rows. 
Alon.   Oh,  cruel  insult!  are  those  tears  your 

sport, 

Which  notliing  but  a  love  for  you  could  draw  ? 
Afric  I  quelled,  in  hope  by  that  to  purchase 
Your  leave  to  sigh  unscorned ;  but  I  complain  not; 
'Twas  but  a  world,  and'  you  are — Leonora. 

Leon.  That  passion  which  you  boast  of  is  your 

guilt, 

A  treason  to  your  friend.  You  think  mean  of  me, 
To  plead  your  crimes  as  motives  of  my  love. 
Alon.  You,  madam,  ought  to  thank  those  crimes 

you  blame : 
Tis  they  permit  you  to  be*thus  inhuman, 

Without  the  censure  both  of  earth  and  heaven 

I  fondly  thought  a  last  look  might  be  kind. 

Farewell,  for  ever. This  severe  behaviour 

Has,  to  my  comfort,  made  it  sweet  to  die. 

Leon.  Farewell,  for  ever! — sweet  to  die! — oh, 
heaven !  [aside] 

Alonzo,  stay;  you  must  not  thus  cscajK)  me ; 
But  hear  your  guilt  at  large. 


190 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Alon.  Oh,  Leonora ! 

What  could  I  do  ?  in  duty  to  my  friend, 
I  saw  you;  and  to  see  is  to  admire. 
For  Carlos  did  I  plead,  and  most  sincerely. 
Witness  the  thousand  agonies  it  cost  me. 
You  know  I  did.     I  sought  but  your  esteem ; 
If  that  is  guilt,  an  angel  had  been  guilty. 
"I  often  sighed,  nay,  wept,  but  could  not  help  it : 
And  sure  it  is  no  crime  to  be  in  pain. 
But  grant  my  crime  was  great ;  I'm  greatly  curst ; 
What  would  you  more'?  am  I  not  most  undone  1 
This  usage  is  like  stamping  on  the  murdered, 
When  life  is  fled;  most  barbarous  and  unjust. 

Leon.  If  from  your  guilt  none  suffered  but  your- 
self, 
It  might  be  so farewell.  [going] 

Alon.  Who  suffers  with  me  1 

Leon.  Enjoy  your  ignorance,  and  let  me  go. 

Alon.  Alas !  what  is  there  I  can  fear  to  know, 
Since  I  already  know  your  hate  1  your  actions 
Have  long  since  told  me  that. 

Leon.  They  flattered  you. 

Alon.  How  flattered  me  1  » 

Leon.  Oh,  search  in  fate  no  farther ! 
I  hate  thee — oh,  Alonzo !  how  I  hate  thee ! 

.A/on.  Indeed !  and  do  you  weep  for  hatred  too ! 
Oh,  what  a  doubtful  torment  heaves  my  heart ! 
I  hope  it  most,  and  yet  I  dread  it  more. 
Should  it  be  so — should  her  tears  flow  from  thence ; 
How  would  my  soul  blaze  up  in  eCstacy ! 
Ah,  no!  how  sink  into  the  depth  of  horrors ! 

Leon.  Why  would  you  force  my  stay? 

Alon.  What  mean  these  tears  1 

Leon.  I  weep  by  chance :  nor  have  my  tears  a 

meaning. 

But,  oh,  when  first  I  saw  Alonzo's  tears, 
I  knew  their  meaning  well. 

[Alonzo  Jails  passionately  on  his  knees,  and  kisses 
her  hand.] 

Alon.  Heavens  !  what  is  this?  that  excellence, 

for  which 

Desire  was  planted  in  the  heart  of  man ; 
Virtue's  supreme  reward  on  this  side  heaven ; 

The  cordial  of  my  soul;  and  this  destroys  rne 

Indeed,  I  flattered  me  that  thou  did'st  hate. 

Leon.  Alonzo,  pardon  me  the  injury 
Of  loving  you.     I  struggled  with  my  passion. 
And  struggled  long:  let  that  be  some  excuse. 

Alon.  Unkind !  you  know  I  think  your  love  a 

blessing 

Beyond  all  human  blessings :  'tis  the  price 
Of  sighs  and  groans,  and  a  whole  year  of  dying 
But,  oh  the  curse  of  curses ! oh.  my  friend ! 

Leon.  Alas! 

Alon.  What  says  my  love?  speak,  Leonora. 

Leon.  Was  it  for  you,  my  lord,  to  be  so  quick 
In  finding  out  objections  to  our  love  ? 
Think  you  so  strong  my  love,  or  weak  my  virtue, 
It  was  unsafe  to  leave  that  part  to  me. 


Alon.  Is  not  the  day  then  fixed  for  your  espousals? 

Leon.  Indeed  my  father  once  had  thought  that 

way: 

But  marking  how  the  marriage  pained  my  heart, 
Long  he  stood  doubtful ;  but  at  last  resolved, 
Your  counsel,  which  determines  him  in  all, 
Should  finish  the  debate. 

Alon.  Oh,  agony! 

Must  I  not  only  lose  her,  but  be  made 
Myself  the  instrument  ?  not  only  die, 
But  plunge  the  dagger  in  my  heart  myself? 
This  is  refining  on  calamity. 

Leon.  What,  do  you  tremble  lest  you  should  be 

mine  ? 

For  what  else  can  you  tremble  ?  not  for  that 
My  fathe*  places  in  your  power  to  alter. 

Alon.  What's  in  my  power  ?  eh,  yes,  to,  stab 
my  friend ! 

Leon.  To  stab  your  friend  were  barbarous  indeed ! 
Spare  him — and  murder  me.     I  own,  Alonzo, 
You  well  may  wonder  at  such  words, as  these  ; 
I  start  at  them  myself;  they  fright  my  nature. 
Great  is  my  fault ;  but  blame  not  me  alone  j 
Give  him  a  little  blame  who  took  such  pains 
To  make  me  guilty. 

Alon.  Torment! 

Leon,  [after  a  pause]  Oh,  my  shame ! 
I  sue,  and  sue  in  vain :  it  is  most  just, 
When  women  sue,  they  sue  to  be  denied. 
You  hate  me,  you  despise  me  !  you  do  well ; 
For  what  I've  done  I  hate  and  scorn  myself. 
Oh,  night,  fall  on  me !  I  shall  blush  to  death. 

Alon.  First  perish  all ! 

Leon.  Say,  what  have  you  resolved  ? 
My  father  comes ;  what  answer  will  you  give  him  3 

Alon.  What  answer1?  let  me  look  upon  that  face, 
And  read  it  there.— Devote  thee  to  another ! 
Not  to  be  borne  !  a  second  look  undoes  me. 

Leon.  And  why  undo  you  ?  is  it  then,  my  lord, 
So  terrible  to  yield  to  your  own  wishes, 
Because  they  happen  to  concur  with  mine? 
Cruel !  to  take  such  pains  to  win  a  heart, 
Which  you  was  conscious  you  must  break  with 
parting. 

Alon.  No,  Leonora,  I  am  thine  for  ever. 

[runs  and  embraces  her. 

In  spite  of  Carlos— ha !  who's  that  ?  my  friend  1 
[starts  wide  from  her. 
Alas !  I  see  him  pale !  I  hear  his  groan ! 
He  foams,  he  tears  his  hair,  he  raves,  he  bleeds, 
I  know  him  by  myself,  he  dies  distracted ! 

Leon.  How  dreadful  to  be  cut  from  what  we  love ! 

Alon.  Ah,  speak  no  more ! 

Leon.  And  tied  to  what  we  hate ! 

Alon.  Oh! 

Leon.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Alon.  Death! 

Leon.  Can  you  ? 
Oh 


THE  HEVENGE. 


191 


ke  a  limb ;  but  lot  my  virtue  'scape. 
Alas,  my  soul,  this  moment  I  die  for  thce ! 

[breaks  away. 

Leon.  And  are  you  perjured  then  for  virtue's 

sake! 

How  often  have  you  sworn ! — but  go,  for  ever. 

[swoons, 

Alon.  Heart  of  my  heart,  and  essence  of  my  joy ! 
Where  art  thou  1  oh,  I  am  thine,  and  thine  for  ever! 
The  groans  of  friendship  shall  be  hoard  no  more. 
For  whatsoever  crime  I  can  commit, 
I've  felt  the  pains  already. 

Leon.  Hold,  Alonzo, 

And  hear  a  maid  whom  doubly  thou  hast  conquered. 
I  love  thy  virtue  as  I  love  thy  person, 
And  I  adore  thee  for  the  pains  it  gave  me ; 
But  as  I  felt  the  pains.  I'll  reap  the  fruit; 
I'll  shine  out  in  my  turn,  and  show  the  world 
Thy  trreat  example  was  not  lost  upon  me. 
Be  it  enough  that  I  have  once  been  guilty ; 
In  sight  of  such  a  pattern,  to  persist, 
111  suits  a  person  honoured  with  your  love. 
My  other  titles  to  that  bliss  are  weak ; 
I  must  deserve  it  by  refusing  it. 
T'hus  then  I  tear  me  from  thy  hopes  for  ever. 
Shall  I  contribute  to  Alonzq's  crime  1 
No,  though  the  life  blood  gushes  from  my  heart, 
You  shall  not  be  ashamed  of  Leonora ; 
Or  that  late  tune  may  put  our  names  together. 
Nay.  never  shrink ;  take  back  the  bright  example 
You  lately  lent ;  oh,  take  it  while  you  may, 
While  I  can  give  it  you,  and  be  immortal,      [exit. 

Alon.  She's  gone,  and  I  shall  see  her  face  no 

more; 

But  pine  in  absence,  and  till  death  adore. 
When  with  cold  dew  my  fainting  brow  is  hung, 
And  my  eyes  darken,  from  my  faltering  tongue 
Her  name  will  tremble  with  a  feeble  moan, 
And  love  with  fate  divide  my  dying  groan,     [exit. 


*ACT  II. 

SCENE  I — CONTINUES. 
Enter  DON  MANUEL  and  ZANGA. 

Zan.  If  this  be  true,  I  cannot  blame  your  pain 
For  wretched  Carlos ;  'tis  but  humane  in  you. 
But  when  arrived  your  dismal  news? 
This  hour. 

Zan.  What,  not  a  vessel  saved  7 

Man.  All,  all  the  storm 

Devoured ;  and  now  o'er  his  late  envied  fortune 
The  dolphins  bound,  and  watery  mountains  roar, 
Triumphant  in  his  ruin. 

Zan.  Is  Alvarez 

Determined  to  deny  hi:;  daughter  to  him? 
That  treasur-  .»re ;  must  that  too  join 

The  common  wreck  ? 
26 


Man.  Alvarez  pleads,  indeed, 
That  Leonora's  heart  is  disinclined, 
And  pleads  that  only ;  so  it  was  this  morning, 
When  he  concurred ;  the  tempest  broke  the  match, 
And  sunk  his  favour,  when  it  sunk  the  gold. 
The  love  of  gold  is  double  in  his  heart. 
The  voice  of  age,  and  of  Alvarez  too. 

Zan.  How  does  Don  Carlos  bear  it  1 

Man.  Like  a  man 

Whose  heart  feels  most  a  human  heart  can  feel, 
And  reasons  best  a  human  heart  can  reason. 

Zan.  But  is  he  then  in  absolute  despair  ? 

Man.  Never  to  see  his  Leonora  more. 
And,  quite  to  quench  all  future  hope,  Alvarez 
Urges  Alonzo  to  espouse  his  daughter 
This  very  day ;  for  he  has  learnt  their  loves. 

Zan.  Ha !  was  not  that  received  with  ecstacy 
By  Don  Alonzo  7 

Man.  Yes,  at  first ;  but  soon 
A  damp  came  o'er  him,  it  would  kill  his  friend. 

Zan.  Not  if  his  friend  consented !  and  since  now 
He  can't  himself  espouse  her — - 

Man.  Yet,  to  ask  it 

Has  something  shocking  to  a  generous  mind ; 
At  least,  Alonzo's  spirit  startles  at  it. 
Wide  is  the  distance  between  our  despair, 
And  giving  up  a  mistress  to  another. 
But  I  must  leave  you.     Carlos  wants  support 
In  his  severe  affliction.  [exit. 

Zan.  Ha !  it  dawns  ! 

It  rises  to  me  like  a  new  found  world 

To  mariners  long  time  distrest  at  sea, 

Sore  from  a  storm ;  and  all  their  viands  spent ; 

Or  like  the  sun  just  rising  out  of  chaos. 

Some  dregs  of  ancient  night  not  quite  purged  off. 

But,  shall  I  finish  it  7 hoa  Isabella ! 

Enter  ISABELLA. 

I  thought  of  dying ;  better  things  come  forward ; 
Vengeance  is  still  alive ;  from  her  dark  covert, 
With  all  her  snakes  erect  upon  her  crest, 
She  stalks  in  view,  and  fires  me  with  her  charms. 
When,  Isabella,  arrived  Don  Carlos  here  7 

Isa.  Two  nights  ago. 

Zan.  That  was  the  very  night 

Before  the  battle memory  set  down  that ; 

It  has  the  essence  of  the  crocodile, 

Though  yet  but  in  the  shell— I'll  give  it  birth. 

What  time  did  he  return  7 

Isa.  At  midnight. 

Say,  did  he  see  that  nigh*  his  Leonora  7 

Isa.  No,  ray  good  lord. 

Zan.  No  matter tell  me,  woman, 

Is  not  Alonzo  rather  bravp  than  cautious? 
Bonest  than  subtle,  above  fraud  himself, 
Slow,  therefore,  to  suspect  it  in  another? 

Isa.  You  best  can  judge ;  but  so  the  world  thinks 
of  him. 


192 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Zan.  Why,  that  was  well— go  fetch  my  tables 

hither.  [Exit  Isa. 

Two  nights  ago  my  father's  sacred  shade 
Thrice  stalked  around  my  bed,  and  smiled  upon 

me; 

He  smiled  a  joy  then  little  understood— 
It  must  be  so— and  if  so,  it  is  vengeance 
Worth  waking  of  the  dead  for. 

Re-enter  ISABELLA  with  the  tables— ZANGA  writes,  then 
reads  as  to  himself. 

Thus  it  stands 

The  father's  fixt Don  Carlos  can  not  wed 

Alonzo  may — but  that  will  hurt  his  friend 

Nor  can  he  ask  his  leave — or,  if  he  did, 
He  might  not  gain  it— it  is  hard  to  give 
Our  consent  to  ills,  though  we  must  bear  them. 
Were  it  not  then  a  master-piece,  worth  all 
The  wisdom  1  can  boast,  first  to  persuade 
Alonzo  to  request  it  of  his  friend, 
His  friend  to  grant — then  from  that  very  grant, 
The  strongest  proof  of  friendship  man  can  give, 
And  other  motives,  to  work  out  a  cause 
Of  jealousy,  to  rack  Alonzo's  peace  1 
I  have  turned  o'er  the  catalogue  of  human  woes, 
•  Which  sting  the  heart  of  man,  and  find   none 

equal. 

It  is  the  hydra  of  calamities, 
The  seven-fold  death!  the  jealous  are  the  damned. 
Oh,  jealousy,  each  other  passion's  calm 
To  thee,  thou  conflagration  of  the  soul! 
Thou  king  of  torments,  thou  grand  counterpoise 
For  all  the  transports  beauty  can  inspire ! 
Isa.  Alonzo  comes  this  way. 
Zan.  Most  opportunely. 
Withdraw.    (Exit   Isa.)    "Ye  subtle  demons, 

which  reside 

In  courts,  and  do  your  work  with  bows  and  smiles, 
That  little  enginery,  more  mischievous 
Than  fleets  and  armies,  and  the  cannon's  murder, 
Teach  me  to  look  a  lie ;  give  me  your  maze 
Of  gloomy  thought  and  intricate  design, 
To  catch  the  man  I  hate,  and  then  devour." 

Enter  DON  ALONZO. 
My  lord,  I  give  you  joy. 

Alon.  Of  what,  good  Zanga? 

Zan.  Is  not  the  lovely  Leonora  yours? 

Alon.  What  will  become  of  Carlos'? 

Zan.  He's  your  friend ; 
And  since  he  can't  espouse  the  fair  himself, 
Will  take  some  comfort  from  Alonzo's  fortune. 

Alon.  Alas,  thou  little  know'st  the  force  of  love ! 
Love  reigns  a  sultan  with  unrivalled  sway ; 
Puts  all  relations,  friendship's  self  to  death, 
If  once  he's  jealous  of  it.     I  love  Carlos; 
Yet  well  I  know  what  pangs  I  felt  this  morning 
At  his  intended  nuptials.    For  myself 
I  then  felt  pains  which  now  for  him  I  feel. 
.    Zan.  You  will  not  wed  her  then? 


Alon.  Not  instantly. 
Insult  his  broken  heart  the  very  moment! 

Zan.  I  understand  you:   but  you'll  wed  her 

hereafter, 
When  your  friend's  gone,  and  his  first  pain  as- 


Alon.  Am  I  to  blame  in  that? 

Zan.  My  lord,  I  love 

Your  very  errors :  they  are  born  from  virtue. 
Your  friendship,  and  what  nobler  passion  claims 
The  heart!  does  lead  you  blindfold  to  your  ruin. 

onsider,  wherefore  did  Alvarez  break 
Don  Carlos'  match,  and  wherefore  urge  Alonzo's? 
Twas  the  same  cause,  the  love  of  wealth.     To- 
morrow 

May  see  Alonzo  in  Don  Carlos'  fortune ; 
A  higher  bidder  is  a  better  friend, 
And  there  are  princes  sigh  for  Leonora. 
When  your  friend's  gone,  you'll  wed ;  why,  when 

the  cause 
Which  gives  you  Leonora  now  will  cease. 

arlos  has  lost  her;  should  you  lose  her  too, 
Why,  then  you  heap  new  torments  on  your  friend, 
By  that  respect  which  laboured  to  relieve  him — 
Tis  well  he  is  disturbed;  it  makes  him  pause. 

(aside.) 

Alon.  Think'st  thou,  my  Zanga,  should  I  ask 

Don  Carlos, 

His  goodness  would  consent  that  I  should  wed 
her? 

Zan.  I  know  it  would. 

Alon.  But  then  the  cruelty 
To  ask  it,  and  for  me  to  ask  it  of  him! 

Zan.    Methinks   you    are  severe  upon   your 

friend. 
Who  was  it  gave  him  liberty  and  life? 

Alon.  That  is  the  very  reason  which  forbids  it. 
Were  I  a  stranger  I  could  freely  speak : 
In  me  it  so  resembles  a  demand, 
Exacting  of  a  debt,  it  shocks  my  nature. 

Zan.  My  lord,  you  know  the  sad  alternative. 
Is  Leonora  worth  one  pang  or  not  ? 
It  hurts  not  me,  my  lord,  but  a*  I  love  you: 
Warmly  as  you  I  wish  Don  Carlos  well; 
But  I  am  likewise  Don  Alonzo's  friend: 
There  all  the  difference  lies  between  us  two. 
In  me,  my  lord,  you  hear  another  self: 
And,  give  me  leave  to  add,  a  better  too, 
Cleared  from  these  errors,  which,  though  caused 
by  virtue, 

Are  such  as  may  hereafter  give  you  pain 

Don  Lopez  of  Castile  would  not  demur  thus. 

Alon.  Perish  the  name!  what,  sacrifice  the  fair 
To  age  and  ugliness,  because  set  in  gold? 
I'll  to  Don  Carlos,  if  my  heart  will  let  me. 
I  have  not  seen,  him  since  his  sore  affliction ; 
But  shunned  it,  as  too  terrible  to  bear; 
How  shall  I  bear  it  now?  I'm  struck  already. 

[Exit. 


THE  REVENGE. 


193 


7.nn.  Half  of  my  work  is  done.     I  must  secure 
Don  Carlos,  ere  Alonzo  speak  with  him. 

[lie  giccs  a  message  to  a  servant,  then  returns 
Proud  hated  Spain,  oil  drenched  in  Moorish  blood 
Dost  thou  not  feel  a  deadly  foe  within  thee? 
Shake  not  the  towers  where'er  I  pass  along. 
Conscious  of  ruin,  and  their  great  destroyer? 
Shake  to  the  centre  if  Alonzo's  dear. 
Look  down,  oh  holy  Prophet!  see  me  torture 
This  Christian  dog.  thus  infidel,  which  dares 
To  smite  thy  votaries,  and  spurn  thy  law; 
And  yet  hopes  pleasure  from  two  radiant  eyes, 
Which  look  as  they  were  lighted  up  for  thee ! 
Shall  he  enjoy  thy  paradise  below? 
Blast  the  bold  thought,  and  curse  him  with  her 

charms! 

But  see,  the  melancholy  lover  comes. 
Enter  DON  CARLOS. 

Car.  Hope,  thou  hast  told  me  lies  from  day  to 

day, 

For  more  than  twenty  years;  vile  promiser! 
None  here  arc  happy,  but  the  very  fool, 
Or  very  wise :  and  I  wasn't  fool  enough 
To  smile  in  vanities,  and  hug  a  shadow; 
Nor  have  I  wisdom  to  elaborate 
An  artificial. happiness  from  pains: 
Even  joys  are  pains,  because  they  can  not  last. 


Yet  much  is  talked  of  bliss:  it  is  the  art 

Of  such  as  have  the  world  in  their  possession, 

To  give  it  a  good  name  that  fools  may  envy: 

For  envy  to  small  minds  is  flattery." 

How  many  lilt  the  head,  look  gay,  and  smile 

Against  their  consciences?  and  this  we  know, 

Yet  knowing,  disbelieve,  and  try  again 

What  we  have  tried,  ami  struggle  with  conviction. 

Each  new  experience  gives  the  former  credit; 

And  reverend  gray  threescore  is  but  a  voucher, 

That  thirty  told  us  true. 

Zan.  My  noble  lord, 
I  mourn  your  fate:  but  are  no  hopes  surviving? 

Car.  No  hopes.     Alvarez  has  a  heart  of  steel. 
'Tis  fixt — 'tis  past — 'tis  absolute  despair ! 

Zan.  You  wanted  not  to  have,  your  heart  made 
tender, 
ur  own  pains,  to  feel  a  friend's  distress. 

I  understand  you  well.     Alonzo  loves; 
I  pity  him. 

Zan.  I  dare  be  sworn  you  do. 
Yet  he  has  other  thoughts. 

Car.  What  can'st  thou  mean  ? 

Zan.  Indeed  he  has ;  and  fears  to  ask  a  favour 
A  stranger  from  a  stranger  might  request ; 
What  costs  you  nothing,  yet  is  all  to  him : 
Nay,  what  indeed  will  to  your  glory  add, 
For  nothing  more  than  wishing  your  friend  well. 

Car.  I  pray  be  plain  ;  his  happiness  is  mine. 

•Zan.     He  loves  to  death ;  but  so  reveres  his 
friend, 


He  can't  persuade  his  heart  to  wed  the  maid 
Without  your  leave,  and  that  he  fears  to  ask. 
In  perfect  tenderness  I  urged  him  to  it. 
Knowing  the  deadly  sickness  of  his  heart, 
Your  overflowing  goodness  to  your  friend, 
Your  wisdom,  and  despair  yourself  to  wed  her, 
1  wrung  a  promise  from  him  he  would  try : 
And  now  I  come,  a  mutual  friend  to  both, 
Without  his  privacy  to  let  you  know  it, 
And  to  prepare  you  kindly  to  receive  him. 

Car.  Ha !  if  he  weds  I  am  undone  indeed : 
Not  Don  Alvarez'  self  can  relieve  me. 

Zan.  Alas,  my  lord,  you  know  his  heart  is  steel ; 
'Tis  fixt,  'tis  past,  'tis  absolute  despair.     . 

Car.  Oh,  cruel  heaven !  and  is  it  not  enough 
That  I  must  never,  never  see  her  more? 
Say,  is  it  not  enough  that  I  must  die ; 
But  I  must  -be  tormented  in  the  grave  ? — 
Ask  my  consent !  must  1  then  give  her  to  him  ? 
Lead  to  his  nuptial  sheets  the  blushing  maid? 
Oh! Leonora!  never,  never,  never  ! 

Zan.  A  storm  of  plagues  upon  him !  he  refuses. 

[aside. 

Car.  What,  wed  her!— and  UMlay! 

Zan.  To-da0or  never. 
To-morrow  may  some  wealthier  lover  bring, 
And  then  Alonzo  is  thrown  out  like  you ; 
Then  whom  shall  h'e  condemn  for  his  misfortune? 
Carlos  is  an  Alvarez  to  his  love. 

Car.  Oh,  torment !  whither  shall  I  turn  ? 

Zan.  To  peace. 

Car.  Which  is  the  way  ? 

Zan.  His  happiness  is  yours 

I  dare  not  disbelieve  you. 

Car.  Kill  my  friend ! 

Or  worse alas !  and  can  there  be  a  worse  ? 

A  worse  there  is ;  nor  can  my  nature  tear  it. 

Zan.  You  have  convinced  me   'tis  a  dreadful 

task. 

I  find  Alonzo's  quitting  her  this  morning 
For  Carlos'  sake,  in  tenderness  to  you, 
Betrayed  me  to  believe  it  less  severe 
Than  I  perceive  it  is. 

Car.  Thou  dost  upbraid  me? 

Zan.  No,  my  good  lord ;  but  since  you  can't 

comply, 

'Tis  my  misfortune  that  I  mentioned  it ; 
For  had  I  not,  Alonzo  would  indeed    . 
Have  died,  as  now,  but  not  by  your  decree. 

Car.  By  my  decree !  do  I  decree  his  death  ? 
[  do         shall  I  then  lead  her  to  his  arms  ? 
Oh,  which  side  shall  I  take  ?  be  stabbed,  or  stab  ? 
Tis  equal  death !  a  choice  of  agonies ! 
Ah,  no ! — all  other  agonies  are  case 

To  one oh,  Leonora !  never,  never ! 

Go,  Zanga,  go,  defer  the  dreadful  trial. 

Though  but  a  day,  something,   perchance,  may 

happen 
To  soften  all  to  friendship  and  to  love. 


194 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Go,  stop  my  friend,  let  me  not  see  him  now ; 

But  save  us  from  an  interview  of  death. 
Zan.  My  lord,  I'm  bound  in  duty  to  obey  you — 

If  I  do  not  bring  him,  may  Alonzo  prosper. 

[aside  and  exit. 

Car.  What  is  this  world?— thy   school,   oh, 
misery ! 

Our  only  lesson  is  to  learn  to  suffer; 

And  he  who  knows  not  that,  was  born  for  nothing. 

Though  deep  my  pangs,  and  heavy  at  my  heart, 

My  comfort  is,  each  moment  takes  away 

A  grain,  at  least,  from  the  dead  load  that's  on  me, 

And  gives  a  nearer  prospect  of  the  grave. 

But  put  it  most  severely — should  I  live 

Live  long alas,  there  is  no  length  in  time ! 

Norin  thy  time,  oh,  man ! — what's  fourscore  years? 

Nay,  what,  indeed,  the  age  of  time  itself, 

Since  cut  out  from  Eternity's  wide  round ! 

Away,  then,  to  a  mind  resolved  and  wise, 

There  is  an  impotence  in  misery, 

Which  makes  me  smile,  when  all  its  shafts  are  in 
me. 

Yet  Leonora she  can  make  time  long, 

Its  nature  alter,  as  she  altered  mine. 
While  in  the  lustre  of  her  charge  I  lay, 
Whole  summer  suns  roll  unperceived  away ; 
I  years  for  days,  and  days  for  moments  told, 
And  was  surprized  to  hear  that  I  grew  old. 
Now  fate  does  rigidly  its  dues  regain, 
And  every  moment  is  an  age  of  pain. 

As  he  is  going  out,  enter  ZANGA  and  DON  ALONZO. 
ZANGA  stops  DON  CARLOS. 

Zan.  Is  this  Don   Carlos  7  tliis  the  boasted 

friend? 

How  can  you  turn  your  back  upon  his  sadness? 
Look  on  him,  and  then  leave  him  if  you  can. 
Whose  sorrows  thus  depress  him  ?  not  his  own ; 
This  moment  he  could  wed  without  your  leave, 

Car.  I  can  not  yield ;  nor  can  I  bear  his  griefs. 
Alonzo!  [going  to  him  and  taking  his  hand.] 

Alon.  Oh,  Carlos! 

Car.  Pray,  forbear. 

Alon.  Art  thou  undone,  and  shall  Alonzo  smile? 
Alonzo,  who  perhaps,  in  some  degree 
Contributed  to  cause  thy  dreadful  fate  ? 
I  was  deputed  guardian  of  thy  love ; 
But,  oh,  I  loved  myself!  pour  down  afflictions 
On  this  devoted  head;  make  me  your  mark; 
And  be  the  world  by  my  example  taught, 
How  sacred  it  should  hold  the  name  of  friend. 

Car.  You  charge  yourself  unjustly :  well  I  know 
The  only  cause  of  my  severe  affliction. 
Alvarez,  curst  Alvarez ! — so  much  anguish 
Felt  for  so  small  a  failure,  is  one  merit 
Which  faultless  virtue  wants.     The  crime  was 

mine, 

Who  placed  thee  there,  where  only  thou  could'st 
fail; 


Though  well  I  knew  that  dreadful  post  of  honour 
I  gave  thee  to  maintain.     Ah  !  who  could  bear 
Those  eyes  unhurt  ?  the  wounda  myself  have  felt; 
Which  wounds  alone  should  cause  me  to  condemn 

thee, 

They  plead  in  thy  excuse ;  for  I  too  strove 
To  shun  those  fires,  and  found  'twas  not  in  man. 

Alon.  You  cast  in  shades  the  failure  of  a  friend, 
And  soften  all ;  but  think  not  you  deceive  me  ; 
I  know  my  guilt,  and  I  implore  your  pardon, 
As  the  sole  glimpse  I  can  obtain  of  peace. 

Car.  Pardon  for  him,  who  but  this  morning 

threw 

Fair  Leonora  from  his  heart  all  bathed 
In  ceaseless  tears,  and  blushing  for  her  love ! 
Who,  like  a  rose-leaf  wet  with  morning  dew, 
Would  have  stuck  close,  and  clung  for  ever  there ! 
But  'twas  in  thee,  through  fondness  for  thy  friend, 
To  shut  thy  bosom  against  ecstacies ; 
For  which,  while  this  pulse  beats,  it  beats  to  thee: 
While  this  blood  flows,  it  flows  for  my  Alonzo, 
And  every  wish  is  leveled  at  thy  joy. 

Zan.  [to  Alonzo]  My  lord,  my  lord,  this  is  your 
time  to  speak. 

Alon.  [to  Zanga]  Because  he's  kind  1  it  there- 
fore is  the  worst ; 

For  'tis  his  kindness  which  I  fear  to  hurt. 
Shall  the  same  moment  see  him  sink  in  woes, 
And  me  providing  for  a  flood  of  joys, 
Rich  in  the  plunder  of  his  happiness  ? 
No,  I  may  die ;  but  I  can  never  speak. 

Car.  Now,  now  it  comes ;  they  are  concerting  it : 
The  first  word  strikes  me  dead — oh,  Leonora  ! 
And  shall  another  taste  her  fragrant  breath  ? 
Who  knows  what  after-time  may  bring  to  pass  ? 
Fathers  may  change,  and  I  may  wed  her  still. 

[aside] 

Alon.  [to  Zanga]  Do  I  not  see  him  quite  pos- 
sessed with  anguish, 

Which,  like  a  demon,  writhes  him  to  and  fro; 
And  shall  I  pour  in  new?  no  fond  desire, 
No  love:  one  pang  at  parting,  and  farewell. 
I  have  no  other  love  but  Carlos  now. 

Car.  Alas,  my  friend,  why  with  such  eager  grasp 
Dost  press  my  hand,  and  weep  upon  my  cheek  ? 

Alon.  If,  after  death  our  forms,  as  some  believe, 
Shall  be  transparent,  naked  every  thought, 
And  friends  meet  friends,  and  read  each  other's 

hearts, 

Thoul't  know  one  day  that  thou  wast  held  most  dear. 
Farewell. 

Car.  Alonzo,  stay — he  can  not  speak— [holds  him] 
Lest  it  should  grieve  me — shall  I  be  outdone  ? 
And  lose  in  glory,  as  I  lose  in  love  ?  [aside] 
I  take  it  much  unkindly,  my  Alonzo, 
You  think  so  meanly  of  me,  not  to  speak, 
When  well  I  know  your  heart  is  near  to  bursting. 
Have  you  forgot  how  you  have  bound  me  to  you? 


Your  smallest  friendship's  liberty  and  life. 


THE  REVENGE. 


195 


Alon.  There,  there  it  is,  my  friend,  it  cuts  me 

there. 

How  dreadful  it  is  to  a  generous  mind 
To  ask,  when  sure  he  can  not  be  denied  ! 

Oar.  How  greatly  thought !  in  all  he  towers 

above  me.  [aside] 
Then  you  confess  you  would  ask  something  of  me? 

Alon.  No,  on  my  soul. 

Zan.  [to  Alonzo]  Then  lose  her. 

Car.  Glorious  spirit ! 

Why,  what  a  pang  has  he  run  through  for  this ! 
By  heaven,  I  envy  him  his  agonies. 
Why,  was  not  mine  the  most  illustrious  lot, 
Of  starting  at  one  action  from  below, 
And  flaming  up  into  consummate  greatness  ? 
Ha !  angels  strengthen  me ! — it  shall  be  so — 
I  can't  want  strength.     Great  actions,  once  con- 
ceived, 

Strengthen  like  wine,  and  animate  the  soul, 
And  call  themselves  to  being,  [aside]  My  Alonzo, 
Since  thy  great  soul  disdains  to  make  request, 
Receive  with  favour  that  I  make  to  thee. 

Alon.  What  means  my  Carlos? 

Car.  Pray  observe  me  well. 
Fate  and  Alvarez  tore  her  from  my  heart, 
And  plucking  up  my  love,  they  had  well  nigh 
Plucked  up  life  too,  for  they  were  twined  together. 
Of  that  no  more — what  now  does  reason  bid  ? 
I  can  not  wed — farewell  my  happiness ! 
But.  O,  my  soul,  with  care  provide  for  hers ! 
In  life  how  weak,  how  helpless  is  woman! 
Soon  hurt ;  in  happiness  itself  unsafe, 
And  often  wounded  while  she  plucks  the  rose ; 
So  properly  the  object  of  affliction, 
That  heaven  is  pleased  to  make  distress  become  her, 
And  dresses  her  most  amiably  in  tears. 
Take  then  my  heart  in  dowry  with  the  fair, 
Be  thou  her  guardian,  and  thou  must  be  mine, 
Shut  out  the  thousand  pressing  ills  of  life 
With  thy  surrounding  arms — do  this,  and  then 
Set  down  the  liberty  and  life  thou  gavest  me, 
As  little  things,  as  essays  of  thy  goodness, 
And  rudiments  of  friendship  so  divine. 

Alon.  There  is  a  grandeur  in  thy  goodness  to  me, 
Which  with  thy  foes  would  render  thee  adored. 
But  have  a  care,  nor  think  I  can  be  pleased 
With  any  thing  that  lays  in  pains  for  thee. 
Thou  dost  dissemble,  and  thy  heart's  in  tears. 

Car.  My  heart's  in  health,  my  spirits  dance  their 

round, 
And  at  my  eyes  pleasure  looks  out  in  smiles. 

Alon.  And  canst  thou,  canst  thou  part  with  Leo- 
nora 1 

Car.  I  do  not  part  with  her,  I  give  her  thee. 

Alon.  O,  Carlos ! 

Car.  Don't  disturb  me,  I'm  sincere, 
Nor  is  it  more  than  simple  justice  in  me. 
This  morn  didst  thou  resign  her  for  my  sake ; 


I  but  perform  a  virtue  learnt  from  thee ; 
Discharge  a  debt,  and  pay  her  to  thy  wishes. 
Alon.  Ah,  how  ?  but  think  not  words  were  ever 

made 

For  such  occasions.    Silence,  tears,  embraces, 
Are  languid,  eloquence ;  I'll  seek  relief 
In  absence  from  the  pain  of  so  much  goodness, 
There  thank  the  blest  above,  thy  sole  superiors, 
Adore,  and  raise  my  thoughts  of  them  by  thee. 

[exit. 
Zan.  Thus  far  success  has  crowned  my  boldest 

hope. 

My  next  care  is  to  hasten  these  new  nuptials, 
And  then  my  master-work  begins  to  play,  [asicfe] 
Why  this  was  greatly  done,  without  one  sigh, 

[to  Car.] 
To  carry  such  a  glory  to  its  period. 

Car.  Too  soon  thou  praisest  me.     He's  gone, 

and  now 

I  must  unsluice  my  overburthened  heart, 
And  let  it  flow.     I  would  not  grieve  my  friend 
With  tears,  nor  interrupt  my  great  design ; 
Great  sure  as  ever  human  breast  durst  think  of. 
But  now  my  sorrows,  long  with  pain  supprest, 
Burst  their  confinement  with  impetuous  sway, 
O'er-swell  all  bounds,  and  bear  e'en  life  away, 
So  till  the  day  was  won,  the  Greek  renowned 
With  anguish  wore  the  arrow  in  his  wound, 
Then  drew  the  shaft  from  out  his  tortured  side, 
Let  gush  the  torrent  of  his  blood,  and  died. 

[exeunt. 


ACT  III. 
Enter  ZANGA. 

Zan.  O  joy,  thou  welcome  stranger!  twice  three 

years 

I  have  not  felt  thy  vital  beam  ;  but  now 
It  warms  my  veins,  and  plays  around  my  heart 
A  fiery  instinct  lifts  me  from  the  ground, 

And  I  could  mount the  spirits  numberless 

Of  my  dear  countrymen,  which  yesterday 
Left  their  poor  bleeding  bodies  on  the  field, 
Are  all  assembled  here,  and  o'er-inform  me. 
O,  bridegroom !  great  indeed  thy  present  bliss ; 
Yet  e'en  by  me  unenvied ;  for  be  sure 
It  is  thy  last,  thy  last  smile,  that  which  now 
Sits  on  thy  cheek ;  enjoy  it  while  thou  mayest ; 
Anguish,  and  groans,  and  death,bespeak  to-morrow. 

Enter  ISABELLA. 

My  Isabella! 

Isa.  What  commands,  my  Moor  1 
Zan.  My  fair  ally !  my  lovely  minister ! 

'Twas  well  Alvarez,  by  my  arts  impelled, 

To  plunge  Don  Carlos  in  the  last  despair, 

And  so  prevent  all  future  molestation, 


196 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Finished  the  nuptials  soon  as  he  resolved  them ; 

This  conduct  ripened  all  for  me,  and  ruin. 

Scarce  had  the  priest  the  holy  rite  performed, 

When  I,  by  sacred  inspiration,  forged 

That  letter,  which  I  trusted  to  thy  hand ; 

That  letter,  which  in  glowing  terras  conveys, 

From  happy  Carlos,  to  fair  Leonora, 

The  most  profound  acknowledgment  of  heart, 

For  wondrous  transports  which  he  never  knew. 

This  is  a  good  subservient  artifice, 

To  aid  the  nobler  workings  of  my  brain. 

Isa.  I  quickly  dropt  it  in  the- bride's  apartment, 
As  you  commanded. 

Zan.  With  a  lucky  hand ; 
For  soon  Alonzo  found  it ;  I  observed  him 
From  out  my  secret  stand.     He  took  it  up ; 
But  scarce  was  it  unfolded  to  his  sight, 
When  he,  as  if  an  arrow  pierced  his  eye, 
Started,  and  trembling,  dropt  it  on  the  ground. 
Pale  and  aghast  awhile  my  victim  stood, 
Disguised  a  sigh  or  two,  and  puffed  them  from  him; 
Then  rubbed  his  brow,  and  took  it  up  again. 
At  first  he  looked  as  if  he  meant  to  read  it ; 
But  checked  by  rising  fears,  he  crushed  it — thus — 
And  thrust  it,  like  an  adder,  in  his  bosom. 

Isa.  But  if  he  read  it  not,  it  can  not  sting  him, 
At  least  not  mortally. 

Zan.  At  first  I  thought  so ; 
But  farther  thought  informs  me  otherwise, 
And  turns  this  disappointment  to  account. 
He  more  shall  credit  it,  because  unseen, 
If  'tis  unseen,  as  thou  anon  mayest  find. 

Isa.  That  would  indeed  commend  my  Zanga's 
skill. 

Zan.  This,  Isabella,  is  Don  Carlos'  picture  j 
Take  it:  and  so  dispose  of  it,  that  found, 
It  may  rise  up  a  witness  of  her  love ; 
Under  her  pillow,  in  her  cabinet, 
Or  elsewhere,  as  shall  best  promote  our  end. 

Isa.  I'll  weigh  it  as  its  consequence  requires, 
Then  do  my  utmost  to  deserve  your  smile,     [exit. 

Zan.  Is  that  Alonzo  prostrate  on  the  ground? — 
Now  he  starts  up,  like  flames  from  sleeping  em- 
bers, 

And  wild  distraction  glares  from  either  eye. 
If  thus  a  slight  surmise  can  work  his  soul, 
How  will  the  fulness  of  the  tempest  tear  him'? 

Enter  Don  ALONZO. 

Alon.  And  yet  it  can  not  Ix; — I  am  deceived— 
I  injure  her ;  she  wears  the  face  of  heaven. 

Zan.  He  doubts.  [retires. 

Alon.  I  dare  not  look  on  this  again. 
If  the  first  glance,  which  gave  suspicion  only, 
Had  such  effect;  so  smote  my  heart  and  brain, 
The  certainty  would  dash  me  all  in  pieces. 
It  can  not — ha !  it  must,  it  must  be  true,    [starts. 

Zan.  Hold   there,  and  we  succeed.     He   has 
descried  me. 


And,  for  he  thinks  1  love  him,  will  unfold 
His  aching  heart,  and  rest  it  on  my  counsel. 
I'll  seem  to  go,  to  make  my  stay  more  sure. 

[aside. 

Alon.  Hold,  Zanga,  turn. 

Zan.  My  lord. 

Alon.  Shut  close  the  doors, 
That  not  a  spirit  find  an  entrance  here. 

Zan.  My  lord 's  obeyed. 

Alon.  I  see  that  thou  art  frighted. 
If  thou  dost  love  me,  I  shall  fill  thy  heart 
With  scorpions'  stings. 
,  Zan.  If  I  do  love,  my  lord  1 

Alon.  Come  near  me,  let  me  rest  upon  thy  bo- 
som, 

What  pillow  like  the  bosom  of  a  friend  ? 
For  I  am  sick  at  heart. 

Zan.  Speak,  sir,  O  speak, 
And  take  me  from  the  rack. 

Alon.  And  is  there  need 
Of  words  1  behold  a  wonder !  see  my  tears ! 

Zan.  I  feel  'em  too.     Heaven  grant  my  senses 

fail  me ! 
I  rather  would  lose  them,  than  have  this  real. 

Alon.  Go,  take  a  round  through  all  things  in 

thy  thought, 

And  find  that  one,  for  there  is  only  one, 
Which  could  extort  my  tears ;  find  that,  and  tell 
Thyself  my  misery,  and  spare  me  the  pain. 

Zan.   Sorrow  can  think  but  ill — I  am  bewil- 
dered ; 
I  know  not  where  I  am. 

Alon.  Think,  think,  no  more. 
It  ne'er  can  enter  in  an  honest  heart. 

I'll  tell  thee,  then -I  can  not yet  I  do  . 

By  wanting  force  to  give  it  utterance. 

Zan.  Speak,  case  your  heart;  its  throbs  will 
break  your  bosom. 

Alon.  I  am  most  happy ;  mine  is  victory, 
Mine  the  king's  favour,  mine  the  nation's  shout, 
And  great  men  make  their  fortunes  of  my  smiles. 

0  curse  of  curses!  in  the  lap  of  blessing 
To  be  most  curst! my  Leonora 's  false! 

Zan.  Save  me,  my  lord ! 
Alon.  My  Leonora 's  false ! 

[gives  him  the  letter.] 
Zan.  Then  heaven  has  lost  its  image  here  on 

earth. 
[while  Zanga  reads  the  letter,  he  trembles  and 

shows  the  utmost  concern.] 
Alon.  Good-natured  man !  he  makes  my  pains 
his  own. 

1  durst  not  read  it;  but  I  read  it  now 
In  thy  concern. 

Zan.  Did  you  not  read  it  then  7 

Alon.  Mine  eye  just  touched  it,  and  could  boar 

no  more. 

Zan.  Thus  perish  nil  that  gives  Alonzo  pain ! 
[tears  the  letter.] 


THE  REVENGE. 


197 


Alon.  Why  did'st  thou  tear  it? 

Zan.  Think  of  it  no  more. 
'Twos  your  mistake,  and  groundless  are  your  fears 

Alon.  And  did'st  thou  tremble  then  for  my  mis- 
take? 

Or  give  the  whole  contents,  or  by  the  pangs 
That  feed  upon  my  heart,  thy  life's  in  danger. 

Zan.  Is  this  Alonzo's  language  to  his  Zanga? 
Draw  forth  your  sword,  and  find  the  secret  here. 
For  whose  sake  is  it,  think  you,  I  conceal  if? 
Wherefore  this  rage?  because  I  seek  your  peace? 
I  have  no  interest  in  suppressing  it, 
But  what  good  natured  tenderness  for  you 
Obliges  me  to  have.    Not  mine  the  heart 
That  will  be  rent  in  two.    Not  mine  the  fame 
That  will  be  damned,  though  all  the  world  should 
know  it. 

Alon.  Then  my  worst  fears  are  true,  and  life  is 
past. 

Zan.  What  has  the  rashness  of  my  passion  ut- 
tered? 
I  know  not  what ;  but  rage  is  our  destruction, 

And  all  its  words  are  wind yet  sure  I  think, 

I  nothing  owned but  grant  I  did  confess, 

What  is  a  letter?  letters  may  be  forged. 

For  heaven's  sweet  sake,  my  lord,  lift  up  your 

heart. 
Some  foe  to  your  repose 

Alan.  So,  heaven  look  on  me, 
As  I  can't  find  the  man  I  have  offended. 

Zan.  Indeed !  [aside]  our  innocence  is  not  our 

shield; 

They  take  offence,  who  have  not  been  offended ; 
They  seek  our  ruin  too,  who  speak  us  fair, 
And  death  is  often  ambushed  "in  their  smiles. 
<;  We  know  not  whom  we  have  to  fear."  'Tis  cer- 
tain 

A  letter  may  te  forged,  and  in  a  point 
Of  such  a  dreadful  consequence  as  this. 

f  »nr  would  rely  on  nought  that  might  be  false 

Think,  have  you  any  other  cause  to  doubt  her? 
Away,  you  can  find  none.    Resume  your  spirits ; 
All's  well  again. 

Alon.  O  that  it  were ! 

Zan,  It  is ; 

For  who  would  credit  that,  which  credited, 
Makes  hell  superfluous  by  superior  pains, 
Without  such  proofs  as  can  not  be  withstood; 
Has  she  not  ever  been  to  virtue  trained  ? 
Is  not  her  fame  as  spotless  as  the  sun. 
Her  sex's  envy,  and  the  boast  of  Spain? 

Alon.  O,  Zanga!  it  is  that  confounds  me  most, 
That  full  in  opposition  to  appearance 

Zan.  No  more,  my  lord,  for  you  condemn  your- 
self. 

What  is  absurdity,  but  to  believe 
Against  appcaranr.  !— you  can't  yet,  I  find, 
Subdue  your  passion  to  your  better  sense ; — 
And,  truth  to  tell,  it  does  not  much  displease  me. 


'Tis  fit  our  indiscretion  should  be  checked 
With  some  degree  of  pain. 

Alon.  What  indiscretion? 

Zan.  Come,  you  must  bear  to  hear  your  faults 

from  me: 

Had  you  not  sent  Don  Carlos  to  the  court 
The  night  before  the  battle,  that  foul  slave, 
Who  forged  the  senseless  scroll  which  gives  you 

pain, 
Had  wanted  footing  for  his  villany. 

Alon.  I  sent  him  not. 

Zan.  Not  send  him ! — ha ! — that  strikes  me. 
I  thought  he  came  on  message  to  the  king. 
Is  there  another  cause  could  justify 
His  shunning  danger,  and  the  promised  fight? 
But  I  perhaps  may  think  too  rigidly ; 
So  long  an  absence,  and  impatient  love 

Alon.  In  my  confusion  that  had  quite  escaped 

me. 

By  heaven,  my  wounded  soul  does  bleed  afresh;— 
'Tis  clear  as  day — for  Carlos  is  so  brave, 
He  lives  not  but  on  fame,  he  hunts  for  danger, 
And  is  enamoured  of  the  face  of  death. 
How  then  could  he  decline  the  next  day's  battle  1 

But  for  the  transports ! Oh,  it  must  be  so — 

Inhuman !  by  the  loss  of  his  own  honour, 
To  buy  the  ruin  of  his  friend ! 

Zan.  You  wrong  him : 
He  knew  not  of  your  love. 

Alon.  Ha! 

Zan.  That  stings  home,  [aside.} 

Alon.  Indeed,  he  knew  not  of  my  treacherous 

love — 

Proofs  rise  on  proofs,  and  still  the  last  the  strong- 
est. 

The  eternal  law  of  things  declares  it  true, 
Which  calls  for  judgment,  on  distinguished  guilt, 
And  loves  to  make  our  crime  our  punishment. 
Love  is' my  torture,  love  was  first  my  crime; 
For  she  was  his,  my  friend's,  and  he,  O,  horror ! 
Confided  all  in  me.     O,  sacred  faith ! 
Bow  dearly  I  abide  thy  violation ! 

Zan.  Were  then  their  loves  far  gone  ? 

Alon.  The  father's  will 
There  bore  a  total  sway ;  and  he,  as  soon 
As  news  arrived  that  Carlos'  fleet  was  seen 
From  off  our  coast,  fired  with  the  love  of  gold, 
Determined,  that  the  very  sun  which  saw 
Carlos'  return,  should  see  his  daughter  wed. 

Zan.  Indeed,  my  lord ;  then  you  must  pardon 

me, 

f  I  presume  to  mitigate  the  crime. 
Consider,  strong  allurements  soften  guilt ; 
L,ong  was  his  absence,  ardent  was  his  love, 
At  midnight  his  return,  the  next  day  destined 
^or  his  espousals— ^twas  strong  temptation. 

Alon.  Temptation! 

Zan.  'Twas  but  gaining  of  one  night. 

Alon.  One  night! 


108 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Zan.  That  crime  could  ne'er  return  again. 

Alon.  Again !  by  heaven  thou  dost  insult  thy 

lord. 

Temptation !  one  night  gained!  O  stings  and  death! 
And  am  I  then  undone  1  alas,  my  Zanga! 
And  dost  thou  own  it  too  1  deny  it  still, 
And  rescue  me  one  moment  from  distraction. 

Zan.  My  lord,  I  hope  the  best. 

Alon.  False,  foolish  hope, 
And  insolent  to  me !  thou  know'st  it's  false ; 
It  is  as  glaring  as  the  noon-tide  sun. 
Devil ! — this  morning,  after  three  years  coldness, 
To  rush  at  once  into  a  passion  for  me  ! 
'Twas  time  to  feign,  'twas  time  to  get  another, 
When  her  first  fool  was  sated  with  her  beauties. 

Zan.  What  says  my  lord/?  did  Leonora  then 
Never  before  disclose  her  passion  for  you  1 

Alon.  Never. 

Zan.  Throughout  the  whole  three  years  1 

Alon.  O  never !  never ! 

Why,  Zanga,  shouldst  thou  strive  1  'tis  all  in  vain : 
Though  thy  soul  labours,  it  can  find  no  reed 
For  hope  to  catch  at.     Ah !  I'm  plunging  down 
Ten  thousand  thousand  fathoms  in  despair. 

Zan.  Hold,  sir,  I'll  break  your  fall — wave  every 

fear, 

And  be  a  man  again — had  he  enjoyed  her, 
Be  most  assured, 'he  had  resigned  her  to  you 
With  less  reluctance. 

Alon.  Ha !  resign  her  to  me ! 

Resign  her  .'—who  resign  her  1— double  death ! 
How  could  I  doubt  so  long  1  my  heart  is  broke. 
First  love  her  to  distraction !  then  resign  her ! 

Zan.  But  was  it  not  with  utmost  agony? 

Alon.  Grant  that,  he  still  resigned  her;  that's 

.  enough. 

Would  he  pluck  out  his  eye  to  give  it  me  ? 
Tear  out  his  heart  ? — she  was  his  heart  no  more — 
For  was  it  with  reluctance  he  resigned  her ; 
By  heaven,  he  asked;  he  courted  me  to  wed. 
I  thought  it  strange ;  'tis  now  no  longer  so. 

Zan.  Was't  hi§  request  ?  are  you  right  sure  of 

that  1 
I  fear  the  letter  was  not  all  a  tale. 

Alon.  A  tale !  there's  proof  equivalent  to  sight. 

Zan.  I  should  distrust  my  sight  on  this  occasion. 

Alon.  And  so  should  I ;  by  heaven,  I  think  I 

should. 

What !  Leonora,  the  divine,  by  whom 
We  guessed  at  angels !  oh !  I'm  all  confusion. 

Zan.  You  now  are  too  much  ruffled  to  think 

clearly. 

Since  bliss  and  horror,  life  and  death  hang  on  it, 
Go  to  your  chamber,  there  maturely  weigh 
Each  circumstance :  consider,  above  all, 
That  it  is  jcnlousy's  peculiar  nature 
To  swell  small  things  to  great ;  nay,  out  of  nought 
To  conjure  much,  and  then  to  lose  its  reason 
Amid  the  hideous  phantoms  it  has  formed. 


Alon.  Had  I  ten  thousand  lives,  I'd  give  them  all 
To  be  deceived.     I  fear  'tis  doomsday  with  me. 
And  yet  she  seemed  so  pure,  that  I  thought  heaven 
Borrowed  her  form  for  virtue's  self  to  wear, 
To  gain  her  lovers  with  the  sons  of  men. 
O,  Leonora!  Leonora!  [exit. 

Enter  ISABELLA. 

Zan.  Thus  far  it  works  auspiciously.     My  pa- 
tient 

Thrives  underneath  my  hand  in  misery. 
He's  gone  to  think ;  that  is,  to  be  distracted. 

Isa.  I  overheard  your  conference,  and  saw  you, 
To  my  amazement,  tear  the  letter. 

Zan.  There, 

There,  Isabella,  I  out-did  myself. 
For  tearing  it,  I  not  secure  it  only 
In  its  force ;  but  superadd  a  new. 
For  who  can  now  the  character  examine 
To  cause  a  doubt,  much  less  detect  the  fraud  1 
And  after  tearing  it,  as  loth  to  show 
The  foul  contents,  if  I  should  swear  it  now 
A  forgery,  my  lord  would  disbelieve  me, 
Nay,  more,  would  disbelieve  the  more  I  swore. 
But  is  the  picture  happily  disposed  of? 

Isa.  It  is. 

Zan.  That's  well— ah  !  what  is  well  1  O,  pang 

to  think ! 

O  dire  necessity !  is  this  my  province  1 
Whither,  my  soul !  ah !  whither  art  thou  sunk 
Beneath  thy  sphere  ?  ere  while,  far,  far  above 
Such  little  arts,  dissembling,  falsehoods,  frauds, 
The  trash  of  villany  itself,  which  falls 
To  cowards,  and  poor  wretches  wanting  bread. 
Does  this  become  a  soldier  1  this  become 
Whom  armies  followed,  and  a  people  loved  1 
My  martial  glory  withers  at  the  thought. 
But  great  my  end ;  and  since  there  are  no  other, 
These  means  are  just,  they  shine  with  borrowed 

light, 
Illustrious  from  the  purpose  they  pursue. 

And  greater,  sure,  my  merit,  who,  to  gain 

A  point  sublime,  can  such  a  task  sustain ; 

To  wade   through  ways  obscene,  my  honour 
bend, 

And  shock  my  nature,  to  attain  my  end. 

Late  time  shall  wonder  ;  that  my  joys  will  raise; 

For  wonder  is  involuntary  praise.        [exeunt. , 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE   I. 

Enter  DON  ALONZO  and  ZANGA. 
Alon.  Oh,  what  a  pain  to  think!  when  every 

thought, 

Perplexing  thought,  in  intricacies  runs, 
And  reason  knits  the  inextricable  toil, 
In  which  herself  is  taken!  I  am  lost. 


THE  REVENGE. 


199 


Poor  insect  that  I  nm,  I  am  involved, 
And  buried  in  the  web  myself  have  wrought! 
One  argument  is  balanced  by  another, 
Anil  reason  reason  m«ctsin  doubtful  fight, 
And  proofs  are  countermined  by  equal  proofs. 

n>  I'll  bear  this  battle  of  the  mind, 
This  inward  anarchy;  but  find  my  wife, 
And  to  her  trembling  heart  presenting  death, 
Force  all  the  secret  from  her. 

Zan.  O.  forbear! 
You  totter  on  the  very  brink  of  ruin. 

Alon.  What  dost  thou  mean! 

Zan.  That  will  discover  all, 
And  kill  my  hopes.     What  can  I  think  or  do7? 

[aside] 

Alon.  What  dost  thou  murmur  1 

Zan.  Force  the  secret  from  her! 
What's  perjury  to  such  a  crime  as  this? 
Will  she  confess  it  then  1  O,  groundless  hope ! 
But  rest  assured,  she'll  make  this  accusation, 
Or  false  or  true,  your  ruin  with  the  king; 
Such  is  her  father's  power. 

Alon.  No  more,  I  care  not; 
Rather  than  groan  beneath  this  load,  I'll  die. 

Zan.  But  for  what  better  will  you  change  this 

load? 

Grant  you  should  know  it,  would   not  that  be 
worse? 

Alon.  No,  it  would  cure  me  of  my  mortal  pangs; 
By  hatred  and  contempt  I  should  despise  her, 
And  all  my  love-bred  agonies  would  vanish. 

7.  m.  Ah!  were  I  sure  of  that,  my  lord — 
.  What  then! 

Zan.  You  should  not  hazard  life  to  gain  the 
secret. 

Alon.  What  dost  thou  mean?  thou  know'st  I'm 

on  the  rack. 

I'll  not  I*  played  with;  speak,  if  thou  hast  aught, 
Or  I  this  instant  fly  to  Leonora. 

Zan.  That  is,  to  death.    My  lord,  I  am  not  yet 
U.uitr'  so  far  gone  in  guilt  to  suffer  it, 
Though  gone  too  far,  heaven  knows — 'tis  I  am 

I  have  nx>k  pain*,  as  you.  I  know,  observed, 

To  hinder  you  from  diving  in  the  secret, 

And  turned  aside  your  thoughts  from  the  detection. 

Alon.  Thou  dost  confound  me. 

Zan.  I  confound  myself, 

And  frankly  own  it,  though  to  my  shame  I  own  it; 
.«•  but  your  life  in  danger  could  have  torn 
ocret  out,  and  made  me  own  my  crime. 

Alon.  Speak  quickly ;  Zanga,  speak. 

Zan.  Not  yet,  dread  sir: 

i  must  be  assured,  that  if  you  find 
The  fair  one  guilty,  scorn,  as  you  assured  me, 
Shall  conquer  love  and  rage,  and  heal  your  soul. 

Alon.  Oh,  'twill,  by  h< 

Zan.  Alas!  I  fear  it  much, 
And  scarce  can  hope  so  far;  but  I  of  this 


Exact  your  solemn  oath,  that  you  11  abstain 
From  all  self-violence,  and  save  my  lord. 

Alon.  I  trebly  swear. 

Zan.  You'll  bear  it  like  a  man? 

.Aton.  A  god. 

Zan.  Such  have  yon  been  to  me,  these  tears 

confess  it, 

And  poured  forth  miracles  of  kindness  on  me: 
And  what  amends  is  now  within  my  power, 
But  to  confess,  expose  myself  to  justice, 
And  as  a  blessing  claim  my  punishment  ? 
Know  then,  Don  Carlos 

Alon.  Oh! 

Zan.  You  can  not  bear  it. 

Alon.  Go  on,  111  have  it,  though  it  blast  man- 
kind; 
111  have  it  all,  and  instantly.    Go  on. 

Zan.  Don  Carlos  did  return  at  dead  of  night — 

Enter  LEONORA. 

Leon.  My  lord  Alonzo,  you  are  absent  from  us, 
And  quite  undo  our  joy. 

Alon.  I'll  come,  my  love: 
Be  not  our  friends  deserted  by  us  both ; 
I'll  follow  you  this  moment 

Leon.  My  good  lord, 
I  do  observe  severity  of  thought 
Upon  your  brow.    Aught  hear  you  from  the 
Moors? 

Alon.  No,  my  delight. 

Leon.  What  then  employed  your  mind? 

Alon.  Thou,  love,  and  only  thou:  so  heaven 

befriend  me, 
As  other  thought  can  find  no  entrance  here. 

Leon.  How  good  in  you,  my  lord,  whom  na- 
tions' cares 

Solicit,  and  a  world  in  arms  obeys, 
To  drop  one  thought  on  me ! 

•  [he  shows  the  utmost  impatience] 

Alon.  Dost  thou  then  prize  it  ? 

Leon.  Do  you  then  ask  it? 

Alon.  Know  then  to  thy  comfort, 
Thou  hast  me  all,  my  throbbing  heart  is  full 
With  thee  alone,  I've  thought  of  nothing  else ; 
Nor  shall  I,  from  my  soul  believe,  till  death. 
My  life,  our  friends  expect  thee. 

Lean.  I  obey.  [Exit. 

Alon.  Is  that  the  face  of  curst  hypocrisy? 
If  she  is  guilty,  stars  are  made  of  darkness, 
And  beauty  shall  no  more  belong  to  heaven — 
Don  Carlos  did  return  at  dead  of  night — 
Proceed,  good  Zanga,  so  thy  tale  began. 

Zan.  Don  Carlos  did  return  at  dead  of  night ; 
That  night,  by  chance,  ill  chance  for  me,  did  I 
Command  the  watch  that  guards  the  palace  gate. 
He  told  me  he  had  letters  for  the  king, 
Dispatched  from  you. 

Alon.  The  villain  lied! 

Zan.  My  lord, 


200 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


I  pray,  forbear — transported  at  his  sight, 
After  so  long  a  bondage,  and  your  friend, 
Who  could  suspect  him  of  an  artifice  1 
No  farther  I  inquired,  but  let  him  pass, 
False  to  my  trust,  at  least  imprudent  in  it. 
Our  watch  relieved,  I  went  into  the  garden, 
As  is  my  custom,  when  the  night's  serene, 
And  took  a  moon-light  walk :  when  soon  I  heard 
A  rustling  in  arbour  that  was  near  me. 
I  saw  two  lovers  in  each  other's  arms, 
Embracing  and  embraced.     Anon  the  man 
Arose  and  falling  back  some  paces  from  her, 
Gazed  ardently  awhile,  then  rushed  at  once, 
And  throwing  all  himself  into  her  bosom, 
There  softly  sighed;  '  oh,  night  of  ecstasy ! 
When  shall  we  meet  again  ?'^Don  Carlos  then 
Led  Leonora  forth. 

Alon.  Oh,  oh,  my  heart!  [he  sinks  into  a  chair] 

Zan.  Groan  on,  and  with  the  sound  refresh  my 

soul! 

'Tis  through  his  heart,  his  knees  smite  one  another. 
'Tis  through  his  brain,  his  eye-balls  roll  in  anguish. 

[aside] 

My  lord,  my  lord,  why  do  you  rack  my  soul  1 
Speak  to  me,  let  me  know  that  you  still  live. 
Do  not  you  know  me,  sir?  pray,  look  upon  me  : 
You  think  too  deeply — I'm  your  own  Zanga, 
So  loved,  so  cherished,  and  so  faithful  to  you. — 
Why  start  you  in  such  fury  1 — nay,  my  lord, 
For  heaven's  sake  sheathe  your  sword !  what  can 

this  mean  1 

Fool  that  I  was,  to  trust  you  with  the  secret, 
And  you  unkind  to  break  your. word  with  me. 
Oh,  passion  for  a  woman  ! — on  the  ground ! 
Where  is  your  boasted  courage?  where  your  scorn, 
And  prudent  rage,  that  was  to  cure  your  grief, 
And  chase  your  love-bred  agonies  away  ?" 
Rise,  sir,  for  honour's  sake.     Why  should  the 

"Moors, 
Why  should  the  vanquished  triumph  1 

Alon.  Would  to  heaven 
That  I  were  lover  still ;  oh,  she  was  all ! 
My  fame,  my  friendship,  and  my  love  of  arms, 
All  stooped  to  her,  my  blood  was  her  possession. 
Deep  in  the  secret  foldings  of  my  heart 
She  lived  with  life,  and  far  the  dearer  she, 
But — and — no  more — set  nature  on  a  blaze, 
Give  her  a  fit  of  jealousy — away—- 
To think  on't  is  the  torment  of  the  damned. 
And  not  to  think  on't  is  impossible. 
How  fair  the  cheek  that  first  alarmed  my  soul ! 
How  bright  the  eye  that  set  it  on  a  flame ! 
How  soft  the  breast  on  which  I  laid  my  peace 
For  years  to  slumber  unawaked  by  care ! 
How  fierce  the  transport !  how  sublime  the  bliss ! 
How  deep,  how  black,  the  horror  and  despair !" 

Zan.  You  said  you'd  bear  it  like  a  man. 

Alon.  I  do. 
Am  I  not  almost  distracted  1 


Zan.  Pray  be  calm. 

Alon.  As  hurricanes: — bethou  assured  of  that. 

Zan.  Is  this  the  wise  Alonzo  1 

Alon.  Villain,  no! 

He  died  in  the  arbour — he  was  murdered  there ! — 
I  am  his  demon  though — my  wife ! — my  wife ! — 

Zan.  Alas !  he  weeps. 

Alon.*Gto,  dig  her  grave ! 

Zan.  My  lord ! 

Alon.  But  that  her  blood's  too  hot>  I  would  ca- 
rouse it 
Around  my  bridal  board ! 

Zan.  And  I  would  pledge  thee.    [aside] 

Alon.  But  I  may  talk  too  fast.     Pray  let  me 

think. 

And  reason  mildly. — Wedded  and  undone 
Before  one  night  descends. — Oh,  hasty  evil ! 
What  friend  to  comfort  me  in  my  extreme  ! 
Where's  Carlos  1  why  is  Carlos  absent  from  me  1 
Does  he  know  what  has  happened  ? 

Zan.  My  good  lord ! 

Alon.   Oh,  depth  of  horror!    he! — my  bosom 
friend ! 

Zan.  Alas,  compose  yourself,  my  lord. 

Alon.  To  death! 

aze  on  her  with  both  eyes  so  ardently ! 
Give  them  to  the  vultures,  tear  them  all  in  pieces ! 

Zan.  Most  excellent !  [aside] 

Alon.  Hark !  you  can  keep  a  secret, 
[n  yonder  arbour  bound  with  jasmine — 
Who's  that?  what  villain's  that?  unhand  her?— 

murder ! 

Tear  them  asunder murder how  they  grind 

My  heart  betwixt  them  ! — oh,  let  go  my  heart ! 
Yet  let  it  go—'  embracing  and  embraced !' 
Oh,  pestilence ! — who  let  him  in  ? — a  traitor. 

[  Goes  to  stab  Zanga,  he  prevents  him.] 
Alas !  my  head  turns  round,  and  my  limbs  fail  rne. 

Zan.  My  lord ! 

Alon.  Oh,  villain,  villain,  most  accurst ! 
if  thou  didst  know  it,  why  did'st  let  me  wed  1 

Zan.  Hear  me,  my  lord,  your  anger  will  abate. 
[  knew  it  not: — I  saw  them  in  the  garden; 
But  saw  no  more  than  you  might  well  expect 
To  see  in  lovers  destined  for  each  other ; 
3y  heaven  I  thought  their  meeting  innocent. 
Who  could  suspect  fair  Leonora's  virtue, 
Till  after  proofs  conspired  to  blacken  it  ? 
Sad  proofs,  which  came  too  late,  which  broke  not 

out. 

Sternal  curses  on  Alvarez'  haste! 
Till  holy  rites  had  made  the  wanton  yours : 
And  then,  I  own,  I  laboured  to  conceal  it, 
n  duty  and  compassion  to  your  peace. 

Alon.  Live  now,   be  damned   hereafter — for  I 

want  thee. 

Oh,  night  of  ecstacy !' — ha!  was't  not  sol 

will  enjoy  this  murder. — Let  me  think — 

The  jasmine  bower— 'tis  secret  and  remote : 


THE  REVENGE. 


301 


Go  wait  me  thorc,  and  take  my  dagger  with  thoe. 

[Exit  Zanga. 

f  he  sweet  sound  still  singa  within  my  ear ! 
When  shall  we  meet  again  7 to-night,  in  hell. 

As  he  is  going,  enter  LEONORA. 

Ha !  I'm  surprised !  I  stagger  at  her  charms ! 

Oh,  angel-devil ! shall  I  stab  her  now  7 

Xo  it  shall  be  as  I  at  first  determined. 

To  kill  ht-r  now  were  half  my  vengeance  lost. 

Then  must  I  now  dissemble — if  I  can. 

Leon.  My  lord,  excuse  me;  see  a  second  time 
I  come  in  embassy  from  all  your  friends, 

-  are  languid,  uninspired  by  you. 

Alon.  This  moment,  Leonora,  I  was  coming 
To  thoe,  and  all — but  sure,  or  I  mistake, 
Or  thou  can'st  well  inspire  my  friends  with  joy. 

Leon.  Why  siglis  my  lord  7 

Alon.  I  sighed  not,  Leonora. 

Leon.  <  thought  you  did;  your  sighs  are  mine, 

my  lord, 
And  shall  I  feel  them  all. 

Alon.  Dost  flatter  me  1 

Leon.  If  my  regards  for  you  are  flattery, 
Full  far  indeed  I  stretched  the  compliment 
In  this  day's  solemn  rite. 

Alon.  What  rite  1 

Leon.  You  sport  me. 

Alon.  Indeed  I  do;  my  heart  is  full  of  mirth. 

Leon.  And  so  is  mine — I  look  on  cheerfulness 
As  on  the  health  of  virtue. 

Alon.  Virtue! — damn 

Leon.  What  says  my  lord  1 

Alon.  Thou  art  exceeding  fair. 

Leon.  Beauty  alone  is  but  of  little  worth; 
But  when  the  soul  and  body  of  a  piece, 
1'iifh  shine  alike,  then  they  obtain  a  price, 
And  are  a  fit  reward  for  gallant  actions, 

:\'*\  >ay  on  earth  for  such  great  souls  as  yours ; 
If  fair  and  innocent  I  am  your  due. 

Alon.  Innocent !  [aside.} 

Leon.  How,. my  lord!  I  interrupt  you. 

Alon.  No,  my  best  life !  I  must  not  part  with 

thee— 

This  hand  is  mine — oh !  what  a  hand  is  here ! 
So  soft,  souls  sink  into  it,  and  are  lost! 

Leon.  In  tears,  my  lord! 

Alon.  What  less  can  speak  my  joy! 
nnd  I  li-riM  my  own  existence; 
!  n  \isinn — my  head  swims  in  heaven. 
WhrrHorr !  oh,  wherefore  this  expense  of  beauty? 

And  wherefore,  oh! 

Why.  I  rou Id  naze  upon  thy  looks  for  ever, 
And  drink  in  all  my  being  from  thine  eyes; 
Ami  I  could  snatch  a  flaming  thunderbolt, 
And  hurl  destruction  ! — 

Leon.  How,  my  lord !  what  mean  you  7 
Acquaint  me  with  the  secret  of  your  heart, 
Or  cast  me  out  for  ever  from  your  love. 


Alon.  Art  thou  concerned  for  me  1 

Leon.  My  lord  you  fright  me. 
Is  this  the  fondness  of  your  nuptial  hour  1 
I  am  ill-used,  my  lord,  I  must  not  bear  it. 
Why,  when  I  woo  your  hand,  is  it  denied  me  7 
Your  very  eyes,  why  are  they  taught  to  shun  me 7 
Nay,  my  good  lord,  I  have  a  title  here 

[taking  his  hand. 

And  I  will  have  it.    Am  I  not  your  wife? 
Bave  I  not  just  authority  to  know 
That  heart  which  I  have  purchased  with  my  own  7 
Lay  it  before  me  then;  it  is  my  due. 
Unkind  Alonzo !  though  I  might  demand  it ; 
Behold  I  kneel !  see,  Leonora  kneels ! 
And  deigns  to  be  a  beggar  for  her  own ! 
Tell  me  the  secret,  I  conjure  you  tell  me. 
The  bride  foregoes  the  homage  of  her  day, 
Alvarez'  daughter  trembles  in  the  dust. 
Speak  then,  I  charge  you  speak,  or  I  expire, 
Aiid  load  you  with  my  death..  My  lord,  my  lord ! 

Alon.  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
[he  breaks  from  her,  she  sinks  upon  thejloor. 

Leon.  Are  these  the  joys  which  fondly  I  con- 
ceived 1 

And  is  it  thus  a  wedded  life  begins? 
What  did  I  part  with,  when  I  gave  my  heart? 
I  knew  not  that  all  happiness  went  with  it. 
Why  did  I  leave  my  tender  father's  wing, 
And  venture  into  love !  the  maid  that  loves, 
Goes  out  to  sea  upon  a  shattered  plank, 
And  puts  her  trust  in  miracles  for  safety. 
Where  shall  I  sigh? — where  pour  out  my  com- 
plaints 

He  that  should  tear,  should  succour,  should  re- 
dress, 
He  is  the  source  of  all. 

Alon.  Go  to  thy  chamber; 
I  soon  will  follow;  that  which  now  disturbs  thee 
Shall  be  cleared  up,  and  thou  shall  not  condemn 

me.  [exit  Leonora. 

Oh  how  like  innocence  she  looks! — what,  stab  her! 
And  rush  into  her  blood ! — I  never  can ! 
In  her  guilt  shines,  and  nature  holds  my  hand. 
How  then?  why,  thus — no  more  !  it  is  determined. 

Enter  ZANGA. 

Zan.  I  fear  his  heart  has  failed  him.  She  must 

die. 

Can  I  not  rouse  the  snake  that's  in  his  bosom, 
To  sting  out  human  nature  and  effect  it  7  [aside. 
Alon.  This  vast  and  solid  earth,  that  blazing  sun, 
Those  skies  through  which  it  rolls,  must  all  have 

end. 

What  then  is  man  7  the  smallest  part  of  nothing4. 
Day  buries  day,  month  month,  and  year  the  year, 
Our  life  is  but  a  chain  of  many  deaths  ; 
Can  then  death's  self  be  feared  ?  our  life  much 

rather, 
Life  is  the  desert,  life  the  solitude, 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Death  joins  us  to  the  great  majority ; 
'Tis  to  be  borne  to  Platos,  and  to  Csesars ; 
'Tis  to  be  great  for  ever ; 
'Tis  pleasure,  'tis  ambition  then  to  die. 

Zan.  I  think,  my  lord,  you  talked  of  death. 

Alon.  I  did. 

Zan.  I  give  you  joy,  then  Leonora's  dead. 

Alon.  No,  Zanga,  the  greatest  guilt  is  mine. 
'Tis  mine  who  might  have  marked  his  midnight 

visit, 
Who  might  have  marked  his  tameness  to  resign 

her; 

Who  might  have  marked  her  sudden  turn  of  love: 
These,  and  a  thousand  tokens  more ;  and  yet, 
For  which  the  saints  absolve  my  soul !  did  wed. 

Zan.  Where  does  this  tend  1 

Alon.  To  shed  a  woman's  blood 
Would  stain  my  sword,  and  make  my  wars  in- 
glorious! 

But  just  resentment  to  myself,  bears  in  it 
A  stamp  of  greatness  above  vulgar  minds. 
He  who,  superior  to  the  checks  of  nature, 
Dares  make  his  life  the  victim  of  his  reason, 
Does  in  some  sort  that  reason  deify, 
And  takes  a  sight  at  heaven. 

Zan.  Alas,  my  lord, 

'Tis  not  your  reason,  but  her  beauty  finds 
Those  arguments,  and  throws  you  on  your  sword. 
You  can  not  close  an  eye  that  is  so  bright, 
You  can  not  strike  a  breast  that  is  so  soft, 
That  has  ten  thousand  ecstacies  in  store — 
For  Carlos? — no,  my  lord,  I  mean  for  you. 

Alon.  Oh,  through  my  heart  and  marrow !  pr'y- 

thee  spare  me; 

Nor  more  upbraid  the  weakness  of  thy  lord. 
1  own,  I  tried,  I  quarrelled  with  my  heart 
And  pushed  it  on,  and  bid  it  give  her  death ; 
But,  oh.  her  eyes  struck  first,  and  murdered  me. 

Zan.  I  know  not  what  to  answer  to  my  lord. 
Men  are  but  men ;  we  did  not  make  ourselves. 
Farewell  then,  my  best  lord,  since  you  must  die. 
Oh,  that  I  were  to  share  your  monument, 
And  in  eternal  darkness  close  these  eyes 
Against  those  scenes  which  I  am  doomed  to  suffer ! 

Alon.  What  dost  thou  mean  1 

Zan.  And  is  it  then  unknown  1 
Oh,  grief  of  heart  to  think  that  you  should  ask  it ! 
Sure  you  distrust  that  ardent  love  I  bear  you, 
Else  could  you  doubt  when  you  are  laid  in  dust — 
But  it  will  cut  my  poor  heart  through  and  through, 
To  see  those  revel  on  your  sacred  tomb, 
Who  brought  you  thither  by  their  lawless  loves. 
For  there  they'll  revel,  and  exult  to  find 
Him  sleep  so  fast,  who  else  might  mar  their  joys. 

Alon.  Distraction ! — but  Don  Carlos  well  thou 

knowest, 
Is  sheathed  in  steel,  and  bent  on  other  thoughts. 

Zan.  I'll  work  him  to  the  murder  of  his  friend. 
Yes,  till  the  fever  of  his  blood  returns, 


While  her  last  kiss  still  glows  upon  his  cheek. 

[aside. 

But  when  he  finds  Alonzo  is  no  more, 
How  will  he  rush  like  lightning  to  her  arms ! 
There  sigh,  there  languish,  there  pour  out  his 

soul; 

But  not  in  grief— sad  obsequies  to  thee ! 
But  thou  wilt  be  at  peace,  nor  see,  nor  hear 
The  burning  kiss,  the  sigh  of  ecstacy, 
Their  throbbing  hearts,  that  jostle  one  another ; 
Thank  heaven,  these  torments  will  be  all  my  own. 

Alon.  I'll  ease  thee  of  that  pain.    Let  Carlos  die, 
O'ertake  him  on  the  road,  and  see  it  done, 
'Tis  my  command.  [gives  his  signet. 

Zan.  I  dare  not  disobey. 

Alon.  My  Zanga  now,  I  have  thy  leave  to  die. 

Zan.  Ah,  sir !  think,  think  again.  Are  all  men 

buried 

In  Carlos'  grave?  you  know  not  womankind. 
When  once  the  throbbing  of  the  heart  h*as  broke 
The  modest  zone  with  which  it  first  was  tied, 
Each  man  she  meets  will  be  a  Carlos  to  her. 

Alon.  That  thought  has  more  of  hell  than  had 

the  former. 

Another,  and  another,  and  another ! 
And  each  shall  cast  a  smile  upon  my  tomb. 
I  am  convinced ;  I  must  not,  will  not  die. 

Zan.  You  can  not  die ;  nor  can  you  murder  her. 
What  then  remains'?  in  nature  no  third  way, 
But  to  forget,  and  so  to  love  again. 

Alon.  Oh.! 

Zan.  If  you  forgive,  the  world  mil-call  you  good ; 
If  you  forget,  the  world  will  call  you  wise; 
If  you  receive  her  to  your  grace  again, 
The  world  will  call  you  very,  very  kind. 

Alon.  Zanga,  I  understand  thee  well.  She  dies, 
Though  my  arm  trembles  at  the  stroke,  she  dies. 

Zan.  That's  truly  great.  What  think  you  'twas 

set  up 

The  Greek  and  Roman  name  in  such  a  lustre, 
But  doing  right  in  stern  despite  to  nature, 
Shutting  their  ears  to  all  her  little  cries, 
When  great,  august,  and  godlike  justice  called? 
At  Aulis,  one  poured  out  a  daughter's  life, 
And  gained  more  glory  than  by  all  his  wars; 
Another  slew  his  sister  in  just  rage ; 
A  third ;  the  theme  of  all  succeeding  times, 
Gave  to  the  cruel  axe  a  darling  son. 
Nay  more,  for  justice  some  devote  themselves, 
As  he  at  Carthage,  an  immortal  name! 
Yet  there  is  one  step  left  above  them  all, 
Above  their  history,  above  their  fable : 
A  wife,  bride,  mistress  unenjoyed — do  that, 
And  tread  upon  the  Greek  and  Roman  glory. 

Alon.  'Tis  done ! — again  new  transports  fire  my 

brain : 

I  had  forgot  it,  'tis  my  bridal  night, 
Friend,  give  me  joy,  we  must  be  gay  together; 
See  that  the  festival  be  duly  honoured. 


THE  REVENGE. 


203 


And  whea  with  garlands  the  full  bowl  is  crown- 
ed, 

And  music  gives  the  elevating  sound, 
And  golden  carpets  spread  the  sacred  floor, 
And  a  new  day  the  blazing  tapers  pour, 
Thou,  Zanga,  thou  my  solemn  friends  invite, 
From  the  dark  realms  of  everlasting  night. 
Call  vengeance,  call  the  furies,  call  despair, 
And  death,  our  chief  invited  guest,  be  there ; 
He  with  pale  hand  shall  lead  the  bride,  and 

spread 
Eternal  curtains  round  our  nuptial  bed. 

[exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCEXE  I. 
Enter  ALONZO. 

Alon.  O,  pitiful !  oh,  terrible  to  sight ! 
Poor  mangled  shade !  all  covered  o'er  with  wounds, 
And  so  disguised  with  blood ! — who  murdered  thee? 
Tell  thy  sad  tale,  and  thou  shalt  be  revenged. 
Ha!  Carlos'?— horror!  Carlos?— oh,  away! 
Go  to  the  grave,  or  let  me  sink  to  mine. 
I  can  not  bear  the  sight — what  sight  1 — where  am  I ! 
There's  nothing  here — if  this  was  fancy's  work; 
She  draws  a  picture  strongly — 

Enter  ZANGA. 

Zan.  Ha ! — you're  pale. 

Alon.  Is  Carlos  murdered? 

Zan.  I  obeyed  ypur  order. 
Six  ruffians  overtook  him  on  the  road; 
He  fought  as  he  was  wont,  and  four  he  slew, 
Then  sunk  beneath  an  hundred  wounds  to  death. 
His  last  breath  blest  Alonzo,  and  desired 
His  bones  might  rest  near  yours. 

Alon.  Oh,  Zanga!  Zanga! 
But  I'll  not  think :  for  I  must  act,  and  thinking 
Would  ruin  me  for  action.     Oh,  the  medley 
Of  right  and  wrong !  the  chaos  of  my  brain ! 
He  should  and  should  not  die — you  should  obey 
And  not  obey.     It  is  a  day  of  darkness, 
Of  contradictions,  and  of  many  deaths. 
Where's  Leonora,  then?  quick,  answer  me: 
I'm  deep  in  horrors,  I'll  be  deeper  still. 
I  find  thy  artifice  did  take  effect, 
And  she  forgives  my  late  deportment  to  her. 

Zan.  I  told  her  from  your  childhood  you  u  as 

wont 

On  any  great  surprise,  but  chiefly  then 
When  cause  of  sorrow  bore  it  company, 
To  have  your  passion  shake  the  seat  of  reason; 
A  momentary  ill,  which  soon  blew  o'er, 
Then  did  I  tell  her  of  Don  Carlos'  death, 
Wisely  suppressing  by  what  means  he  fell, 
And  laid  the  blame  on  that.  At  first  she  doubted  : 
But  such  the  honest  artifice  I  used, 


And  such  her  ardent  wish  it  should  be  true, 
That  she,  at  length,  was  fully  satisfied. 

Alon.  'Twas  well  she  was.  In  our  late  interview 
My  passion  so  far  threw  me  from  my  guard, 
Methinks  'tis  strange  that  conscious  of  her  guilt, 
She  saw  not  through  its  thin  disguise  my  heart. 

Zan.  But  what  design  you  sir,  and  how  ? 

Alon.  I'll  tell  thee. 

Thus  I've  ordained  it.     In  the  jas'mine  bower, 
The  place  which  she  dishonoured  with  her  guilt, 
There  will  I  meet  her;  the  appointment's  made; 
And  calmly  spread,  for  I  can  do  it  now, 
The  blackness  of  her  crime  before  her  sight. 
And  then  with  all  the  cool  solemnity 
Of  public  justice,  give  her  to  the  grave.      [exit 

Zan.  Why,  get  thee  gone!  horror  and  night  go 

with  thee. 

Sisters  of  Acheron,  go  hand  in  hand, 
Go  dance  around  the  bower,  and  close  them  in ; 
And  tell  them  that  I  sent  you  to  salute  them. 
Profane  the  ground,  and  for  the  ambrosial  rose, 
And  breath  of  jas'mine,  let  hemlock  blacken, 
And  deadly  nightshade  poison  all  the  air. 
For  the  sweet  nightingale  may  ravens  croak, 
Toads  pant,  and  adders  rustle  through  the  leaves ; 
May  serpents  winding  up  the  trees  let  fall 
Their  hissing  necks  upon  them  from  above, 
And  mingle  kisses — such  as  I  should  give  them. 

[exit. 


SCENE  II.— THE  BOWER— LEOXORA  SLEEPING. 
Enter  ALONZO. 

Aton.  Ye  amaranths !  ye  roses  like  the  morn ! 
Sweet  myrtles,  and  ye  golden  orange  groves ! 
Why  do  you  smile  ?  why  do  you  look  so  fair  ? 
Are  ye  not  blasted  as  I  enter  in  ? 
Yes,  see  how  every  flower  lets  fall  its  head 
How  shudders  every  leaf  without  a  wind 
How  every  green  is  as  the  ivy  pale! 
Did  ever  midnight  ghosts  assemble  here? 
Have  these  sweet  echoes  ever  learned  to  groan  ? 
Joy-giving,  love-inspiring,  holy  bower! 
Know,  in  thy  fragrant  bosom  Ihou  receivest 

A murderer !  oh,  I  shall  stain  thy  lilies, 

And  horror  will  usurp  the  seat  of  bliss. 

So  Lucifer  broke  into  paradise, 

And  soon  damnation  followed,  [advances.}  Ha ! 


The  day's  uncommon  heat  has  overcome  her. 
Then  take,  my  longing  eyes,  your  last  full  gaze. 
Oh,  what  a  sight  is  here!  how  dreadful  fair! 
Who  would  not  think  that  being  innocent? 
Where  shall  I  strike  ? '  who  strikes  her,   strikes 

himself, 

My  own  life-blood  will  issue  at  her  wound. 
Oh,  my  distracted  heart!  oh,  cruel  heaven! 
To  give  such  charms  as  these,  and  then  call  man, 


204 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Mere  man,  to  be  your  executioner. 
Was  it  because  it  was  too  hard  for  you? 
But  see,  she  smiles!  I  never  shall  smile  more. 
It  strongly  tempts  me  to  a  parting  kiss. 

[going,  starts  back. 

Ha !  smile  again.     She  dreams  of  him  she  loves. 
Curse  on  her  charms !  I'll  stab  her  through  them  all. 
[as  he  is  going  to  strike,  she  wakes. 

Leon.  My  lord  your  stay  was  long,  and  yonder  lull 
Of  falling  waters  tempted  me  to  rest, 
Dispirited  with  noon's  excessive  heat. 

Alon.  Ye  powers!  with  what  an  eye  she  mends 

the  day ! 
While  they  were  closed  I  should  have  given  the 

blow. 

Oh,  for  a  last  embrace !  and  then  for  justice  : 
Thus  heaven  and  I  shall  both  be  satisfied,  [aside. 

Leon.  What  says  my  lord  ? 

Alon.  Why  this  Alonzo  says; 
If  love  were  endless,  men  were  gods ;  'tis  that 
Does  counterbalance  travel,  danger,  pain — 
'Tis  heaven's  expedient  to  make  mortals  bear 
The  light,  and  cheat  them  of  the  peaceful  grave. 

Leon.  Alas,  my  lord !  why  talk  you  of  the  grave7? 
Your  friend  is  dead;  in  friendship  you  sustain    . 
A  mighty  loss;  repair  it  with  my  love. 

Alon.  Thy  love,  thou  piece  of  witchcraft !   I 

would  say, 

Thou  brightest  angel !  I  could  gaze  for  ever. 
WTiere  hadst  thou  this,  enchantress,  tell  me  where, 
Which  with  a  touch  works  miracles,  boils  up 
My  blood  to  tumults,  and  turns  round  my  brain  1 
E'en  now  thou  swim'st  before  me,  I  shall  lose  thee — 
No,  I  will  make  thee  sure,  and  clasp  thee  all. 
Who  turned  this  slender  waist  with  so  much  art, 
And  shut  perfection  in  so  small  a  ring! 
Who  spread  that  pure  expanse  of  white  above, 
On  which  the  dazzled  sight  can  find  no  rest ; 
But,  drunk  with  beauty,  wanders  up  and  down. 
For -ever,  and  for  ever  finds  new  charms! 
But  oh,  those  eyes!  those  murderers!  oh,  whence, 
Whence  didst  thou  steal  their  burning  orbs  from 

heaven 1 
Thou  did'st;  and  'tis  religion  to  adore  them. 

Leon.  My  best  AJonzo,  moderate  your  thoughts. 
Extremes  still  fright  me,  though  of  love  itself. 

Alon.  Extremes  indeed  !  it  hurried  me  away ; 
But  I  come  home  again — and  now  for  justice — 
And  now  for  death — it  is  impossible — 
Sure  such  were  made  by  heaven  guiltless  to  sin, 
Or  in  their  guilt  to  laugh  at  punishment. 
I  leave  her  to  just  heaven. 

[drops  the  dagger,  and  goes  off. 

Leon.  Ha,  a  dagger! 

What  dost  thou  say.  thou  minister  of  death  1 
What  dreadful  tale  dost  tell  me?  let  me  think— 
Enter  ZANGA. 

Zan.  Death  to  my  towering  hopes:  oh,  fall  from 
high! 


My  close  long-laboured  scheme  at  once  is  blasted. 
That  dagger,  found,  will  cause  her  to  inquire ; 
Inquiry  will  discover  all;  my  hopes 
Of  vengeance  perish;  I  myself  am  lost — 
Curse  on  the  coward's  heart!  wither  his  hand 
Which  held  the  steel  in  vain. — What  can  bedoiic? 
Where  can  I  fix! — that's  something  still — 'twill 

breed 

Fell  rage  and  bitterness  betwixt  their  souls, 
Which  may,  perchance,  grow  up  to  greater  evil; 
If  not,  'tis  all  I  can— it  shall  be  so —        [aside. 

Leon.  Oh,  Zanga,  I  am  sinking  in  my  fears ! 
Alonzo  dropped  this  dagger  as  he  left  me, 
And  left  me  in  a  strange  disorder  too. 
What  can  this  mean  1  angels  preserve  his  life ! 

Zan.  Yours,  madam,  yours. 

Leon.  What,  Zanga,  dost  thou  say  1 

Zan.  Carry  your  goodness,  then  to  such  ex- 
tremes, 

So  blinded  to  the  faults  of  him  you  love, 
That  you  perceive  not  he  is  jealous? 

Leon.  Heavens ! 

And  yet  a  thousand  things  recur  that  swear  it. 
What  villain  could  inspire  him  with  that  thought  ? 
It  is  not  of  the  growth  of  his  own  nature. 

Zan.  Some  villain,  who,  hell  knows ;  but  he  is 

jealous, 

And  'tis  most  fit  a  heart  so  pure  as  yours 
Do  itself  justice  and  assert  its  honour, 
And  make  him  conscious  of  its  stab  of  virtue. 

Leon.  Jealous !  it  sickens  at  my  heart.    Unkind, ' 
Ungenerous,  groundless  weak,  and  insolent ! 
Why,  wherefore,  and  what  shadow  of  occasion? 
'Tis  fascination,  'tis  the  warmth  of  heaven 
For  the  collected  crimes  of  all  his  race. 
Oh,  how  the  great  man  lessens  to  my  thought! 
How  could  so  mean  a  vice  as  jealousy, 
Unnatural  child  of  ignorance  and  guilt, 
Which  tears  and  feeds  upon  its  parent's  heart, 
Live  in  a  throng  of  such  exalted  virtues  ? 
[  scorn  and  hate,  yet  love  him  and  adore. 
[  can  not,  will  not,  dare  not  think  it  true, 
Till  from  himself  I  know  it.  [exit. 

Zan.  This  succeeds 

Just  to  my  wish.    Now  she,  with  violence, 
Upbraids  him ;  he,  well  knowing  she  is  guilty, 
Rages  no  less ;  and  if  on  either  side 
The  waves  run  high,  there  still  lives  hopes  of  ruin. 

Enter  ALONZO. 
My  lord 

Alon.  Oh,  Zanga,  hold  thy  peace!   I  am  no 

coward ; 

But  heaven  itself  did  hold  my  hand;  I  felt  it, 
By  the  well-being  of  my  soul,  I  did. 
I'll  think  of  vengeance  at  another  season. 

Zan.  My  lord,  her  guilt — 

Alon.  Perdition  on  thee,  Moor, 
Fur  that  one  word!  ah,  do  not  rouse  that  thought! 


THE  REVENGE. 


o'erwhelmed  it  as  much  as  possible  : 
Away,  then,  let  us  talk  of  other  things. 
I  tell  thee,  Moor,  I  love  her  to  distraction. 
If  'tis  my  shame,  why,  be  it  so — I  love  her ; 
Nor  can  I  help  it;  'tis  imposed  upon  me 
By  some  superior  and  resistless  power. 
I  could  not  hurt  her  to  be  lord  of  earth ; 
It  shocks  my  nature  like  a  stroke  from  heaven. 
Angels  defend  her,  as  if  innocent. 
But  see  my  Leonora  comes — begone,  [exit  Zanga. 

Enter  LEONORA. 

Oh,  seen  for  ever,  yet  for  ever  new! 
The  conquered  thou  dost  conquer  o'er  again, 
Inflicting  wound  on  wound. 

Leon.  Alas,  my  lord ! 
What  need  of  this  tome! 

Alon.  Ha!  dost  thou  weep? 

Leon.  Have  I  no  cause  1 

Alon.  If  love  is  thy  concern, 
Thou  hast  no  cause :  none  ever  loved  like  me. 
But  wherefore  this  ?  is  it  to  break  my  heart, 
Which  loses  so  much  blood  for  every  tear  ? 

Leon.  Is  it  so  tender? 

Alon.  Is  it  not 7  oh,  heaven! 
Doubt  of  my  love!  why,  I  am  nothing  else; 
It  quite  absorbs  my  every  other  passion. 
Oh,  that  this  one  embrace  would  last  for  ever! 

Leon.  Could  this  man  ever  mean  to  wrong  my 

\  irtue  1 

Could  this  man  e'er  design  upon  my  life? 
Impossible!  I  throw  away  the  thought,    [aside. 
These  tears  declare  how  much  I  taste  the  joy 
Of  being  folded  in  your  arms  and  heart ; 
My  universe  does  lie  within  that  space. 
This  dagger  bore  false  witness. 

Alon.  Ha,  my  dagger ! 
It  rouses  horrid  images.     Away, 
Away  with  it,  and  let  us  talk  of  love, 
Plunge  ourselves  deep  into  the  sweet  illusion, 
And  hide  us  there  from  every  other  thought. 

Leon.  It  touches  you. 

Alon.  Let's  talk  of  love 

Leon.  Of  death! 

Alon.  As  thou  lov'st  happiness- 
Leon.  Of  murder ! 

Alon.  Rash, 
Rash  woman !  yet  forbear. 

Leon.  Approve  my  wrongs ! 

Alon.  Then  must  I  fly,  for  thy  sake  and  my  own. 

Leon.  Nay,  by  my  injuries,  you  first  must  hear 

me; 
Stab  me,  then  think  it  much  to  hear  my  groan! 

Alon.  Heaven  strike  me  deaf! 

.Leon.  It  well  may  sting  you  home. 

.A/on.  Alas,  thou  quite  mistakes!  my  cause  of 
pain! 
.  t  dismiss  me ;  I  am  all  in  fla 

Leon.  Who  has  most  cause,   you  or  myself  ? 
what  act 


Of  my  whole  life  encouraged  you  to  this  ? 

Or  of  your  own,  what  guilt  has  drawn  it  on  you  1 

You  find  me  kind,  and  think  me  kind  to  all ; 

The  weak,  ungenerous  error  of  your  sex. 

What  could  inspire  the  thought  ?  we  oft'nest  judge 

From  our  own  hearts ;  and  is  yours  then  so  frail, 

It  prompts  you  to  conceive  thus  ill  of  me? 

He  that  can  stoop  to  harbour  such  a  thought, 

Deserves  to  find  it  true,     [holding  him.] 

Alon.  Oh,  sex,  sex,  sex !  [turning  on  her] 
The  language  of  you  all.     Ill-fated  woman ! 
Why  hast  thou  forced  me  back  into  the  gulf 
Of  agonies  I  had  blocked  up  from  thought? 
I  know  the  cause;  thou  saw'st  me  impotent 
Ere  while  to  hurt  thee,  therefore  thou  turnest  on 

me: 

But,  by  the  pangs  I  suffer,  to  thy  wo ; 
For,  since  thou  hast  replunged  me  in  my  torture, 
I  will  be  satisfied. 

Leon.  Be  satisfied ! 

Alon.  Yes,  thy  own  mouth  shall  witness  it 

against  thee. 
I  will  be  satisfied. 

Leon.  Of  what? 

Alon.  Of  what! 

How  darest  thou  ask  that  question?  woman,  woman, 
Weak  and  assured  at  once!  thus  'tis  for  ever. 
Who  told  thee  that  thy  virtue  was  suspected? 
Who  told  thee  I  designed  upon  thy  life  ? 
You  found  the  dagger;  but  that  could  not  speak; 
Nor  did  I  tell  thee ;  who  did  tell  thee  then  ? 
Guilt,  conscious  guilt ! 

Leon.  This  to  my  face !  oh,  heaven ! 

Alon.  This  to  thy  very  soul. 

Leon.  Thou'rt  not  in  earnest  ? 

Alon.  Serious  as  death. 

Leon.  Then  heaven  have  mercy  on  thee. 
'Till  now  I  struggled  not  to  think  it  true; 
I  sought  conviction,  and  would  not  believe  it ; 
And  dost  thou  force  me?  this  shall  not  be  borne; 
Thou  shall  repent  this  insult,  [going] 

Alon.  Madam,  stay. 

Your  passion's  wise ;  'tis  a  disguise  for  guilt : 
'Tis  my  turn  now  to  fix  you  here  a  while ; 
You  and  your  thousand  arts  shall  not  escape  me. 

Leon.  Arts! 

Alon.  Arts.    Confess;  for  death  is  in  my  hand. 

Leon.  'Tis  in  your  words. 

Alon.  Confess,  confess,  confess ! 
Nor  tear  my  veins  with  passion  to  compel  thee. 

Leon.  I  scorn  to  answer  thee,  presumptuous  man ! 

Alon.  Deny,  then,  and  incur  a  fouler  shame. 
Where  did  I  find  this  picture  ? 

Leon.  Ha,  Don  Carlos! 
By  my  best  hopes,  more  welcome  than  thy  own. 

Alon.  I  know  it ;  but  is  vice  so  very  rank, 
That  thou  should'st  dare  to  dash  it  in  my  face  ? 
Nature  is  sick  of  thee,  abandoned  woman ! 

Leon.  Repent. 


206 


YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


Alon.  Is  that  for  me  1 

Leon.  Fall,  ask  my  pardon. 

Alon.  Astonishment! 

Leon.  Dar'st  thou  persist  to  think  1  am  dishonest? 

Alon.  I  know  thee  so. 

Leon.  This,  blow,  then,  to  thy  heart 

[she  stabs  herself— he  endeavours  to  prevent  her. 

Alon.  Hoa,  Zanga!  Isabella!  hoa!  she  bleeds! 
Descend,  ye  blessed  angels,  to  assist  her ! 

Leon.  This  is  the  only  way  I  would  wound  thee, 
Though  most  unjust.    Now  think  me  guilty  still. 

Enter  ISABELLA. 
Alon.  Bear  her  to  instant  help.     The  world  to 

save  her. 
Leon.  Unhappy  man!  well  may'st  thou  gaze 

and  tremble: 

But  fix  thy  terror  and  amazement  right; 
Not  on  my  blood,  but  on  thy  own  distraction. 
What  hast  thou  done!  whom  censured?— Leonora! 
When  thou  had'st  censured,  thou  would'st  save  her 

life; 

Oh,  inconsistent !  should  I  live  in  shame, 
Or  stoop  to  any  other  means  but  this 
To  assert  my  virtue  ?  no ;  she  who  disputes, 
Admits  it  possible  she  might  be  guilty. 
While  aught  but  truth  could  be  my  inducement  to 

it, 

While  it  might  look  like  an  excuse  to  thee, 
I  scorned  to  vindicate  my  innocence ; 
But,  now,  I  let  thy  rashness  know,  the  wound 
Which  least  I  feel,  is — that  my  dagger  made. 

[Isabella  leads  out  Leonora. 
Alon.  Ha ! — was  this  woman  guilty? — and,  if 

not — 
How  my  thoughts  darken  that  way!  grant,  kind 

heaven, 

That  she  prove  guilty ;  or  my  being  end. 
Is  that  my  hope,  then? — sure  the  sacred  dust 
Of  her  that  bore  me,  trembles  in  its  urn. 
Is  it  in  man  the  sore  distress  to  bear, 
When  hope  itself  is  blackened  to  despair, 
When  all  the  bliss  I  pant  for,  is  to  gain 
In  hell,  a  refuge  from  severer  pain?        [exit. 

Enter  ZANGA. 
Zan.  How  stands  the  great  account  'twixt  me 

and  vengeance? 

Though  much  is  paid,  yet  still  it  owes  me  much, 
And  I  will  not  abate  a  single  groan — 
Ha!  that  were  well— but  that  were  fatal  too — 
Why,  be  it  so. — Revenge  so  truly  great, 
Would  come  too  cheap,  if  bought  with  less  thar 

life. 

Come,  death,  come,  hell,  then ;  'tis  resolved,  'tis 
done. 

Enter  ISABELLA. 

Isa.  Ah,  Zanga,  see  me  tremble !  has  not  yet 
Thy  cruel  heart  its  fill  ?  poor  Leonora — 


Zan.  Welters  in  blood,  and  gasps  for  her  last 

breath. 
What  then?  we  all  must  die. 

Isa.  Alonzo  raves, 

And  in  the  tempest  of  his  grief,  has  thrice 
Attempted  on  his  life.     At  length  disarmed, 
He  calls  his  friends  that  save  him  his  worst  foes, 
And  importunes  the  skies  for  swift  perdition. 
Thus  in  his  storm  of  sorrow,  after  pause, 
He  started  up,  and  called  aloud  for  Zanga, 
For  Zanga  raved ;  and  see,  he  seeks  you  here, 
To  learn  the  truth  which  most  he  dreads  to  know. 

Zan.  Begone.     Now,  now,  my  soul,  consum- 
mate all.  {exit  Isa. 

Enter  ALONZO. 

Alon.  Oh,  Zanga! 

Zan.  Do  not  tremble  so ;  but  speak. 

Alon.  I  dare  not.  [falls  on  him] 

Zan.  You  will  drown  me  with  your  tears. 

Alon.  Have  I  not  cause  ? 

Zan.  As  yet  you  have  no  cause. 

Alon.  Dost  thou,  too,  rave  1 

Zan.  Your  anguish  is  to  come : 
You  much  have  been  abused. 

Alon.  Abused,  by  whom? 

Zan.  To  know  were  little  comfort. 

Alon.  Oh,  'twere  much. 

Zan.  Indeed! 

Alon.  By  heaven!  oh,  give  him  to  my  fury! 

Zan.  Born  for  your  use,  I  live  but  to  oblige  you. 
Know  then,  'twas — I. 

Alon.  Am  I  awake ! 

Zan.  For  ever. 

Thy  wife  is  guiltless — that's  one  transport  tome; 
And  I,  let  thee  know  it — that's  another. 
I  urged  Don  Carlos  to  resign  his  mistress, 
I  forged  the  letter,  I  disposed  the  picture  ; 
1  hated,  I  despised,  and  I  destroy ! 

Alon.  Oh!  [swoons] 

Zan.  Why,  this  is  well — why,  this  is  blow  for 

blow! 
Where  are  you?  crown  me,  shadow  me  with 

laurels, 

Ye  spirits  which  delight  in  just  revenge ! 
Let  Europe  and  her  pallid  sons  go  weep; 
Let  Afric  and  her  hundred  thrones  rejoice ; 
Oh,  my  dear  countrymen,  look  down  and  see 
How  I  bestride  your  prostrate  conqueror! 
I  tread  on  haughty  Spain  and  all  her  kings. 
But  this  is  mercy,  this  is  my  indulgence ; 
'Tis  peace,  'tis  refuge  from  my  indignation. 
I  must  awake  him  into  horrors.     Hoa ! 
Alon/o,  hoa !  the  Moor  is  at  the  gate ! 
Awake,  invincible,  omnipotent ! 
Thou  who  dost  all  subdue! 

Alon.  Inhuman  slave ! 

Zan.  Fallen  Christian,  thou  mistak'st  my  ch» 
racter. 


THE  REVENGE. 


•J07 


Who  am  I?  I  know,  thou  a 
•  slave,  an  abject,  beaten  slave  : 
•••s  to  him  that  made  me  so! 
But  look  again.     Has  six  years  cruel  bondage 
Extinguished  majesty  so  far,  that  nought 

here,  to  give  an  awe  to  one  above  thee  ? 
When  the  great  Moorish  king,  Abdallah,  fell, 
Fell  by  thy  hand  accurst,  I  fought  fast  by  him, 
His  son,  though  through  his  fondness,  in  disguise, 
Less  to  expose  me  to  the  ambitious  foe, — 
Ha !  does  it  wake  thee  ?— o'er  my  father's  corse 
I  stood  astride,  till  I  had  clove  thy  crest; 
And  then  was  made  the  captive  of  a  squadron, 
And  sunk  into  thy  servant — but,  oh!  what, 
What  were  my  wages!  hear  nor  heaven  nor  earth! 
My  wages  were  a  blow!  by  heaven  a  blow  ! 
And  from  a  mortal  hand ! 

Alon.  Oh,  villain!  villain! 

Zan.  All  strife  is  vain,  [showing  a  dagger.] 

Alon.  Is  thus  my  love  returned  1 
Is  this  my  recompense  1  make  friends  of  tigers ! 
Lay  not  your  young,  oh,  mothers,  on  the  breast, 
For  fear  they  turn  to  serpents  as  they  lie, 
And  pay  you  for  their  nourishment  with  death! — 
Carlos  is  dead  and  Leonora  dying ! 
Both  innocent,  both  murdered,  both  by  me. 
That  heavenly  maid,  who  should  have  lived  for 

ever, 

At  least,  have  gently  slept  her  soul  away ! 
Whose  life  should  have  shut  up  as  evening  flowers 
At  the  departing  sun— was  murdered!  murdered ! 
Oh,  shame!  oh.  guilt!  oh,  horror!  oh,  remorse! 
Oh,  punishment1  had  Satan  never  fell, 
Hell  had  been  made  for  me.     Oh,  Leonora! 

Zan.  Must  I  despise  thee  too,  as  well  as  hate  thee? 
Complain  of  grief,  complain  thou  art  a  man. — 
Priam  from  fortune's  lofty  summit  fell ; 
Great  Alexander  'midst  his  conquests  mourned; 
Heroes  and  demi-gods  have  known  their  sorrows : 
Caesars  have  wept;  and  I  have  had  my  blow; 
But  'tis  revenged,  and  now  my  work  is  done. 
Yet  ere  I  fall,  be  it  one  part  of  vengeance 
To  make  thee  to  confess  that  I  am  just. — 
Thou  seest  a  prince,  whose  father  thou  hast  slain, 
Whose  native  country  thou  hast  laid  in  blood, 
Whose  sacred  person — oh !— thou  hast  profaned, 
Whose  reign  extinguished — what  was  left  to  me, 
So  highly  born'?  no  kingdom,  but  revenge ; 
No  treasure,  but  thy  tortures  and  thy  groans. 
If  men  should  ask  who  brought  thee  to  thy  end, 
Tell  them  the  Moor,  and  they  will  not  despise  thee. 
If  cold  white  mortals  censure  this  great  deed, 
Warn  them,  they  judge  not  of  superior  beings, 
Souls  made  of  fire  and  children  of  the  sun, 
With  whom  revenge  is  virtue.    Fare  thee  well — 
Now,  fully  satisfied,  I  should  take  leave; 
But  one  thing  grieves  me,  since  thy  death  is  near, 
I  leave  thee  my  example  how  to  die. 
27 


Aa  he  ia  soing  to  stab  himself,  Alonzo  rushes  upon  him  to 
prevent  him.  In  the  mean  time,  enter  DON  ALVAREZ, 
attended.  They  disarm  and  seize  Zanga.  Alonzo  puts  the 
dagger  in  his  hosom. 

Aim.  No,  monster,  thou  shall  not  escape  by  death. 
Oh,  father! 

Ah.  Oh,  Alonzo!— Isabella, 
Touched  with  remorse  to  see  her  mistress1  pangs, 
Told  all  the  dreadful  tale. 

Alon.  What  groan  was  that? 

Zan.  As  I  have  been  a  vulture  to  thy  heart, 
So  will  I  be  a  raven  to  thine  ear, 
As  true  as  ever  snufled  the  scent  of  blood, 
As  ever  flapt  its  heavenly  wing  against 
The  window  of  the  sick,  and  croaked  despair. 
Thy  wi*  is  dead. 
[Alvarez  goes  to  the  side  of  the  stage}  and  returns. 

Alv.  The  dreadful  news  is  true. 

Alon.  Prepare  the  rack ;  invent  new  torments  for 
him! 

Zan.  This,  too,  is  well.     The  fixed  and  noble 

mind 

Turns  all  occurrence  to  its  own  advantage ; 
And  I'll  make  vengeance  of  calamity. 
Were  I  not  thus  reduced,  thou  would'st  not  know. 
That,  thus  reduced,  I  dare  defy  thee  still. 
Torture  thou  may  'st,  but  thou  shalt  ne'er  despise  me. 
The  blood  will  follow  where  the  knife  is  driven, 
The  flesh  will  quiver  where  the  pincers  tear, 
And  sighs  and  cries  by  nature  grow  on  pain. 
But  these  are  foreign  to  the  soul:  not  mine 
The  groans  that  issue,  or  the  tears  that  fall; 
They  disobey  me:  on  the  rack  I  scorn  thee, 
As  when  my  falchion  clove  thy  helm  in  battle. 

Alv.  Peace,  villain! 

Zan.  While  I  live,  old  man,  I'll  speak ; 
And  well  I  know  thou  dar'st  not  kill  me  yet, 
For  that  would  rob  thy  blood-hounds  of  their  prey. 

Alon.  Who  called  Alonzo? 

Alv.  No  one  called,  my  son. 

Alon.  Again! — 'tis  Carlos'  voice,  and  I  obey. — 
Oh,  how  I  laugh  at  all  that  this  can  do  1 

[showing  the  dagger. 

The  wounds  that  pained,  the  wounds  that  murder- 
ed me, 

Were  given  before;  I  am  already  dead; 
This  only  marks  my  body  for  the  grave. 

[stabs  himself. 
Afric,  thou  art  revenged.— Oh,  Leonora,  [dies. 

Zan.  Good  ruffians  give  me  leave;  my  blood  is 

yours, 

The  wheel's  prepared,  and  you  shall  have  it  all. 
Let  me  but  look  one  moment  on  the  dead, 
And  pay  yourselves  with  gazing  on  my  pangs. 
[he  goes  to  Alonzo's  body. 
Is  this  Alonzo?  where's  the  haughty  mien? 
Is  that  the  hand  which  smote  me?  heavens,  how 
pale! 


208 


YOUNG'S  WORKS 


And  art  thou  dead? — so  is  my  enmity — 

I  war  not  with  the  dust.    The  great,  the  proud, 

The  conqueror  of  Afric  was  my  foe. 

A  lion  preys  not  upon  carcasses. 

This  was  thy  only  method  to  subdue  me. 

Terror  and  doubt  fall  on  me ;  all  thy  good 

Now  blazes — all  thy  guilt  is  in  the  grave. 

Never  had  man  such  funeral  applause; 

If  I  lament  thee,  sure  thy  worth  was  great. — 

Oh,  vengeance,  I  have  followed  thee  too  far, 

And  to  receive  me,  hell  blows  all  her  fires. 

[he  is  borne  off. 

Alv.  Dreadful  effects  of  jealousy!  a  rage 
In  which  the  wise  with  caution  will  engage; 
Reluctant  long,  and  tardy  to  believe, 
Where,  swayed  by  nature,  we  ourselves  deceive, 
Where  our  own  folly  joins  the  villain's  art, 
And  each  man  finds  a  Zanga  in  his  heart. 


EPILOGUE. 

OUR  author  sent  me,  in  an  humble  strain, 
To  beg  you'll  bless  the  offspring  of  his  brain! 
And  I,  your  proxy,  promised  in  your  name, 
The  child  should  live,  at  least  six  days  of  fame. 
I  like  the  brat,  but  still  his  faults  can  find; 


And  by  the  parent's  leave  will  speak  my  mind. 
Gallants,  pray  tell  me,  do  you  think  'twas  well, 
To  let  a  willing  maid  lead  apes  in  hell  1 
You  nicer  ladies,  should  you  think  it  right, 
To  eat  no  supper  on  your  wedding  night  1 
Should  English  husbands  dare  to  starve  their  wives, 
Be  sure  they'd  lead   most  comfortable  lives ! 
But  he  loves  mischief,  and  with  groundless  fears, 
Would  fain  set  loving  couples  by  the  ears ; 
Would  spoil  the  tender  husbands  of  our  nation, 
By  teaching  them  this  vile  outlandish  fashion. 
But  we've  been  taught,  in  our  good-natured  clime, 
That  jealousy,  though  just,  is  still  a  crime ; 
And  will  be  still;  for,  not  to  blame  the  plot, 
That  same  Alonzo  was  a  stupid  sot, 
To  kill  a  bride,  a  mistress  unenjoyed — 
'Twere  some  excuse,  had  the  poor  man  been  cloyed ; 
To  kill  her  6*n  suspicion,  ere  he  knew 
Whether  the  hideous  charge  were  false  or  true — 
The  priest  said  grace,  she  met  him  in  the  bower, 
In  hopes  she  might  anticipate  an  hour — 
Love  was  her  errand,  but  the  hot-brained  Spaniard, 
Instead  of  love — produced — a  filthy  poignard — 
Had  he  been  wise,  at  this  their  private  meeting, 
The  proof  o'  the  pudding  had  been  hi  the  eating ; 
Madam  had  then  been  pleased,  and  Don  contented, 
And  all  this  blood  and  murder  been  prevented. 


THE  END  OF  YOUNG'S  WORKS. 


THE 


OF 


THOMAS  GRAY. 


Contents. 


Life  of  the  Author, 


Page. 
v 


LETTERS. 

1  From  Mr.  West    Complains  of  bis  friend's  silence,         1 

2  To  Mr.  West.    Answer  to  the  former ;  a  translation  of 

some  lines  from  Statin-!,  ib. 

3  From  Mr.  West.  Approbation  of  the  version ;  ridicule 

on  the  Cambridge  Collection  of  Verses  on  the  Mar- 
riage of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  2 

4  To  Mr.  West    On  the  little  encouragement  which  he 

fimls  L'iven  to  classical  learning  at  Cambridge  ;  his 

to  metaphysical  and  mathematical  studies,  ib. 

5  From  Mr.  West    Answer  to  the  former ;  advises  his 

correspondent  not  to  give  up  poetry  when  he  ap- 
plies himself  to  the  law,  ib. 

6  To  Mr.  Walpole.    Excuse  for  not  writing  to  him,  &c.     3 

7  From  Mr.  West    A  poetical  epistle  addressed  to  his 

Cambridge  friend,  taken  in  part  from  Tibullus,  and 
a  prose  letter  of  Mr.  Pope,  ib. 

8  To  Mr.  West.    Thanks  him  for  his  poetical  epistle; 

complains  of  low  spirits;  Lady  Walpole's  death, 
and  his  concern  for  Mr.  H.  Walpole,  4 

9  To  Mr.  WalpoJe.    How  he  spends  his  own  time  in  the 

country;  meets  with  Mr.  Southern,  the  dramatic 
poet,  5 

10  To  Mr.  Walpole.    Supposed  manner   in  which  Mr. 

Walpole  spends  his  time  in  the  country,  ib. 

11  To  Mr.  \V;t!|>ole.  Congratulates  him  on  his  new  place; 

whimsical  description  of  the  quadrangle  of  Peter- 
House.  6 
Mr.  West   On  his  own  leaving  the  University,       ib. 
13  To  his  Mother.    His  voyage  from  Dover ;  description 
of  Calais ;  Abbeville ;  Amiens ;  face  of  the  country, 
and  dreas  of  the  people,                                            ib. 
'  r.  West.  Monuments  of  the  kings  of  France  at  St. 
Dennis,  &c. ;  French  opera  and  music ;  actors,  &c.    7 

15  To  Mr.  West.    Palace  of  Versailles;  its  garden  and 

waterworks ;  installation  of  the  Knights  du  St.  Esprit,    8 

16  To  his  Mother.    Rheims;  its  Cathedral;  disposition 

and  amusements  of  its  inhabitants,  9 

17  To  his  Father.  'Face  of  the  country  between  Rheims 

and  Dijohn ;  description  of  the  latter ;  monastery 
of  the  Carthusians  and  Cistercians,  10 

18  To  Mr.  West.  Lyons ;  beauty  of  its  environs ;  Roman 

antiquities,  ib. 

19  From  Mr.  West    His  wishes  to  accompany  his  friend ; 

his  retired  life  in  London ;  address  to  his  Lyre,  in 
Latin  Sapphics,  on  the  prospect  of  Mr.  Gray's 
return,  11 

20  To  his  Mother.  Lyons;  excursion  to  the  Grande  Char- 

treuse; solemn  and  romantic  approach  to  it;  his 
reception  there,  and  commendation  of  the  monas- 
tery, ib. 

21  To  his  Father.    Geneva ;  advantage  of  a  free  govern- 

ment exhibited  in  the  very  look  of  the  people; 
beauty  of  the  lake,  and  plenty  of  its  fob,  12 

22  To  hia  Mother.    Journey  over  the  Alps  to  Turin ;  sin- 

gular accident  in  passing  them ;  method  of  travel- 
ing over  Mount  Cenis,  13 

23  To  Mr.  West     Turin ;  its  carnival ;  more  of  the  views 

and  scenery  on  the  road  to  the  Grande  Chartreuse ; 


Letter.  Page. 

wild  and  savage  prospects  amongst  the  Alps,  agree- 
able to  Livy's  description,  14 

24  To  Mr.  West.    Genoa;  music;  the  Doge;  churches 

and  the  Palazzo  Doria,  ib. 

25  To  his  Mother.   Paintings  at  Modena ;  Bologna ;  beau- 

ty  and  riches  of  Lombardy,  15 

26  To  his  Mother.    The  Appenines ;  Florence  and  its  gal- 

lery, 16 

27  To  Mr.  West.    Journey  from  Genoa  to  Florence ;  ele- 

giac verses  occasioned  by  the  eight  of  the  plains 
where  the  battle  of  Trebia  was  fought,  ib. 

23  To  his  Mother.  Death  of  the  pope;  intended  depar- 
ture for  Rome ;  first  and  pleasing  appearance  of  an 
Italian  spring,  17 

29  To  his  Mother.   Cathedral  of  Sienna;  Viterbo;  distant 

sight  of  Rome ;  the  Tiber ;  entrance  into  the  city ; 
St.  Peter's ;  introduction  of  the  Cardinal  d'Auvergne 
into  the  conclave,  ib. 

30  To  his  Mother.    Illumination  of  St.  Peter's  on  Good 

Friday,  &c.  18 

31  To  Mr.  West    Comic  account  of  the  Palace  of  the 

duke  of  Modena  at  Tivoli ;  the  Anio ;  its  cascade ; 
situation  of  the  town ;  villas  of  Horace  and  Maece- 
nas, and  other  remains  of  antiquity ;  modern  aque- 
ducts, and  grand  Roman  ball,  ib. 

32  To  Mr.  West.    Ludicrous  allusion  to  ancient  customs ; 

Albano  and  its  lake;  Castel  Gondolfo;  prospect 
from  the  palace ;  an  observation  of  Mr.  Walpole's 
on  the  views  in  that  part  of  Italy ;  Latin  inscrip- 
tions, ancient  and  modern,  20 

33  To  his  Mother.    Road  to  Naples;  beautiful  situation 

of  that  city ;  its  bay ;  of  Baiae,  and  several  other 
antiquities ;  some  account  of  the  first  discovery  of 
an  ancient  town  not  known  to  be  Herculaneum,  21 

34  To  his  Father.    Departure  from  Rome,  and  return  to 

Florence;  no  likelihood  of  the  conclave's  rising; 
some  of  the  cardinals  dead ;  description  of  the  Pre- 
tender, his  sons,  and  court;  procession  at  Naples; 
sight  of  the  king  and  queen ;  mildness  of  the  air  at 
Florence,  ib. 

35  From  Mr.  West    On  his  quitting  the  Temple,  and 

reason  for  it,  22 

36  To  Mr.  West.    Answer  to  the  foregoing  letter ;  some 

account  of  Naples  and  its  environs,  and  of  Mr.  Wal- 
pole's and  his  return  to  Florence.  ib. 

37  To  his  Mother.    Excursion  to  Bologna;  election  of  a 

pope ;  description  of  his  person,  with  an  odd  speech 
which  he  made  to  the  cardinals  in  the  conclave,  24 

38  To  his  Father.    Uncertainty  of  the  route  he  shall  take 

in  his  return  to  England ;  magnificence  of  the  Ita- 
lians in  their  reception  of  strangers ;  and  parsimony 
when  alone;  the  great  applause  which  the  new 
pope  meets  with ;  one  of  his  bon  mots,  ib. 

39  To  his  Father.   Total  want  of  amusement  at  Florence, 

occasioned  by  the  late  emperor's  funeral  not  being 
public ;  a  procession  to  avert  the  ill  effects  of  a  late 
inundation ;  intention  of  going  to  Venice ;  an  inva- 
sion from  the  Neapolitans  apprehended ;  the  inha- 
bitants of  Tuscany  dissatisfied  with  the  govern- 
ment, 25 

40  To  Mr.  Weal.  The  time  of  hisdeparuire  from  Florence 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


Letter.  Page, 

determined ;  alteration  in  his  temper  and  spirits ; 
difference  between  an  Italian  fair  and  an  English 
one ;  a  farewell  to  Florence  and  its  prospects  in  La- 
tin hexameters;  imitation,  in  the  same  language, 
of  an  Italian  sonnet,  25 

41  From  Mr.  West.    His  spirits  not  as  yet  improved  by 

country  air ;  has  begun  to  read  Tacitus,  but  not  to 
relish  him,  .  26 

42  To  Mr.  West.    Earnest  hopes  for  his  friend's  better 

health,  as  the  warm  weather  comes  on ;  defence  of 
Tacitus,  and  his  character ;  of  the  new  Dunciad ; 
sends  him  a  speech  from  the  first  scene  of  his  A- 
grippina,  27 

43  From  Mr.  West.    Criticisms  on  his  friend's  tragic 

style ;  Latin  hexameters  on  his  own  cough,  ib. 

*43  To  Dr.  Wharton.    On  taking  his  degree  of  Bachelor 
of  Civil  Law,  28 

44  To  Dr.  Wharton.    Ridicule  on  university  laziness ;  of 

Dr.  Akenside's  poem  on  the  Pleasures  of  Imagina- 
tion, ib. 

45  To  Mr.  Walpole.    Ludicrous  description  of  the  Scot-    . 

tish  army's  approach  to  the  capital;  animadver- 
sions on  Pope,  29 

46  To  Dr.  Wharton.    His  amusements  in  town;  reflec- 

tions on  riches ;  character  of  Aristotle,  ib. 

47  To  Mr.  Walpole.    Observations  on  his  tragedy  of  A- 

grippina ;  admirable  picture  of  true  Philosophy,       30 

48  To  Mr.  Walpole.  Ludicrous  compliment  of  condolence 

on  the  death  of  his  favourite  cat,  enclosing  an  ode 
on  that  subject,  31 

49  To  Dr.  Wharton.   Loss  by  fire  of  a  house  in  Cornhill ; 


Letter. 

on  Diodorus  Siculus ;  M.  Cresset's  Poems ;  Thom- 
son's Castle  of  Indolence;  Ode  to  a  Water  Nymph, 
with  a  character  of  its  author,  31 

50  To  Dr.  Wharton.    Ludicrous  account  of  the  duke  of 

Newcastle's  installation  at  Cambridge ;  on  the  ode 
then  performed,  and  more  concerning  the  author 
of  it,  ib. 

51  To  his  Mother.    Consolatory  on  the  death  of  her  sister,  32 

52  To  Mr.  Walpole.    Encloses  his  Elegy  in  a  Country 

Churchyard,  ib. 

ODES. 

I.  On  the  Spring, 33 

II.  On  the  death  of  a  favourite  Cat,        -       -       -  ib. 
ID.  On  a  distant  prospect  of  Eton  College,  -       -     34 

IV.  ToAdversity, 35 

V.  The  progress  of  Poesy,         ....     36 

VI.  The  Bard, 37 

VH.  The  Fatal  Sisters, 39 

Vm.  The  descent  of  Odin,         -  -       -  40 

DC.  The  triumph  of  Owen, 41 

X.  The  death  of  Hoel, 42 

XI.  For  Music,  on  the  installation  of  the  duke  of 
Grafton,  Chancellor  of  the  University,       •     ib. 

MISCELLANIES. 

A  Long  Story, 44 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard,    •       •     45 

Epitaph  on  Mrs.  Clarke, 47 

Translations  from  Statius, ib. 

Gray  of  himself, ib. 


JTftr  atfe  of 


THOMAS  GRAY  was  born  in  Cornhill,  in  the  city 
of  London,  on  the  26th  of  December,  1716.  His 
father,  Philip  Gray,  was  a  money-scrivener,  but 
being  of  an  indolent  and  profuse  disposition,  he 
rather  diminislwd  than  improved  his  paternal  for- 
tune. Our  author  received  his  classical  education 
at  Eton  school,  under  Mr.  Antrobus,  his  mother's 
brother,  a  man  of  sound  learning  and  refined  taste, 
who  directed  his  nephew  to  those  pursuits  which 
laid  the  foundation  of  his  future  literary  fame. 

During  his  continuance  at  Eton,  he  contracted 
a  friendship  with  Mr.  Horace  Walpole,  well  known 
for  his  knowledge  in  the  fine  arts;  and  Mr.  Rich- 
ard West,  son  of  the  lord  Chancellor  of  Ireland,  a 
youth  of  very  promising  talents. 

When  he  left  Eton  school  in  1734,  he  went  to 
Cambridge,  and  entered  a  pensioner  at  Peterhouse, 
at  the  recommendation  of  his  uncle  Antrobus,  who 
had  been  a  fellow  of  that  college.  It  is  said  that, 
from  his  effeminacy  and  fair  complexion,  he  ac- 
quired, among  his  fellow  students,  the  appellation 
of  Mi*s  Gray,  to  which  the  delicacy  of  his  man- 
ners seeins  not  a  little  to  have  contributed.  Mr. 
Walpole  was  at  that  time  a  fellow  commoner  of 
Ki MII'S  College,  in  the  same  university;  a  fortu- 
nate circumstance,  which  afforded  Gray  frequent 
opportunities  of  intercourse  with  his  honourable 
friend. 

Mr.  Wrst  went  from  Eton  to  Christ  Church, 
Oxford  ;  and  in  this  state  of  separation,  these  two 
votaries  of  the  muses,  whose  dispositions  were  con- 
genial, commenced  an  epistolary  correspondence, 
part  of  which  is  published  by  Mr.  Mason,  a  gen- 
tleman whose  character  stands  high  in  the  repub- 
lic of  letters. 

Gray,  having  imbibed  a  taste  for  poetry,  did  not 
relish  tho<e  abstruse  studies  which  generally  oc- 
cupy the  minds  of  students  at  college;  and  there- 
,  fore,  as  he  found  very  little  gratification  from  aca- 
demical pursuits,  he  Irtt  Cambridge  in  1738,  and 
returned  to  London,  intending  to  apply  himself  to 
the  study  of  the  law;  but  this  intention  was  soon 
le.  upon  an  invitation  given  him  by  Mr. 
Walpoje,  to  accompany  him  in  his  travels  abroad; 
a  situation  highly  preferable,  in  Gray's  opinion,  to 
the  dry  study  of  the  law. 

They  set  out  together  for  France,  and  visited 
most  01  worthy  of  notice  in  that  coun- 

try ;  from  thence  they  proceeded  to  Italy,  where 
an  unfortun;  !  ing  place  between  them, 

a  separation  ensued  upon  their  arrival  at  Florence. 
Mr.  Walpole,  afterwards,  with  great  candour  and 


liberality,  took  upon  himself  the  blame  of  the  quar- 
rel ;  though,  if  we  consider  the  matter  coolly  and 
impartially,  we  may  be  induced  to  conclude  that 
Gray,  from  a  conscious  superiority  of  ability,  might 
have  claimed  a  deference  to  his  opinion  and  judg- 
ment, which  his  honourable  friend  was  not  at  that 
time  disposed  to  admit :  the  rupture,  however,  was 
very  unpleasant  to  both  parties. 

Gray  pursued  his  journey  to  Venice  on  an  eco- 
nomical plan,  suitable  to  the  circumscribed  state  of 
his  finances,  and  having  continued  there  some 
weeks,  returned  to  England  in  September,  1741. 
He  appears,  from  his  letters,  published  by  Mr. 
Mason,  to  have  paid  the  minutest  attention  to  every 
object,  worthy  of  notice,  throughout  the  course  of 
his  travels.  His  descriptions  are  lively  and  pic- 
turesque, and  bear  particular  marks  of  his  genius 
and  disposition.  We  admire  the  sublimity  of  his 
ideas  when  he  ascends  the  stupendous  heights  of 
the  Alps,  and  are  charmed  with  his  display  of  na- 
ture, decked  in  all  the  beauties  of  vegetation.  In- 
deed, abundant  information,  as  well  as  entertain- 
ment, may  be  derived  from  his  casual  letters. 

In  about  two  months  after  his  arrival  in  Eng- 
land, he  lost  his  father,  who,  by  an  indiscreet  pro- 
fusion, had  so  impaired  his  fortune,  as  not  to  ad- 
mit of  his  son's  prosecuting  the  study  of  the  law 
with  that  degree  of  respectability  which  the  nature 
of  the  profession  requires,  without  becoming  bur- 
densome to  his  mother  and  aunt.  To  obviate, 
therefore,  their  importunities  on  the  subject,  he 
went  to  Cambridge,  and  took  his  bachelor's  de- 
gree in  civil  law. 

But  the  inconveniences  and  distress  attached  to 
a  scanty  fortune,  were  not  the  only  ills  our  poet 
had  to  encounter  at  this  time :  he  had  not  only  lost 
the  friendship  of  Mr.  Walpole  abroad,  but  poor 
West,  the  partner  of  his  heart,  fell  a  victim  to  com- 
plicated maladies,  brought  on  by  family  misfor- 
tunes, on  the  first  of  June,  174-2,  at  Popes,  a  vil- 
lage in  Hertfordshire,  where  he  went  for  the  benefit 
of  the  air. 

The  excessive  degree  in  which  his  mind  was 
agitated  for  the  loss  of  his  friend,  will  best  appear 
from  the  following  beautiful  little  sonnet : 

"  In  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 
And  reddening  Phoebus  lifts  his  golden  fire : 

The  birds  in  vain  their  amorous  descant  join, 
Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  attire ; 

These  ears,  alas !  for  other  notes  repine : 
A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require ; 


VI 


LIFE  OF  THOMAS  GRAY. 


My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine, 

And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire ; 
Yet  morning  smiles  the  busy  race  to  cheer, 

And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier  men; 
The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  bear ; 

To  warm  their  little  loves  the  birds  complain ; 
I  fruitless  mourn  to  him  that  can  not  hear ; 

And  weep  the  more,  because  I  weep  in  vain." 

Mr.  Gray  now  seems  to  have  applied  his  mind 
very  sedulously  to  poetical  composition ;  his  Ode  to 
Spring1  was  written  early  in  June,  to  his  friend  Mr. 
West,  before  he  received  the  melancholy  news  of 
his  death :  how  our  poet's  susceptible  mind  was  af- 
fected by  that  melancholy  incident,  is  evidently 
demonstrated  by  the  lines  quoted  above ;  the  im- 
pression, indeed,  appears  to  have  been  too  deep  to 
be  soon  effaced  ;  and  the  tenor  of  the  subjects  which 
called  for  the  exertions  of  his  poetical  talents  sub- 
sequent to  the  production  of  this  Ode,  corroborates 
that  observation ;  these  were  his  Prospect  of  Eton, 
and  his  Ode  to  Adversity.  It  is  also  supposed, 
and  with  great  probability,  that  he  began  his  Ele- 
gy in  a  Country  Churchyard  about  the  same  time. 
He  passed  some  weeks  at  Stoke,  near  Windsor, 
where  his  mother  and*  aunt  resided,  and  in  that 
pleasing  retirement  finished  several  of  his  most  ce- 
lebrated poems. 

From  thence  he  returned  to  Cambridge,  which, 
from  this  period,  was  his  chief  residence  during  the 
remainder  of  his  life.  The  conveniences  with  which 
a  college  life  was  attended,  to  a  person  of  his  nar- 
row fortune,  and  studious  turn  of  mind,  were  more 
than  a  compensation  for  the  dislike  which,  for 
several  reasons,  he  bore  to  the  place:  but  he  was 
perfectly  reconciled  to  his  situation,  on  Mr.  Ma- 
son's being  elected  a  fellow  of  Pembroke-Hall ;  a 
circumstance  which  brought  him  a  companion, 
who,  during  life  retained  for  him  the  highest  de- 
gree of  friendship  and  esteem. 

In  1742  he  was  admitted  to  the  degree  of  bache- 
lor in  the  civil  law,  as  appears  from  a  letter  writ- 
ten to  his  particular  friend  Dr.  Wharton,  of  Old 
Park,  near  Durham,  formerly  fellow  of  Pembroke 
Hall,  Cambridge,  in  which  he  ridicules,  with  much 
point  and  humour,  the  follies  and  foibles,  and  the 
dulness  and  formality,  which  prevailed  in  the  uni- 
versity. 

In  order  to  enrich  his  mind  with  the  ideas  of 
others,  he  devoted  a  considerable  portion  of  his 
time  to  the  study  of  the  best  Greek  authors ;  so 
that  in  the  course  of  six  years,  there  were  hardly 
any  writers  of  eminence  in  that  language  whose 
works  he  had  not  only  read  but  thoroughly  di- 
gested. 

His  attention,  however,  to  the  Greek  classics, 
did  not  wholly  engross  his  time ;  for  he  found  lei- 
sure to  advert,  in  a  new  sarcastical  manner,  to  the 


ignorance  and  dulness  with  which  he  was  surround- 
ed, though  situated  in  the  centre  of  learning. 

In  1744  he  seems  to  have  given  up  his  attention 
to  the  Muses,  Mr.  Wai  pole,  desirous  of  preserving 
what  he  had  already  written,  as  well  as  perpetuat- 
ing the  merit  of  their  deceased  friend,  West,  en- 
deavoured to  prevail  with  Gray,  to  whom  he  had 
previously  become  reconciled,  to  publish  his  own 
poems,  together  with  those  of  West ;  but  Gray 
declined  it,  conceiving  their  productions  united 
would  not  suffice  to  fill  even  a  small  volume. 

In  1747  Gray  became  acquainted  with  Mr.  Ma- 
son, then  a  scholar  of  St.  John's  College,  and  af- 
terwards fellow  of  Pembroke-hall.  Mr.  Mason, 
who  was  a  man  of  great  learning  and  ingenuity, 
had  written  the  year  before,  his  "  Monody  on  the 
Death  of  Pope,"  and  his  "  II  Bellicose,"  and  "  II 
Pacifico:"  and  Gray  revised  these  pieces  at  the  re- 
quest of  a  friend.  This  laid  the  foundation  of  a 
friendship  that  terminated  but  with  life :  and  Mr. 
Mason,  after  the  death  of  Gray,  testified  his  regard 
for  him,  by  superintending  the  publication  of  his 
works. 

The  same  year  he  wrote  a  little  ode  on  the  Death 
of  a  favourite  cat  of  Mr.  Walpole's,  in  which  hu- 
mour and  instruction  are  happily  blended;  but  the 
following  year  he  produced  an  effort  of  much  more 
importance ;  the  fragment  of  an  Essay  on  the  Al- 
liance of  Education  and  Government.  Its  ten- 
dency was  to  demonstrate  the  necessary  concur- 
rence of  both  to  form  great  and  useful  men. 

In  1750,  he  put  the  finishing  stroke  to  his  Elegy 
written  in  a  Country  Church-yard,  which  was 
communicated  first  to  his  friend  Mr.  Walpole,  and 
by  him  to  many  persons  of  rank  and  distinction. 
This  beautiful  production  introduced  the  author 
to  the  favour  of  Lady  Cobham,  and  gave  occasion 
to  a  singular  composition,  called  A  Long  Story; 
in  which  various  effusions  of  wit  and  humour  are 
very  happily  interspersed. 

The  Elegy  having  found  its  way  into  the  "Ma- 
gazine of  Magazines,"  the  author  wrote  to  Mr. 
Walpole,  requesting  that  he  would  put  it  into  the 
hands  of  Mr.  Dodslcy,  and  order  him  to  print  it 
immediately,  in  order  to  rescue  it  from  the  disgrace 
it  might  have  incurred  by  its  appearance  in  a 
magazine.  The  Elegy  was  the  most  popular  of 
all  our  author's  productions  ;  it  ran  through  eleven 
editions,  and  was  translated  into  Latin  by  Anstey 
and  Roberts ;  and  in  the  same  year  a  version  of  it 
was  published  by  Lloyd.  Mr.  Bently,  an  eminent 
artist  of  that  time,  wishing  to  decorate  this  elegant 
composition  with  every  ornament  of  which  it  is  so 
highly  deserving,  drew  for  it  a  set  of  designs,  as  he 
also  did  for  the  rest  of  Gray's  productions,  for 
which  the  artist  was  liberally  repaid  by  the  author 
in  some  beautiful  stanzas,  but  unfortunately  no 
perfect  copy  of  them  remains.  The  following, 
however,  are  given  as  a  specimen, 


LIFE  OF  THOMAS  GRAY. 


Vll 


'  In  silent  gaze  the  tuneful  choir  among, 
Half  pleased,  but  blushing,  let  the  rnuse  admire, 

"While  Bently  leads  her  sister  art  along, 
And  bids  the  pencil  answer  to  the  lyre. 

See.  in  their  course  each  transitory  thought, 
Faed  by  his  touch,  a  lasting  essence  take; 

Each  dream,  in  fancy's  airy  colouring  wrought, 
To  local  symmetry  and  life  awake ! 

The  tardy  rhymes,  that  used  to  linger  on, 
To  ctnsure  cold,  and  negligent  of  fame ; 

In  swifUr  measures  animated  run, 

And  catch  a  lustre  from  his  genuine  flame. 

Ah!  could  they  catch  his  strength,  his  easy  grace. 

His  quirk  creation,  his  unerring  line ; 
The  energy  of  Pope  they  might  efface, 

And  Drjden's  harmony  submit  to  mine. 

But  not  to  or.e  in  this  benighted  age 

Is  that  diviner  inspiration  given, 
That  burns  in  Shakspeare's  or  in  Milton's  page, 

The  pomp  and  prodigality  of  Heaven. 

As  when  conspiring  in  the  diamond's  blaze, 
The  meaner  gems,  that  singly  charm  the  sight, 

Together  dart  their  intermingled  rays, 
And  dazzle  with  a  luxury  of  light. 

Enough  for  me,  if,  to  some  feeling  breast 
My  lines  a  secret  sympathy  impart, 

And  as  their  pleasing  influence  flows  confessed, 
A  sigh  of  soft  reflection  heave  the  heart." 

It  appears,  by  a  letter  to  Dr.  Wharton,  that 
Gray  finished  his  Ode  on  the  Progress  of  Poetry 
early  in  1755;  the  Bard  was  also  begun  about  the 
same  time ;  and  the  following  beautiful  fragment 
on  the  Pleasure  arising  from  Vicissitude  the 
next  year.  The  merit  of  the  two  former  pieces 
was  not  immediately  perceived,  nor  generally  ac- 
knowledged. Garrick  wrote  a  few  lines  in  their 
praise.  Lloyd  and  Colman  wrote,  in  concert,  two 
Odes  to  "  Oblivion"  and  "  Obscurity,"  hi  which 
they  were  ridiculed  with  much  ingenuity. 

Now  the  golden  morn  aloft 

Weaves  her  dew-bespangled  wing 
With  vermil  cheek,  and  whisper  soft, 

She  woos  the  tardy  spring ; 
Till  April  starts,  and  calls  around 
The  sleeping  t'n^nuxv  from  the  ground, 
And  lightly  o'er  the  living  scene 
Scatters  his  freshest  tenderest  green. 

New-born  flocks,  in  rustic  dance, 

Frisking  ply  their  feeble  feet; 
Forgetful  of- their  wintery  trance, 

The  birds  his  presence  greet; 
But  chief  the  skylark  warbles  high 
His  trembling,  thrilling  ecstasy; 


And,  lessening  from  the  dazzled  sight, 
Melts  into  air  and  liquid  light. 

Yesterday  the  sullen  year 

Saw  the  snowy  whirlwind  fly ; 
Mute  was  the  music  of  the  air, 

The  herd  stood  drooping  by ; 
Their  raptures  now,  that  wildly  flow, 
No  yesterday  nor  morrow  know; 
'Tis  man  alone  that  joy  descries 
With  forward  and  reverted  eyes. 

Smiles  on  past  misfortune's  brow 

Soft  reflection's  hand  can  trace, 
And  o'er  the  cheek  of  sorrow  throw 

A  melancholy  grace : 
While  hope  prolongs  our  happier  hour, 
Or  deepest  shades,  that  dimly  lour, 
And  blacken  round  our  weary  way, 
Gilds  with  a  gleam  of  distant  day. 

Still  where  rosy  pleasure  leads, 

See  a  kindred  grief  pursue, 
Behind  the  steps  that  misery  treads 

Approaching  comfort  view ; 
The  hues  of  bliss  more  brightly  glow, 
Chastised  by  sabler  tints  of  wo; 
And  blended  form,  with  artful  strife, 
The  strength  and  harmony  of  life. 

See  the  wretch,  that  long  has  tost 

On  the  thorny  bed  of  Pain, 
At  length  repair"  his  vigour  lost. 

And  breathe  and  walk  again. 
The  meanest  floweret  of  the  vale, 
The  simplest  note  that  swells  the  gale, 
The  common  sun,  the  air,  the  skies, 
To  him  are  opening  Paradise." 

Our  author's  reputation,  as  a  poet,  was  so  high, 
that,  on  the  death  of  Colley  Gibber,  in  1757,  he 
had  the  honour  of  refusing  the  office  of  poet-lau- 
reat,  to  which  he  was  probably  induced  by  the 
disgrace  brought  upon  it  through  the  inability  of 
some  who  had  filled  it. 

His  curiosity  some  time  after  drew  him  away 
from  Cambridge  to  a  lodging  near  the  British 
Museum,  where  he  resided  near  three  years,  read- 
ing and  transcribing. 

In  1762,  on  the  death  of  Mr.  Turner,  professor 
of  modern  languages  and  history  at  Cambridge, 
he  was,  according  to  his  own  expression,  "  cock- 
ered and  spirited  up"  to  apply  to  Lord  Bute  for 
the  succession,  i  lis  lordship  refused  him  with  all 
the  politeness  of  a  courtier,  the  office  having  been 
previously  promised  to  Mr.  Brocket,  the  tutor  of 
Sir  James  Lowther. 

His  health  being  on  the  decline,  in  1765,  he 
undertook  a  journey  to  Scotland,  conceiving  he 
ihould  derive  benefit  from  exercise  and  change  of 
situation.  His  account  of  that  country,  as  far  a* 


Vlll 


LIFE  OF  THOMAS  GRAY. 


it  extends,  is  curious  and  elegant;  for  as  his  mind 
was  comprehensive,  it  was  employed  in  the  con- 
templation of  all  the  works  of  art,  all  the  appear- 
ances of  nature,  and  all  the  monuments  of  past 
events. 

During  his  stay  in  Scotland  he  contracted  a 
friendship  with  Dr.  Beattie,  in  whom  he  found,  as 
he  himself  expresses  it,  a  poet,  a  philosopher,  and 
a  good  man.  Through  the  intervention  of  his 
friend  the  doctor,  the  Marischal  College  at  Aber- 
deen offered  him  the  degree  of  doctor  of  laws, 
which  he  thought  it  decent  to  decline,  having 
omitted  to  take  it  at  Cambridge. 

In  December,  1767,  Dr.  Beattie,  still  desirous 
that  his  country  should  leave  a  memento  of  its  re- 
gard to  the  merit  of  our  poet,  solicited  his  permis- 
sion to  print,  at  the  University  of  Glasgow,  an 
elegant  edition  of  his  works.  Gray  could  not  com- 
ply with  his  friend's  request,  as  he  had  given  his 
promise  to  Mr.  Dodsley.  However,  as  a  compli- 
ment to  them  both,  he  presented  them  with  a  copy, 
containing  a  few  notes,  and  the  imitations  of  the 
old  Norwegian  poetry,  intended  to  supplant  the 
Long  Story,  which  was  printed  at  first  to  illus- 
trate Mr.  Bently's  designs. 

In  1768,  our  author  obtained  that  office  without 
solicitation,  for  which  he  had  before  applied  with- 
out effect.  The  professorship  of  languages  and 
history  again  became  vacant,  and  he  received  an 
offer  of  it  from  the  Duke  of  Grafton,  who  had  suc- 
ceeded Lord  Bute  in  office.  The  place  was  valua- 
ble in  itself,  the  salary  being  400Z.  a-year;  but  it 
was  rendered  peculiarly  acceptable  to  Mr.  Gray, 
as  he  obtained  it  without  solicitation. 

Soon  after  he  succeeded  to  this  office,  the  im- 
paired state  of  his  health  rendered  another  journey 
necessary;  and  he  visited,  in  1769,  the  counties  of 
Westmoreland  and  Cumberland.  His  remarks  on 
the  wonderful  scenery  which  these  northern  re- 
gions display,  he  transmitted  in  epistolary  jour- 
nals to  his  friend,  Dr.  Wharton,  which  abound, 
according  to  Mr.  Mason's  elegant  diction,  with 
all  the  wildness  of  Salvator,  and  the  softness  of 
Claude. 

He  appears  to  have  been  much  affected  by  the 
anxiety  he  felt  at  holding  a  place  without  discharg- 
ing the  duties  annexed  to  it.  He  had  always  de- 
signed reading  lectures,  but  never  put  it  in  practice  ; 
and  a  consciousness  of  this  neglect,  contributed 


physicians,  he  removed  from  London  to  Kensing- 
ton ;  the  air  of  which  place  proved  so  salutary, 
that  he  was  soon  enabled  to  return  to  Cambridge, 
whence  he  designed  to  make  a  visit  to  his  friend, 
Dr.  Wharton,  at  Old  Park,  near  Durham  in- 
dulging a  fond  hope  that  the  excursion  would  tend 
to  the  re-establishment  of  his  health :  but,  alas ! 
that  hope  proved  delusive.  On  the  24th  o'  July 
he  was  seized,  while  at  dinner  in  the  College-hall, 
with  a  sudden  nausea,  which  obliged  him  to  retire 
to  his  chamber.  The  gout  had  fixed  on  his  sto- 
mach in  such  a  degree  as  to  resist  all  the  powers 
of  medicine.  On  the  29th  he  was  attacied  with 
a  strong  convulsion,  which  returned  with  increas- 
ed violence  the  ensuing  day ;  and  on  the  evening 
of  the  31st  of  May,  1771,  he  departed  this  life  in 
the  55th  year  of  his  age. 

From  the  narrative  of  his  friend,  Mr.  Mason,  it 
appears,  that  Gray  was  actuated  by  motives  of  self 
improvement,  and  self  gratification,  in  his  applica- 
tion to  the  Muses,  rather  than  any  view  to  pecu- 
niary emolument.  His  pursuits  were  in  general 
disinterested ;  and  as  he  was  free  from  avarice  on 
the  one  hand,  so  was  he  from  extravagance  on  the 
other :  being  one  of  those  few  characters  in  the 
annals  of  literature,  especially  in  the  poetical  class, 
who  are  devoid  of  self  interest,  and  at  the  same 
time  attentive  to  economy :  but  Mr.  Mason  adds, 
that  he  was  induced  to  decline  taking  any  advan- 
tage of  his  literary  productions  by  a  degree  of  pride, 
which  influenced  him  to  disdain  the  idea  of  being 
thought  an  author  by  profession. 

It  appears  from  the  same  narrative,  that  Gray 
made  considerable  progress  in  the  study  of  archi- 
tecture, particularly  the  Gothic.  He  endeavoured 
to  trace  this  branch  of  the  science,  from  the  period 
of  its  commencement,  through  its  various  changes, 
till  it  arrived  at  its  perfection  in  the  time  of  Henry 
VIII.  He  applied  himself  also  to  the  study  of 
heraldry,  of  which  he  obtained  a  very  competent 
knowledge,  as  appears  from  his  Remarks  on  Sax- 
on Churches,  in  the  introduction  to  Mr.  Bentham's 
History  of  Ely. 

But  the  favourite  study  of  Gray,  for  the  last  two 
years  of  his  life,,  was  natural  history,  which  he  ra-' 
ther  resumed  than  began,  as  he  had  acquired  some 
knowledge  of  botany  in  early  life,  while  he  was 
under  the  tuition  of  his  uncle  Antrobus.  He  wrote 
copious  marginal  notes  to  the  works  of  Linnaeus, 

not  a  little  to  increase  the  malady  under  which  he  j  and  other  writers  in  the  three  kingdoms  of  nature : 
had  long  laboured :  nay,  the  office  at  length  be-  and  Mr.  Mason  further  observes,  that,  excepting 
came  so  irksome,  that  he  seriously  proposed  to  re- 
sign it. 


Towards  the  close  of  May,  1771,  he  removed 


pure  mathematics,  and  the  studies  dependent  on 
that  science,  there  was  hardly  any  part  of  human 
learning  in  which  he  had  not  acquired  a  compe- 


from  Cambridge  to  London,  after  having  suffered '  tent  skill ;  in  most  of  them  a  consummate  mastery, 
violent  attacks  of  an  hereditary  gout,  to  which  he  J  Mr.  Mason  has  declined  drawing  any  formal 
had  long  been  subject,  notwithstanding  he  had  ob-  j  character  of  him :  but  has  adopted  one  from  a  let- 
served  the  most  rigid  abstemiousness  throughout  j  tcr  to  James  Boswell,  Esq.  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Tem- 
Ihe  whole  course  of  his  life.  By  the  advice  of  his  pie,  rector  of  St.  Gluvias,  in  Cornwall,  first  print- 


LIFE  OP  THOMAS  GRAY. 


ed  anonymously  in  the  London  Magazine,  which, 
as  we  conceive  authentic,  from  the  sanction  of  Mr. 
Mason,  we  shall  therefore  transcribe. 

"Perhaps  he  w;.<  the  most  learned  man  in  Eu- 
rope. He  was  equally  acquainted  with  the  elo- 
quent and  profound  parts  of  science,  and  that  not 
superficially  but  thoroughly.  He  knew  every  branch 
of  history,  both  natural  and  civil ;  had  read  all  the 
original  historians  of  England,  France  and  Italy; 
and  was  a  great  antiquarian.  Criticism,  metaphy- 
sics, morals,  and  politics,  made  a  principal  part  of 
hi:?  study;  VDVI-^CS  and  travels  of  all  sorts  were 
.'urite  amusements ;  and  he  had  a  fine  taste 


fastidious,  and  hard  to  please.  His  contempt, 
however,  is  often  employed,  where  I  hope  it  will 
be  approved,  upon  scepticism  and  infidelity.  His 
short  account  of  Shaflesbury  I  will  insert. 

" '  You  say  you  can  not  conceive  how  Lord 
Shaftesbury  came  to  be  a  philosopher  in  vogue:  I 
will  tell  you;  first,  he  was  a  lord;  secondly,  he  was 
as  vain  as  any  of  his  readers;  thirdly,  men  are 
very  prone  to  believe  what  they  do  not  understand; 
fourthly,  they  will  believe  any  tiling  at  all,  pro- 
vided they  are  under  no  obligation  to  believe  it; 
fifthly,  they  love  to  take  a  new  road,  even  when 
that  road  leads  no  where;  sixthly,  he  was  reckoned 


in  painting,  prints,  architecture,  and  gardening,  a  fine  writer,  and  seems  always  to  mean  more  than 
With  such  a  fund  of  knowledge,  his  conversation  he  said.  Would  you  have  any  more  reasons!  An 
must  have  been  equally  instructing  and  entertain-  interval  of  above  forty  years  has  pretty  well  de- 
ing  ;  but  he  was  also  a  good  man,  a  man  of  virtue  stroyed  the  charm.  A  dead  lord  ranks  with  com- 
and  humanity.  There  is  no  character  without 'moners:  vanity  is  no  longer  interested  in  the  mat- 
some  speck,  some  imperfection,  and  I  think  the  ter:  for  a  new  road  is  become  an  old  one.' " 
greatest  defect  in  his  was  an  affectation  of  delica-  As  a  writer,  he  had  this  peculiarity,  that  he  did 
cy.  or  rather  effeminacy,  and  a  visible  fastidious-  not  write  his  pieces  first  rudely,  and  then  correct 
<  >r  contempt  and  disdain  of  his  inferiors  in :  them,  but  laboured  every  line  as  it  arose  in  the 
science.  He  also  had,  in  some  degree,  that  weak- :  train  of  composition ;  and  he  had  a  notion  not  very 
ness  which  disgusted  Voltaire  so  much  in  Mr.  peculiar,  that  he  could  not  write  but  at  certain 
Congreve:  though  he  seemed  to  value  others  chief-  j  times,  or  at  happy  moments ;  a  fantastic  foppery 
ly  according  to  the  progress  they  had  made  in  to  which  our  kindness  for  a  man  of  learning  and 
knowledge,  yet  he  could  not  bear  to  be  considered  of  virtue  wishes  him  to  have  been  superior. 


himself  merely  as  a  man  of  letters ;  and  though 
without  birth,  or  fortune,  or  station,  his  desire  was 
to  be  looked  upon  as  a  private  independent  gen- 
tleman, who  read  for  his  amusement.  Perhaps  it 
may  be  said,  What  signifies  so  much  knowledge, 


As  a  poet,  he  stands  high  in  the  estimation  of 
the  candid  and  judicious.  His  works  are  not  nu- 
merous; but  they  bear  the  marks  of  intense  appli- 
cation, and  careful  revision.  The  Elegy  in  the 
Church-yard  is  deemed  his  master-piece;  the  sub- 


when it  produced  so  little  1  Is  it  worth  taking  so  ject  is  interesting,  the  sentiment  simple  and  pa- 
much  pains  to  leave  no  memorial  but  a  few  poems'?  thetic.  and  the  versification  charmingly  melodious. 
But  let  it  be  considered  that  Mr.  Gray  was,  to  This  beautiful  composition  has  been  often  selected 
others,  at  least  innocently  employed ;  to  himself,  by  orators  for  the  display  of  their  rhetorical  talents, 
certainly  beneficially.  His  time  passed  agreeably ;  But  as  the  most  finished  productions  of  the  human 
he  was  every  day  making  some  new  acquisition  in  mind  have  not  escaped  censure,  the  works  of  our 
science ;  his  mind  was  enlarged,  his  heart  soften-  author  have  undergone  illiberal  comments.  His 
ed,  his  virtue  strengthened ;  the  world  and  man-  Elegy  has  been  supposed  defective  in  want  of  plan, 
kind  were  shown  to  him  without  a  mask ;  and  he  Dr.  Knox,  in  his  Essays,  has  observed,  "  that  it  is 
was  taught  to  consider  every  thing  as  trifling,  and  thought  by  some  to  be  no  more  than  a  confused 
unworthy  of  the  attention  of  a  wise  man,  except  heap  of  splendid  ideas,  thrown  together  without 
the  pursuit  of  knowledge  and  practice  of  virtue,  order  and  without  proportion."  Some  passages 
in  that  state  wherein  God  hath  placed  us."  have  been  censured  by  Kelly  hi  the  Babbler:  and 

In  addition  to  this  character,  Mr.  Mason  has  re-  imitations  of  different  authors  have  been  pointed 
marked,  that  Gray's  effeminacy  was  affected  most  out  by  other  critics.  But  these  imitations  can  not 
before  those  whom  he  did  not  wish  to  please :  and  be  ascertained,  as  there  are  numberless  instances 
that  he  is  unjustly  charged  with  making  knowledge  of  coincidence  of  ideas;  so  that  it  is  difficult  to  say, 
his  sole  reason  of  preference,  as  he  paid  his  esteem  with  precision,  what  is  or  is  not  a  designed  or  ac- 
to  none  whom  he  did  not  likewise  believe  to  be  cidental  imitation, 
good.  Gray,  in  his  Elegy  in  the  Church-yard,  has 

Dr.  Johnson  makes  the  following  observation : —  great  merit  in  adverting  to  the  most  interesting 
"  What  has  occurred  to  me,  from  the  slight  in-  passions  of  the  human  mind,  yet  his  genius  is  not 
gpection  of  his  letters,  in  which  my  undertaking  marked  alone  by  the  tender  sensibility  so  conspi- 
has  engaged  me,  is,  that  his  mind  had  a  large  cuous  in  that  elegant  piece ;  but  there  is  a  subli- 
grasp ;  that  his  curiosity  was  unlimited,  and  his  mity  which  gives  it  an  equal  claim  to  universal 
judgment  cultivated ;  that  he  was  a  man  likely  to  admiration. 
love  much  where  he  loved  at  all,  but  that  he  was!  His  Odes  on  The  Progress  of  Poetry,  and  of 


LIFE  OF  THOMAS  GRAY. 


The  Bard,  according  to  Mr.  Mason's  account, 
"  breathe  the  high  spirit  of  lyric  enthusiasm.  The 
transitions  are  sudden  and  impetuous;  the  lan- 
guage full  of  fire  and  force ;  and  the  imagery  car- 
ried without  impropriety,  to  the  most  daring  height. 
They  have  been  accused  of  obscurity ;  but  the  one 
can  be  obscure  to  those  only  who  have  not  read 
Pindar ;  and  the  other  only  to  those  who  are  un- 
acquainted with  the  history  of  our  own  nation." 

Of  his  other  lyric  pieces,  Mr.  Wakefield,  a 
learned  and  ingenious  commentator,  observes,  that, 
though,  like  all  other  human  productions,  they  are 
not  without  their  defects,  yet  the  spirit  of  poetry, 
and  exquisite  charms  of  the  verse,  are  more  than  a 
compensation  for  those  defects.  The  Ode  on  Eton 
College  abounds  with  sentiments  natural,  and  con- 
sonant to  the  feelings  of  humanity,  exhibited  with 
perspicuity  of  method,  and  in  elegant,  intelligible, 
and  expressive  language.  The  Sonnet  on  The 
Death  of  West,  and  the  Epitaph  on  Sir  William 
Williams,  are  as  perfect  compositions  of  the  kind 
as  any  in  our  language. 

Dr.  Johnson  was  confessedly  a  man  of  great 
genius ;  but  the  partial  and  uncandid  mode  of  cri- 
ticism he  has  adopted  in  his  remarks  on  the  wri- 
tings of  Gray,  has  given  to  liberal  minds  great  and 
just  offence.  According  to  Mr.  Mason's  account, 
he  has  subjected  Gray's  poetry  to  the  most  rigor- 
ous examination.  Declining  all  consideration  of 
the  general  plan  and  conduct  of  the  pieces,  he  has 
confined  himself  solely  to  strictures  on  words  and 
forms  of  expression ;  and  Mr.  Mason  very  perti- 
nently adds,  that  verbal  criticism  is  an  ordeal 
which  the  most  perfect  composition  can  not  pass 
without  injury. 

He  has  also  fallen  under  Mr.  Wakefield's  se- 
verest censure.  This  commentator  affirms,  that 
"  he  thinks  a  refutation  of  his  strictures  upon  Gray 
a  necessary  service  to  the  public,  without  which 
they  might  operate  with  a  malignant  influence 
upon  the  national  taste.  His  censure,  however, 
is  too  general,  and  expressed  with  too  much  vehe- 


mence; and  his  remarks  betray,  upon  the  whole, 
an  unreasonable  fastidiousness  of  taste,  and  an  un- 
becoming illiberality  of  spirit.  He  appears  to  have 
turned  an  unwilling  eye  upon  the  beauties  of  Gray, 
because  his  jealousy  would  not  suffer  him  to  see 
such  superlative  merit  in  a  cotemporary."  These 
remarks  of  Mr.  Wakefield  appear  to  be  well 
founded:  and  it  has  been  observed  by  another 
writer,  that  Dr.  Johnson,  being  strongly  influ- 
enced by  his  political  and  religious  principles,  was 
inclined  to  treat,  with  the  utmost  severity,  some  of 
the  productions  of  our  best  writers;  to  which  may 
be  imputed  that  severity  with  which  he  censures 
the  lyric  performances  of  Gray.  It  is  highly  pro- 
bable that  no  one  poetical  reader  will  universally 
subscribe  to  his  decisions,  though  all  may  admire 
his  vast  intuitive  knowledge,  and  power  of  discri- 
mination. 

In  one  instance,  the  doctor's  inconsistency,  and 
deviation  from  his  general  character,  does  him  ho- 
ur. After  having  commented  with  the  most  ri- 
gid severity  on  the  poetical  works  of  Gray,  as  if 
conscious  of  the  injustice  done  him,  he  seems  to 
apologize  by  the  following  declaration,  which  con- 
cludes his  criticism,  and  shall  conclude  the  memoirs 
of  our  author. 

"  In  the  character  of  his  Elegy  (says  Johnson) 
I  rejoice  and  concur  with  the  common  reader ;  for, 
by  the  common  sense  of  readers,  uncorrupted  with 
literary  prejudices,  all  the  refinements  of  subtility, 
and  the  dogmatism  of  learning,  must  be  finally  de- 
cided all  claim  to  poetical  honours.  The  Church- 
yard abounds  with  images  which  find  a  mirror  in 
every  mind,  and  with  sentiments  to  which  every 
bosom  returns  an  echo.  The  four  stanzas  begin- 
ning, Yet,  e'en  these  bones,  are  to  me  original;  I 
have  never  seen  the  notions  in  any  other  place : 
yet  he  that  reads  them  here,  persuades  himself  that 
he  has  always  felt  them.  Had  Gray  written  often 
thus,  it  had  been  vain  to  blame,  and  useless  to 
praise  him." 


LETTERS 


or 


FROM  MR.  WEST*  TO  MR.  GRAY. 

You  use  me  very  cruelly ;  you  have  sent  me  but 
one  letter  since  I  have  been  at  Oxford,  and  that 
too  agreeable  not  to  make  me  sensible  how  great 
my  loss  is  in  not  having  more.  Next  to  seeing 
you  is  the  pleasure  of  seeing  your  hand-writing 
noxt  to  hearing  you  is  the  pleasure  of  hearing  from 
you.  Really  and  sincerely  I  wonder  at  you,  that 
you  thought  it  not  worth  while  to  answer  my  last 
letter.  I  hope  this  will  have  better  success  in  be- 
half of  your  quondam  school-fellow ;  in  behalf  of 
one  who  has  walked  hand  in  hand  with  you,  like 
the  two  children  in  the  wood, 

Through  many  a  flowery  path  and  shelly  grot, 
Where  learning  lulled  us  in  her  private  maze. 
The  very  thought,  you  see,  tips  my  pen  with  po 
ttry,  and  brings  Eton  to  my  view.     Consider  me 
very  seriously  here  in  a  strange  country,  inhabited 
by  things  that  call  themselves  doctors  and  masters 
of  arts ;  a  country  flowing  with  syllogisms  and  ale, 
where  Horace  and  Virgil  are  equally  unknown ; 
consider  me,  I  say,  in  this  melancholy  light,  and 
then  think  if  something  be  not  due  to 

Yours. 

Christ  Church,  Nov.  14,  1735. 

P.  S.  I  desire  you  will  send  me  soon,  and  truly 
and  positively,  a  History  of  your  own  Time.t 


TO  MR.  WEST. 

PERMIT  me  again  to  write  to  you,  though  I  have 
so  long  neglected  my  duty,  and  forgive  my  brevi- 
ty, when  I  tell  you,  it  is  occasioned  wholly  by  the 
hurry  I  am  in  to  get  to  a  place  where  I  expect  to 
meet  with  no  other  pleasure  than  the  sight  of  you ; 
for  I  am  preparing  for  London  in  a  few  days  at 
furthest.  I  do  not  wonder  in  the  least  at  your 
frequent  blaming  my  indolence,  it  ought  rather  to 


*  Mr.  West's  father  was  lord  chancellor  of  Ireland.  His 
grandfather,  by  the  mother,  the  famous  bishop  Burnet.  He 
removed  from  Eton  to  Oxford,  about  the  same  time  that  Mr. 
Gray  left  that  place  for  Cambridge.  In  April,  1738,  he  left 
Christ  Church  for  the  Inner  Temple,  and  Mr.  Gray  removed 
from  Peterhouse  to  town  the  latter  end  of  that  year ;  intending 
alao  to  apply  himself  to  the  study  of  the  law  in  the  same  so- 
ciety. 

t  AUading  to  hie  grandfather's  history. 


be  called  ingratitude,  and  I  am  obliged  to  your 
goodness  for  softening  so  harsh  an  appellation. — 
When  we  meet,  it  will,  however,  be  my  greatest 
of  pleasures  to  know  what  you  do,  what  you  read, 
and  how  you  spend  your  time,  &c.  Sue.  and  to  tell 
you  what  I  do  not  read,  and  how  I  do  not,  &c.  for 
almost  all  the  employment  of  my  hours  may  be 
best  explained  by  negatives ;  take  my  word  and 
experience  upon  it,  doing  nothing  is  a  most  amus- 
ing business ;  and  yet  neither  something  nor  no- 
thing gives  me  any  pleasure.  When  you  have 
seen  one  of  my  days,  you  have  seen  a  whole  year 
of  my  life ;  they  go  round  and  round  like  the  blind 
horse  in  the  mill,  only  he  has  the  satisfaction  of 
fancying  he  makes  a  progress,  and  gets  some 
ground ;  my  eyes  are  open  enough  to  see  the  same 
dull  prospect,  and  to  know  that  having  made  four- 
and-twenty  steps  more,  I  shall  be  just  where  I  was : 
I  may,  better  than  most  people,  say  my  life  is  but  a 
span,  were  I  not  afraid  lest  you  should  not  believe  that 
a  person  so  short-lived  could  write  even  so  long  a 
letter  as  this ;  in  short,  I  believe  I  must  not  send 
you  a  history  of  my  own  time,  till  I  can  send  you 
that  also  of  the  Reformation.*  However,  as  the 
most  undeserving  people  in  the  world  must  surely 
have  the  vanity  to  wish  somebody  had  a  regard  for 
them,  so  I  need  not  wonder  at  my  own,  in  being 
pleased  that  you  care  about  me.  You  need  not 
doubt,  therefore,  of  having  a  first  row  in  the  front 
box  of  my  little  heart,  and  I  believe  you  are  not  in 
danger  of  being  crowded  there ;  it  is  asking  you 
to  an  old  play,  indeed,  but  you  will  be  candid 
enough  to  excuse  the  whole  piece  for  the  sake  of 
a  few  tolerable  lines. 

For  this  little  while  past  I  have  been  playing 
with  Statius ;  we  yesterday  had  a  game  at  quoits 
together;  you  will  easily  forgive  me  for  having 
jroke  his  head,  as  you  have  a  little  pique  to  him. 
[  send  you  my  translation,  which  I  did  not  engage 
n  because  I  liked  that  part  of  the  poem,  nor  do  I 
now  send  it  to  you  because  I  think  it  deserves  it, 
>ut  merely  to  show  you  how  I  mispend  my  days. 
Third  in  the  labours  of  the  Disc  came  on, 
With  sturdy  step  and  slow,  Hippomedon,  Ac. 
Cambridge,  May  3, 1736. 


•  Carrying  on  the  allusion  to  the  other  history  wrote  by  Mr. 
feat's  grandfather. 


GRAY'S  WORKS 


LET.  3,  4,  5. 


FROM  MR.  WEST. 

I  AGREE  with  you  that  you  have  broke  Statius's 
head,  but  it  is  in  like  manner  as  Apollo  broke 
Hyacinth's,  you  have  foiled  him  infinitely  at  his 
own  weapon :  I  must  insist  on  seeing  the  rest  of 
your  translation,  and  then  I  will  examine  it  en- 
tire, and  compare  it  with  the  Latin,  and  be  very 
wise  and  severe,  and  put  on  an  inflexible  face,  such 
as  becomes  the  character  of  a  true  son  of  Aristar- 
chus,  of  hypercritical  memory.  In  the  meanwhile, 

And  calmed  the  terrors  of  his  claws  in  gold, 
is  exactly  Statius — Summos  auro  mansueverat 
ungues.  I  never  knew  before  that  the  golden 
fangs  on  hammercloths  were  so  old  a  fashion. 
Your  Hymeneal  I  was  told  was  the  best  in  the 
Cambridge  collection  before  I  saw  it,  and,  indeed, 
it  is  no  great  compliment  to  tell  you  I  thought  it 
so  when  I  had  seen  it,  but  sincerely  it  pleased  me 
best.  Methinks  the  college  bards  have  run  into  a 
strange  taste  on  this  occasion.  Such  soft  unmean- 
ing stuff  about  Venus  and  Cupid,  and  Peleus  and 
Thetis,  and  Zephyrs  and  Dryads,  was  never  read. 
As  for  my  poor  little  Eclogue,  it  has  been  con- 
demned and  beheaded  by  our  Westminster  judges ; 
an  exordium  of  about  sixteen  lines  absolutely  cut 
off,  and  its  other  limbs  quartered  in  a  most  bar- 
barous manner.  I  will  send  it  you  in  my  next  as 
my  true  and  lawful  heir,  in  exclusion  of  the  pre- 
tender, who  has  the  impudence  to  appear  under 
my  name. 

As  yet  I  have  not  looked  into  Sir  Isaac.  -Public 
disputations  I  hate ;  mathematics  I  reverence ;  his- 
tory, morality,  and  natural  philosophy  have  the 
greatest  charms  in  my  eye ;  but  who  can  forget 
poetry  1  they  call  it  idleness,  but  it  is  surely  the 
most  enchanting  thing  in  the  world,  "  ac  duke 
otium  et  pcene  omni  negotio  pulchrius." 
I  am,  dear  Sir,  yours  while  I  am 

R.  W. 

Christ  Church,  May  24, 1736. 


TO  MR.  WEST. 

You  must  know  that  I  do  not  take  degrees,  and, 
after  this  term,  shall  have  nothing  more  of  college 
impertinences  to  undergo,  which  I  trust  will  be 
some  pleasure  to  you,  as  it  is  a  great  one  to  me.  I 
have  endured  lectures  daily  and  hourly  since  I 
came  last,  supported  by  the  hopes  of  being  shortly 
at  full  liberty,  to  give  myself  up  to  my  friends  and 
classical  companions,  who,  poor  souls !  though  I 
see  them  fallen  into  great  contempt  with  most  peo- 
ple here,  yet  I  can  not  help  sticking  to  them,  and 
out  of  a  spirit  of  obstinacy  ( I  think)  love  them  the 
better  for  it;  and,  indeed,  what  can  I  do  else"? 
Must  I  plunge  into  metaphysics!  Alas!  I  can  not 
see  in  the  dark ;  nature  has  not  furnished  me  with 


the  optics  of  a  cat.  Must  I  pore  upon  mathema- 
tics? Alas!  I  can  not  see  in  too  much  light ;  I  am 
no  eagle.  It  is  very  possible  that  two  and  two 
make  four,  but  I  would  not  give  four  farthings  to 
demonstrate  this  ever  so  clearly;  and  if  these  be 
the  profits  of  life,  give  me  the  amusements  of  it. 
The  people  I  behold  all  around  me,  it  seems,  know 
all  this  and  more,  and  yet  I  do  not  know  one  of 
them  who  inspires  me  with  any  ambition  of  being 
like  him. .  Surely  it  was  not  this  place,  now  Cam- 
bridge, but  formerly  known  by  the  name  of  Baby- 
lon, that  the  prophet  spoke  when  he  said,  "  the 
wild  beasts  of  the  desert  shall  dwell  there,  and 
their  houses  shall  be  full  of  doleful  creatures,  and 
owls  shall  build  there,  and  satyrs  shall  dance  there ; 
their  forts  and  towers  shall  be  a  den  for  ever,  a 
joy  of  wild  asses ;  there  shall  the  great  owl  make 
her  nest,  and  lay  and  hatch  and  gather  under  her 
shadow;  It  shall  be  a  court  of  dragons ;  the  screech 
owl  also  shall  rest  there,  and  find  for  herself  a 
place  of  rest."  You  see  here  is  a  pretty  collection 
of  desolate  animals,  which  is  verified  in  this  town 
to  a  tittle,  and  perhaps  it  may  also  allude  to  your 
habitation,  for  you  know  all  types  may  be  taken 
by  abundance  of  handles ;  however,  I  defy  your 
owls  to  match  mine. 

If  the  default  of  your  spirits  and  nerves  be 
nothing  but  the  effect  of  the  hyp,  I  have  no  more 
to  say.  We  all  must  submit  to  that  wayward 
queen :  I  too  in  no  small  degree  own  her  sway. 

I  feel  her  influence  while  I  speak  her  power. 
But  if  it  be  a  real  distemper,  pray  take  more  care 
of  your  health,  if  not  for  your  own  at  least  for  our 
sakes,  and  do  not  be  so  soon  weary  of  tliis  little 
world :  I  do  not  know  what  refined*  friendships 
you  may  have  contracted  in  the  other,  but  pray  do 
not  be  in  a  hurry  to  see  your  acquaintance  above; 
among  your  terrestrial  familiars,  however,  though 
I  say  it  that  should  not  say  it,  there  positively  is 
not  one  that  has  a  greater  esteem  for  you  than 
Yours  most  sincerely,  &c. 

Peterhouse,  Dec.  1736. 


FROM  MR.  WEST. 

I  CONGRATULATE  you  on  your  being  about  to 
leave  college,t  and  rejoice  much  you  carry  no  de- 
grees with  you.  For  I  would  not  have  you  digni- 
fied, and  I  not,  for  the  world,  you  would  have  in- 
sulted me  so.  My  eyes,  such  as  they  are,  like 
yours,  are  neither  metaphysical  nor  mathematical ; 


*  Perhaps  he  meant  to  ridicule  the  affected  manner  of  Mrs. 
Rowe's  letters  from  the  dead  to  the  living. 

1 1  suspect  that  Mr.  West  mistook  his  correspondent ;  who, 
in  saying  he  did  not  take  degrees,  meant  only  to  let  hia  friend 
know  that  he  should  soon  be  released  from  lectures  and  dispu- 
tations. It  is  certain  that  Mr.  Gray  continued  at  college  near 
two  years  after  the  time  he  wrote  the  preceding  letter. 


LET.  6,  7. 


LETTERS. 


3 


I  have,  nevertheless,  a  great  respect  for  your  con- 
noisseurs that  way,  but  am  always  contented  to 
be  their  humble  admirer.  Your  collection  of  de- 
solate animals  pleased  me  so  much :  but  Oxford,  I 
can  assure  you,  has  her  owls  that  match  yours,  and 
the  prophecy  has  certainly  a  squint  that  way. 
Well,  you  are  leaving  this  dismal  land  of  bondage, 
and  which  way  are  you  turning  your  face  7  Your 
friends,  indeed,  may  be  happy  in  you,  but  what 
will  you  do  with  your  classic  companions  1  An 
'  in  of  court  is  as  horrid  a  place  as  a  college,  and 
moot  case  is  as  dear  to  gentle  dullness  as  a  syllo- 
_.sm.  But  wherever  you  go,  let  me  beg  you  not 
to  throw  poetry,  "like  a  nauseous  weed  away;" 
cherish  in  your  bosom;  they  will  serve 

you  now  and  then  to  correct  the  disgusting  sober 
follies  of  the  common  law,  misce  stultitiam  con- 
siliis  brercm,  dulcc  cst  desipcre  in  loco;  so  said 
Horace  to  Virgil,  those  two  sons  of  Anak  in  poet- 
ry, and  so  say  I  to  you  in  this  degenerate  land  of 
pigmies, 

Mix  with  your  grave  designs  a  little  pleasure, 
Each  day  of  business  has  its  hour  of  leisure. 

In  one  of  these  hours  I  hope,  dear  Sir,  you  will 
sometimes  think  of  me,  write  to  me,  and  know  me 
yours,  i 

'E'tfuTtf,  /j.n  KttiBt  roa,  'tva.  u^o/ntv  a.(j.Qu. 

that  is,  write  freely  to  me  and  openly,  as  I  do  to 
you;  and  to  give  you  a  proof  of  it,  I  have  sent  you 
an  elegy  of  Tibullus  translated.  Tibullus,  you 
must  know,  is  my  favourite  elegiac  poet ;  for  his 
language  is  more  elegant,  and  his  thoughts  more 
natural  than  Ovid's.  Ovid  excels  him  only  in  wit, 
of  which  no  poet  had  more  in  my  opinion.  The 
reason  I  choose  so  melancholy  a  kind  of  poesie,  is, 
because  my  low  spirits,  and  constant  ill  health, 
(things  in  me  not  imaginary,  as  you  surmise,  but 
too  real,  alas!  and  I  fear,  constitutional,)  "have 
tuned  my  heart  to  elegies  of  wo;"  and  this  likewise 
is  the  reason  why  I  am  the  most  irregular  thing 
at  college,  for  you  may  depend  upon  it  I  value  my 
health  above  what  they  call  discipline.  As  for  this 
poor  unlicked  thing  of  an  elegy,  pray  criticise  it 
unmercifully,  for  I  send  it  with  that  intent.  In- 
deed your  late  translation  of  Statius  might  have 
deterred  me :  but  I  know  you  are  not  more  able  to 
excel  others,  than  you  are  apt  to  forgive  the  want 
of  excellence,  especially  when  it  is  found  in  the 
productions  of 

Your  most  sincere  friend. 
Christ  Church,  Dec.  22, 173d 


TO  MR.  WALPOLE. 

You  can  never  weary  me  with  the  repetition  of 
any  thing  that  makes  me  sensible  of  your  kindness: 
since  that  has  been  the  only  idea  of  any  social  hap- 


piness that  I  have  almost  ever  received,  and  which 
(begging  your  pardon  for  thinking  so  differently 
from  you  in  such  cases)  I  would  by  no  means  have 
parted  with  for  an  exemption  from  all  the  uneasi- 
ved  with  it;  but  it  would  be  unjust  to  ima- 
gine my  taste  was  any  rule  of  yours ;  for  which 
reason  my  letters  are  shorter  and  less  frequent 
than  they  would  be,  had  I  any  materials  but  my- 
self to  entertain  you  with.  Love  and  brown  su- 
gar must  be  a  poor  regale  for  one  of  your  gout,  and, 
alas !  you  know  1  am  by  trade  a  grocer.*  Scan- 
dal (if  I  had  any)  is  a  merchandise  you  do  not  pro- 
fess deahng  in;  now  and  then,  indeed,  and  to 
oblige  a  friend,  you  may  perhaps  slip  a  little  out 
of  your  pocket,  as  a  decayed  gentlewoman  would 
a  piece  of  right  mecklin,  or  a  little  quantity  of  run 
tea,  but  this  only  now  and  then,  not  to  make  a  prac- 
tice of  it.  Monsters  appertaining  to  this  climate 
you  have  seen  already,  both  wet  and  dry.  So  you 
perceive  within  how  narrow  bounds  my  pen  is  cir- 
cumscribed, and  the  whole  contents  of  my  share 
in  our  correspondence  may  be  reduced  under  the 
two  heads  of  first,  You ;  secondly,  I ;  the  first  is, 
indeed,  a  subject  to  expatiate  upon,  but  you  may 
laugh  at  me  for  talking  about  what  I  do  not  un- 
derstand ;  the  second  is  so  tiny,  so  tiresome,  that 
you  shall  hear  no  more  of  it  than  it  is  ever 

Yours. 
Peterhouse,  Dec.  23, 1736. 


FROM  MR.  WEST. 

I  HAVE  been  very  ill,  and  am  still  hardly  recov- 
ered. Do  you  remember  Elegy  5th,  Book  the  3d, 
of  Tibullus,  Vos  tenet,  &c.,  and  do  you  remember 
a  letter  of  Mr.  Pope's,  in  sickness,  to  Mr.  Steele? 
This  melancholy  elegy,  and  this  melancholy  letter, 
I  turned  into  a  more  melancholy  epistle  of  my  own, 
during  my  sickness,  in  the  way  of  imitation ;  and 
this  I  send  to  you  and  my  friends  at  Cambridge, 
not  to  divert  them,  for  I  can  not,  but  merely  to  show 
them  how  sincere  I  was  when  sick :  I  hope  my 
sending  it  to  them  now  may  convince  them  I  am 
no  less  sincere,  though  perhaps  more  simple,  when 
well. 

AD  AMICOS.t 

Yes,  happy  youths,  on  Camus'  sedgy  side, 
You  feel  each  joy  that  friendship  can  divide ; 
Each  realm  of  science  and  of  art  explore, 
And  with  the  ancient  blend  the  modern  lore. 


* »'.  e.  A  man  who  deals  only  in  coarse  and  ordirufry  wares ; 
to  these  he  compares  the  plain  sincerity  of  his  own  friendship, 
undisguised  by  flattery ;  which,  had  he  chosen  to  carry  on  tha 
allusion,  he  might  have  termed  the  trade  of  a  confectioner. 

t  Almost  all  Tibullus's  elegy  is  imitated  in  this  little  piece, 
from  whence  his  transition  to  MJ.  Pope's  letter  is  very  artfully 
contrived,  and  bespeaks  a  degree  of  judgment  much  beyond 
Mr.  West's  years. 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


LET.  8. 


Studious  alone  to  learn  whate'er  may  tend 

To  raise  the  genius  or  the  heart  to  mend ; 

Now  pleased  along  the  cloistered  walk  you  rove, 

And  trace  the  verdant  mazes  of  the  grove, 

Where  social  oft,  and  oft  alone,  he  chose 

To  catch  the  zephyr,  and  to  court  the  muse. 

Meantime  at  me  (while  all  devoid  of  art 

These  lines  give  back  the  image  of  rny  heart) 

At  me  the  power  that  comes  or  soon  or  late, 

Or  idms,  or  seems  to  aim,  the  dart  of  fate ; 

From  you  remote,  mcthinks,  alone  1  stand 

.Like  some  sad  exile  in  a  desert  land  ; 

Around  no  friends  their  lenient  care  to  join 

In  mutual  warmth,  and  mix  their  heart  with  mine. 

Or  real  pains,  or  those  which  fancy  raise, 

For  ever  blot  the  sunshine  of  my  days ; 

To  sickness  still,  and  still  to  grief  a  prey, 

Health  turns  from  me  her  rosy  face  away. 

Just  Heaven  !  what  sin,  ere  life  begins  to  bloom, 

Devotes  my  head  untimely  to  the  tomb  1 

Did  e'er  this  hand  against  a  brother's  life 

Drug  the  dire  bowl,  or  point  the  murderous  knife? 

Did  e'er  this  tongue  the  slanderer's  tale  proclaim, 

Or  madly  violate  my  Maker's  name? 

Did  e'er  this  heart  betray  a  friend  or  foe, 

Or  know  a  thought  but  all  the  world  might  know? 

As  yet,  just  started  from  the  lists  of  time, 

My  growing  years  have  scarcely  told  their  prime; 

Useless,  as  yet,  through  life  I've  idly  run, 

No  pleasures  tasted,  and  few  duties  done. 

*  Ah,  who,  ere  autumn's  mellowing  suns  appear, 

Would  pluck  the  promise  of  the  vernal  year1? 

Or,  ere  the  grapes  their  purple  hue  betray, 

Tear  the  crude  cluster  from  the  morning  spray  7 

Stern  power  of  Fate,  whose  ebon  sceptre  rules 

The  Stygian  deserts  and  Cimmerian  pools, 

Forbear,  nor  rashly  smite  my  youthful  heart. 

A  victim  yet  unworthy  of  thy  dart; 

Ah,  stay  till  age  shall  blast  my  withering  face, 

Shake  in  my  head,  and  falter  in  my  pace ; 

Then  aim  the  shaft,  then  meditate  the  blow, 

t  And  to  the  dead  my  willing  shade  shall  go. 

How  weak  is  man  to  Reason's  judging  eye! 
Born  in  this  moment,  in  the  next  we  die; 
Part  mortal  clay,  and  part  ethereal  fire, 
Too  proud  to  creep,  too  humble  to  aspire. 
In  vain  our  plans  of  happiness  we  raise, 
Pain  is  our  lot,  and  patience  is  our  praise ; 
Wealth,  lineage,  honours,  conquest,  or  a  throne; 
Are  what  the  wise  would  fear  to  call  their  own. 
Health  is  at  best  a  vain  precarious  thing, 
And  fair -faced  youth  is  ever  on  the  wing: 


*  Quid  fraudareju  vat  vitem  crescentibua  uvis? 

Et  modo  nata  mala  vellere  poma  manu  1 
So  the  original.  The  paraphrase  seems  to  be  infinitely  more 
beautiful.  There  is  a  peculiar  blemish  in  the  second  line 
arising  from  the  synonimes  mala  and  puma. 

t  Here  he  quits  Tibullus :  the  ten  following  verses  have  but 
a  remote  reference  to  Mr.  Pope's  letter. 


*  'Tis  like  the  stream,  beside  whose  watery  bed 
Some  blooming  plant  exalts  his  flowery  head, 
Nursed  by  the  wave  the  spreading  branches  rise, 
Shade  all  the  ground  and  flourish  to  the  skies; 
The  waves  the  while  beneath  in  secret  flow, 
And  undermine  the  hollow  bank  below ; 
Wide  and  more  wide  the  waters  urge  their  way, 
Bare  all  the  roots,  and  on  their  fibres  prey, 
Too  late  the  plant  bewails  his  foolish  pride,  . 
And  sinks,  untimely,  in  the  whelming  tide. 

But  why  repine  1  does  life  deserve  my  sigh? 
Few  will  lament  my  loss  whene'er  I  die. 
t  For  those  the  wretches  I  despise  or  hate, 

I  neither  envy  nor  regard  their  fate. 

For  me,  whene'er  all  conquering  death  shall  spread 
His  wings  around -my  unrepining  head, 

I 1  care  not ;  though  this  face  be  seen  no  more, 
The  world  will  pass  as  cheerful  as  before; 
Bright  as  before  the  day-star  will  appear, 
The  fields  as  verdant,  and  the  skies  as  clear; 
Nor  storms  nor  comets  will  my  doom  declare, 
Nor  signs  on  earth,  nor  portents  in  the  air; 
Unknown  and  silent  will  depart  my  breath, 
Nor  nature  e'er  take  notice  of  my  death. 

Yet  some  there  are  (ere  spent  my  vital  days) 
Within  whose  breasts  my  tomb  1  wish  to  raise. 
Loved  in  my  life,  lamented  in  my  end, 
Their  praise  would  crown  me  as  their  precepts 

mend: 

To  them  may  these  fond  lines  my  name  endear, 
Not  from  the  Poet,  but  the  Friend  sincere. 
Christ  Church,  July  4, 1737. 


TO  MR.  WEST. 

AFTER  a  month's  expectation  of  you,  and  a 
fortnight's  despair  at  Cambridge,  I  am  come  to 


'  "  Youth,  at  the  very  best,  is  but  the  betrayer  of  human  life 
in  a  gentler  and  smoother  manner  than  age:  'tis  like  the 
stream  that  nourishes  a  plant  upon  a  bank,  and  causes  it  to 
flourish  and  blossom  to  the  sight,  but  at  the  same  time  is  un- 
dermining it  at  the  root  in  secret."  Pope's  Works,  vol.  7, 
page  254,  1st  edit.  Warburton.  Mr.  West,  by  prolonging 
his  paraphrase  of  this  simile,  gives  it  additional  beauty  from 
that  very  circumstance,  but  he  ought  to  have  introduced  it  by 
Mr.  Pope's  own  thought,  "  Youth  is  a  betrayer ;"  his  couplet 
preceding  the  simile  conveys  too  general  a  reflection. 

T  "I  am  not  at  all  uneasy  at  the  thought  that  many  men, 
whom  I  never  had  any  esteem  for,  are  likely  to  enjoy  this 
world  after  me. —  Vide  ibid. 

I  "  The  morning  after  my  exit  the  sun  will  rise  as  bright  aa 
ever,  the  flowers  smell  as  sweet,  the  plants  spring  as  green ;" 
so  fur  Mr.  West  copies  his  original,  but  instead  of  the  follow- 
ing part  of  the  sentence,  "People  will  laugh  as  heartily  and 
marry  as  fast  as  they  used  to  do,"  he  inserts  a  more  solemn 
idea, 

Nor  storms  nor  comets,  &c. 

justly  perceiving  that  the  elegiac  turn  of  his  epistle  would  not 
admit  so  ludicrous  a  thought,  aa  was  in  its  place  in  Mr.  Pope's 
familiar  letter ;  so  that  we  see,  young  as  he  was,  he  had  ob- 
tained the  art  of  judiciously  selecting;  one  of  the  first  pro- 
vinces of  good  taste. 


LET.  9,  10. 


LETTERS. 


town,  and  to  better  hopes  of  seeing  you.  If  what 
you  sent  me  last  lie  the  product  of  your  melan- 
choly, what  may  I  not  expect  from  your  more 
cheerful  hours?  For  by  this  time  the  ill  health  that 
you  complain  of  is  (I  hope)  quite  departed ;  though 
if  I  were  self-interested,  I  ought  to  wish  for  the 
continuance  of  any  thing  that  could  be  the  occa- 
sion of  so  much  pleasure  to  me.  Low  spirits  are 
my  true  and  faithful  companions;  they  get  up 
with  me,  go  to  bed  with  me,  make  journeys  and 
returns  as  I  do;  nay,  and  pay  visits,  and  will  even 
affect  to  be  jocose,  and  force  a  feeble  laugh  with 
me:  but  most  commonly  we  sit  alone  together,  and 
are  the  prettiest  insipid  company  in  the  world 
However,  when  you  come,  I  believe  they  must 
undergo  the  fate  of  all  humble  companions,  and 
be  discarded.  Would  I  could  turn  them  to  the 
same  use  that  you  have  done,  and  make  an  Apollo 
of  them.  If  they  could  write  such  verses  with  me, 
not  hartshorn,  nor  spirit  of  amber,  nor  all  that  fur- 
nishes the  closet  of  an  apothecary's  widow,  should 
persuade  me  to  part  with  them :  but,  while  I  write 
to  you,  I  hear  the  bad  news  of  Lady  Walpole's 
death  on  Saturday  night  last.  Forgive  me  if  the 
thought  of  what  my  poor  Horace  must  feel  on  that 
account,  obliges  me  to  have  done  in  reminding  you 
that  I  am  Yours,  &c. 

London,  Aug.  22, 1737. 


TO  MR.  WALPOLE. 

I  WAS  hindered  in  my  last,  and  so  could  not  give 
you  all  the  trouble  I  would  have  done.  The  de- 
scription of  a  road  which  your  coach  wheels  have 
so  often  honoured,  it  would  be  needless  to  give  you : 
suffice  it  that  I  arrived  safe*  at  my  uncle's  who  is 
a  great  hunter  in  imagination ;  his  dogs  take  up 
every  chair  in  the  house,  so  I  am  forced  to  stand  at 
this  present  writing,  and  though  the  gout  forbids 
him  galloping  after  them  in  the  field,  yet  he  con- 
tinues still  to  regale  his  ears  and  nose  with  their 
comfortable  noise  and  stink.  He  holds  me  mighty 
cheap,  I  perceive,  for  walking  when  I  should  ride, 
and  reading  when  I  should  hunt.  My  comfort 
amidst  all  this  is,  that  I  have  at  the  distance  of  half 
a  mile,  through  a  green  lane,  a  forest  (the  vulgar 
call  it  a  common)  all  my  own,  at  least  as  good  as 
so,  for  I  spy  no  human  thing  in  it  but  myself.  It 
is  a  little  chaos  of  mountains  and  precipices ;  moun- 
tains, it  is  true,  that  do  not  ascend  much  above  the 
clouds,  nor  are  the  declivities  quite  so  amazing  as 
Dover  cliff;  but  just  such  hills  as  people  who  love 
their  necks  as  well  as  I  do,  may  venture  to  climb, 
and  crags  that  give  the  eye  as  much  pleasure  as  if 
they  were  more  dangerous ;  both  vale  and  hill  are 
covered  with  most  venerable  beeches,  and  other 


*  At  Burnham  in  Buckinghamshire. 


very  reverend  vegetables,  that,  like  most  other  an- 
cient people,  are  always  dreaming  out  their  old 
stories  to  the  wind. 

And  as  they  bow  their  hoary  tops,  relate 

In  murmuring  sounds,  the  dark  decrees  of  fate ; 

While  visions  as  poetic  eyes  avow, 

Cling  to  each  leaf  and  swarm  on  every  bough. 

At  the  foot  of  one  of  these  squats  me  I,  (il  pense- 
roso)  and  there  grow  to  the  trunk  for  a  whole 
morning.  The  timorous  hare  and  sportive  squir- 
rel gambol  around  me  like  Adam  in  Paradise,  be- 
fore he  had  an  Eve ;  but  I  think  he  did  not  use  to 
read  Virgil,  as  I  commonly  do  there.  In  this  situa- 
tion I  often  converse  with  my  Horace,  aloud  too, 
that  is  talk  to  you,  but  I  do  not  remember  that  I 
ever  heard  you  answer  me.  I  beg  pardon  for  tak- 
ing all  the  conversation  to  myself,  but  it  is  entire- 
ly your  own  fault.  We  have  old  Mr.  Southern  at  a 
gentleman's  house  a  little  way  off,  who  often  comes 
to  see  us ;  he  is  now  seventy-seven  years  old,  and 
has  almost  wholly  lost  his  memory ;  but  is  as  agreea- 
ble as  an  old  man  can  be,  at  least  I  persuade  my- 
self so  when  I  look  at  him,  and  think  of  Isabella 
and  Oroonoko.  I  shall  be  in  town  in  about  three 
weeks.  Adieu. 
September,  1737. 


TO  MR.  WALPOLE* 

I  SYMPATHIZE  with  you  in  the  sufferings  which 
you  foresee  are  coming  upon  you.  We  are  both  at 
present,  I  imagine,  in  no  very  agreeable  situation : 
for  my  part  I  am  under  the  misfortune  of  having 
nothing  to  do,  but  it  is  a  misfortune  which,  thank 
my  stars,  I  can  pretty  well  bear.  You  are  in  a 
confusion  of  wine,  roaring,  and  hunting,  and  to- 
bacco, and,  heaven  be  praised,  you  too  can  pretty 
well  bear  it ;  while  our  evils  are  no  more,  I  believe 
we  shall  not  repine.  I  imagine,  however,  you 
will  rather  choose  to  converse  with  the  living  dead, 
that  adorn  the  walls  of  your  apartments,  than  with 
the  dead  living  that  deck  the  middles  of  them  ;  and 
prefer  a  picture  of  still  life  to  the  realities  of  a  noisy 
one,  and,  as  I -guess,  will  imitate  what  you  prefer, 
and  for  an  hour  or  two  at  noon  will  stick  yourself 
up  as  formal  as  if  you  had  been  fixed  in  your  frame 
for  these  hundred  years,  with  a  pink  or  rose  in  one 
hand,  and  a  great  seal  ring  on  the  other.  Your 
name,  I  assure  you,  has  been  propagated  in  these 
countries  by  a  convert  of  yours,  one  *  *  *  ;  he  has 
brought  over  his  whole  family  to  you :  they  were 
before  pretty  good  Whigs,  but  now  they  are  abso- 
ute  Walpolians.  We  have  hardly  any  body  in 
the  parish  but  knows  exactly  the  dimensions  of  the 
hall  and  saloon  at  Houghton,  and  begin  to  believe 


*  At  this  time  with  his  father  at  Houghton. 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


LET.  11,  12,  13. 


that  the  lantern*  is  not  so  great  a  consumer  of  the 
fat  of  the  land  as  disaffected  persons  have  said :  for 
your  reputation,  we  keep  to  ourselves  your  not 
hunting  nor  drinking  hogan,  either  of  which  here 
would  be  sufficient  to  lay  your  honour  in  the  dust. 
To-morrow  se'nnight  I  hope  to  be  in  town,  and 
not  long  after  at  Cambridge. 

I  am,  &c. 
Burnham,  September,  1737. 


TO  MR.  WALPOLE. 

MY  dear  Sir,  I  should  sa"y  tMr.  Inspector  Gene- 
ral of  the  Exports  and  Imports ;  but  that  appella- 
tion would  make  but  an  odd  figure  in  conjunction 
with  the  three  familiar  monosyllables  above  written, 
for 

Nun  bene  conveniunt  nee  in  una  sede  morantur 
Majestas  et  amor. 

Which  is,  being  interpreted,  Love  does  not  live  at 
the  Custom-house;  however  by  what  style,  title  or 
denomination  soever  you  choose  to  be  dignified,  or 
distinguished  hereafter,  these  three  words  will  stick 
by  you  like  a  bur,  and  you  can  no  more  get  quit  of 
these  and  your  Christian  name,  than  St.  Anthony 
could  of  his  pig.  My  motions  at  present  (which  you 
are  pleased  to  ask  after)  are  much  like  those  of  a 
pendulum  or  (Dr.  Longicallyt  speaking)  oscillato- 
ry. I  swing  from  chapel  or  hall  home,  or  from 
home  to  chapel  or  hall.  All  the  strange  incidents 
that  happen  in  my  journeys  and  returns  I  shall  be 
sure  to  acquaint  you  with ;  the  most  wonderful  is, 
that  it  now  rains  exceedingly,  this  has  refreshed 
the  prospect,§  as  the  way  for  the  most  part  lies  be- 
tween green  fields  on  either  hand,  terminated  with 
buildings  at  some  distance,  castles,  I  presume,  and 
of  great  antiquity.  The  roads  are  very  good,  be- 
ing, as  I  suspect,  the  works  of  Julius  Csesar's  army, 
for  they  still  preserve,  in  many  places,  the  appear- 
ance of  a  pavement  in  pretty  good  repair,  and  if 
they  were  not  so  near  home,  might  perhaps  be  as 
much  admired  as  the  Via  Appia;  there  are  at 
present  several  rivulets  to  be  crossed,  and  which 
serve  at  present  to  enliven  the  view  all  around. 
The  country  is  exceeding  fruitful  in  ravens  and 
such  black  cattle ;  but,  not  to  tire  you  with  my 
travels,  I  abrubtly  conclude. 

Yours,  &c. 
August,  1738. 


*  A  favourite  object  of  Tory  satire  at  the  time. 

(•Mr.  Walpole  was  just  named  to  that  post,  which  he  ex- 
changed soon  after  for  that  of  Usher  of  the  Exchequer. 

\  I)r.  Long,  the  master  of  Pembroke-Hall,  at  this  time  read 
jectures  in  experimental  philosophy. 

§  All  that  follows  ia  a  humorous  hyperbolic  description  of 
the  quadrangle  of  Peter -House. 


TO  MR.  WEST. 

I  AM  coming  away  all  so  fast,  and  leaving  be- 
hind me,  without  the  least  remorse,  all  the  beauties 
of  Sturbridge  Fair.  Its  white  bears  may  roar,  its 
apes  may  wring  their  hands,  and  crocodiles  cry 
their  eyes  out,  all's  one  for  that ;  I  shall  not  once 
visit  them,  nor  so  much  as  take  my  leave.  The 
university  has  published  a  severe  edict  against 
schismatical congregations,  and  created  half  adozen 
new  little  procterlings  to  see  its  orders  executed, 
being  under  mighty  apprehensions  lest  Henley* 
and  his  gilt  tub  should  come  to  the  fair  and  seduce 
their  young  ones ;  but  their  pains  are  to  small  pur- 
pose, for  lo,  after  all,  he  is  not  coming. 

I  am  at  this  instant  in  the  very  agonies  of  leav- 
ing College,  and  would  not  wish  the  worst  of  my 
enemies  a  worse  situation.  If  you  knew  the  dust, 
the  old  boxes,  the  bedsteads,  and  tutors  that  are 
about  my  ears,  you  would  look  upon  this  letter  as 
a  great  effort  of  my  resolution  and  unconcerned- 
ness  in  the  midst  of  evils.  I  fill  up  my  paper  with 
a  loose  sort  of  version  of  that  scene  in  Pastor  Fido 
that  begins,  Care  selve  beati.t 
Sept.  1738. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Amiens,  April  1,  N.  S.  1739. 

As  we  made  but  a  very  short  journey  to-day, 
and  came  to  our  inn  early,  I  sit  down  to  give  you 
some  account  of  our  expedition.  On  the  29th  (ac- 
cording to  the  style  here)  we  left  Dover  at  twelve 
at  noon,  and  with  a  pretty  brisk  gale,  which  pleased 
every  body  mighty  well,  except  myself,  who  was 
extremely  sick  the  whole  time ;  we  reached  Calais 
by  five :  the  weather  changed,  and  it  began  to 
snow  hard  the  minute  we  got  into  the  harbour, 
where  we  took  the  boat,  and  soon  landed.  Calais 
is  an  exceedingly  old,  but  very  pretty  town,  and 
we  hardly  saw  any  thing  there  that  was  not  so 
new  and  so  different  from  England,  that  it  sur- 
prised us  agreeably.  We  went  the  next  morning 
to  the  great  church,  and  were  at  high  mass  (it 
being  Easter  Monday.)  We  saw  also  the  Con- 
vent of  the  Capuchins,  and  the  nuns  of  St.  Domi- 
nic ;  with  these  last  we  held  much  conversation, 
especially  with  an  English  nun,  a  Mrs.  Davis,  of 
whose  work  I  sent  you,  by  the  return  of  the  packet, 
a  letter-case  to  remember  her  by.  In  the  after- 
noon we  took  a  post-chaise  (it  still  snowing  very 
hard)  for  Boulogne,  which  was  only  eighteen 
miles  further.  This  chaise  is  a  strange  sort  of 
conveyance,  of  much  greater  use  than  beauty,  re- 


*  Orator  Henley. 
T  This  Latin  version  is  extremely  elegiac,  but  as  it  is  only  a 
version  I  do  not  insert  it. 


LET.  11. 


LETTERS. 


sembling  an  ill-shaped  chariot,  only  with  the  door 
opening  before  instead  of  the  side;  three  horses 
draw  it,  one  between  the  shafts,  and  the  other  two 
on  each  side,  on  one  of  which  the  postillion  rides, 
and  drives  too.*  This  vehicle  will,  upon  occasion, 
go  fourscore  miles  a  day,  but  Mr.  Walpole,  being 
in  no  hurry,  chooses  to  make  easy  journeys  of  it, 
and  they  are  easv  ones  indeed ;  for  the  motion  is 
much  like  that  of  a  sedan ;  we  go  about  six  miles 
an  hour,  and  commonly  change  horses  at  the  end 
of  it.  It  is  true  they  are  no  very  graceful  steeds, 
but  they  go  well,  and  through  roads  which  they 
say  are  bad  for  France,  but  to  me  they  seem  gra- 
vel walks  and  bowling  -greens;  in  short,  it  would 
be  the  finest  travelling  in  the  world,  were  it  not  for 
the  inns,  which  are  mostly  terrible  places  indeed. 
But  to  describe  our  progress  somewhat  more  regu- 
larly, we  came  into  Boulogne  when  it  was  almost 
dark,  and  went  out  pretty  early  on  Tuesday  morn- 
ing ;  so  that  all  1  can  say  about  it  is,  that  it  is  a 
large,  old,  fortified  town,  with  more  English  in  it 
than  French.  On  Tuesday  we  were  to  go  to  Abbe- 
ville, seventeen  leagues,  or  fifty-one  short  English 
miles;  but  by  the  way  we  dined  at  Moutreuil, 
much  to  our  hearts'  content,  on  stinking  mutton, 
cutlets,  addled  eggs,  and  ditch  water.  Madame 
the  hostess  made  her  appearance  in  long  lappets 
of  bone  lace,  and  a  sack  of  linsey-woolsey.  We 
supped  and  lodged  pretty  well  at  Abbeville,  and 
had  time  to  see  a  little  of  it  before  we  came  out 
this  morning.  There  are  seventeen  convents  in 
it,  out  of  which  we  saw  the  chapels  of  the  Minims, 
and  the  Carmelite  nuns.  We  are  now  come  fur- 
ther thirty  miles  to  Amiens,  the  chief  city  of  the 
province  of  Picardy.  We  have  seen  the  Cathe- 
dral, which  is  just  what  that  of  Canterbury  must 
have  been  before  the  Reformation.  It  is  about  the 
same  size,  a  huge  Gothic  building,  beset  on  the 
outside  with  thousands  of  small  statues,  and  with- 
in adorned  with  beautiful  painted  windows,  and  a 
vast  number  of  chapels  dressed  out  in  all  their 
finery  of  altar-pieces,  embroidery  gilding,  and  mar- 
ble. Over  the  high  altar  are  preserved,  in  a  very 
large  wrought  shrine  of  massy  gold,  the  relics  of 
St.  Firmin,  their  patron  saint.  We  went  also  to 
the  chapels  of  the  Jesuits  and  Ursuline  nuns,  the 
latter  of  which  is  very  richly  adorned.  To-morrow 
we  shall  lie  at  Clermont,  and  next  day  reach  Paris. 
The  country  we  have  passed  through  hitherto  has 
been  flat,  open,  but  agreeably  diversified  with  vil- 
lidds  well  cultivated,  and  little  rivers.  On 
every  hillock  is  a  wind-mill,  a  crucifix,  or  a  Virgin 
Mary  dressed  in  flowers,  and  a  sarcenet  robe ; 
one  sees  not  many  people  or  carriages  on  the  road ; 
now  and  then  indeed  you  meet  a  strolling  friar,  a 
countryman  with  his  great  muff,  or  a  woman  rid- 


•  This  was  before  the  introduction  of  post-chaises  here,  or  it 
would  not  hare  appeared  a  circumstance  worthy  notice. 


ing  astride  on  a  little  ass,  with  short  petticoats, 
and  a  great  head-dress  of  blue  wool.  *  *  * 


TO  MR.  WEST. 

Paris,  April  12, 1739. 

Enfin  done  me  voiri  d  Paris.  Mr.  Walpole  U 
gone  out  to  supper  at  Lord  Conway's,  and  here  I 
remain  alone,  though  invited  too.  Do  not  think 
I  make  a  merit  of  writing  to  you  preferably  to  a 
good  supper;  for  these  three  days  we  have  been 
here,  have  actually  given  me  an  aversion  to  eating 
in  general.  If  hunger  be  the  best  sauce  to  meat, 
the  French  are  certainly  the  worst  cooks  in  the 
world ;  for  what  tables  we  have  seen  have  been 
so  delicately  served,  and  so  profusely,  that,  after 
rising  from  one  of  them,  one  imagines  it  impossi- 
ble ever  to  eat  again.  And  now,  if  I  tell  you  all  I 
have  in  my  head,  you  will  believe  me  mad;  mats 
n'linporte,  courage,  allons!  for  if  I  wait  till  my 
head  grow  clear  and  settle  a  little,  you  may  stay 
long  enough  for  a  letter.  Six  days  have  we  been 
coming  hither,  which  other  people  do  in  two:  they 
have  not  been  disagreeable  ones:  through  a  fine, 
open  country,  admirable  roads,  and  in  an  easy 
conveyance;  the  inns  not  absolutely  intolerable, 
and  images  quite  unusual  presenting  themselves 
on  all  hands.  At  Amiens  we  saw  the  fine  cathe- 
dral, and  eat  pate  de  perdix:  passed  through  the 
park  of  Chantilly  by  the  Duke  of  Bourbon's  pa- 
lace, which  we  only  beheld  as  we  passed ;  broke 
down  at  Lausarche;  stopped  at  St.  Denis,  saw  all 
the  beautiful  monuments  of  the  kings  of  France, 
and  the  vast  treasures  of  the  abbey,  rubies,  and 
emeralds  as  big  as  small  eggs,  crucifixes  and  vows, 
crowns  and  reliquaires,  of  inestimable  value;  but 
of  all  their  curiosities  the  thing  the  most  to  our 
tastes,  and  which  they  indeed  do  the  justice  to 
esteem  the  glory  of  their  collection,  was  a  vase  of 
an  entire  onyx,  measuring  at  least  five  inches  over, 
three  deep,  and  of  great  thickness.  It  is  at  least 
two  thousand  years  old,  the  beauty  of  the  stone 
and  sculpture  upon  it  (representing  the  mysteries 
of  Bacchus)  beyond  expression  admirable;  we 
have  dreamed  of  it  ever  since.  The  jolly  old  Be- 
nedictine, that  showed  us  the  treasures,  had  in  his 
youth  been  ten  years  a  soldier;  he  laughed  at  all 
the  relics,  was  very  full  of  stories,  and  mighty 
obliging.  On  Saturday  evening  we  got  to  Paris, 
and  were  driving  through  the  streets  a  long  while 
before  we  knew  where  we  were.  The  minute  we 
came,  voila  Milors  Holdernesse,  Conway,  and  his 
brother ;  all  stayed  supper,  and  till  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  for  here  nobody  ever  sleeps;  it  is  not 
the  way.  Next  day  go  to  dine  at  my  Lord  Hol- 
dernesse's,  there  was  the  Abbe  Prevot,  author  of 
Cleveland,  and  several  other  pieces  much  esteem- 
ed :  the  rest  were  English.  At  night  we  went  to 


6 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


LET.  J5. 


the  Pandore;  a  spectacle  literally,  for  it  is  nothing 
but  a  beautiful  piece  of  machinery  of  three  scenes. 
The  first  represents  the  chaos,  and  by  degrees  the 
separation  of  the  elements :  the  second,  the  temple 
of  Jupiter,  and  the  giving  of  the  box  to  Pandora : 
the  third  the  opening  of  the  box,  and  all  the  mis- 
chiefs that  ensued.  An  absurd  design,  but  exe- 
cuted in  the  highest  perfection,  and  that  in  one  of 
the  finest  theatres  in  the  world ;  it  is  the  grande 
sales  des  machines  in  the  Palais  des  Tuilleries. 
Next  day  dined  at  Lord  Waldegrave's ;  then  to 
the  opera.  Imagine  to  yourself  for  the  drama  four 
acts*  entirely  unconnected  with  each  other,  each 
founded  on  some  little  history,  skilfully  taken  out 
of  an  ancient  author,  e.g.  Ovid's  Metamorphoses, 
&c.  and  with  great  address  converted  into  a 
French  piece  of  gallantry.  For  instance,  that 
which  I  saw,  called  the  Ballet  de  la  Paix,  had  its 
first  act  built  upon  the  story  of  Nireus.  Homer 
having  said  that  he  was  the  handsomest  man  of  his 
time,  the  poet,  imagining  such  a  one  could  not  want 
a  mistress,  has  given  him  one.  These  two  come  in 
and  sing  sentiment  in  lamentable  strains,  neither 
air  nor  recitative;  only,  to  one's  great  joy,  they 
are  every  now  and  then  interrupted  by  a  dance, 
or  (to  one's  great  sorrow)  by  a  chorus  that  borders 
the  stage  from  one  end  to  the  other,  and  screams, 
past  all  power  of  simile  to  represent.  The  second 
act  was  Baucis  and  Philemon.  Baucis  is  a  beau- 
tiful young  shepherdess,  and  Philemon  her  swain. 
Jupiter  falls  in  love  with  her,  but  nothing  will  prevail 
upon  her;  so  it  is  all  mighty  well,  and  the  chorus 
sing  and  dance  the  praises  of  Constancy.  The  two 
other  acts  were  about  Iphis  and  lanthe,  and  the 
judgment  of  Paris.  Imagine,  I  say,  all  this  trans- 
acted by  cracked  voices,  trilling  divisions  upon 
two  notes  and  a  half,  accompanied  by  an  orchestra 
of  humstrums,  and  a  whole  house  more  attentive 
than  if  Farinelli  sung,  and  you  will  almost  have 
formed  a  just  notion  of  the  thing.  Our  astonish- 
ment at  their  absurdity  you  can  never  conceive ; 
we  had  enough  to  do  to  express  it  by  screaming  an 
hour  louder  than  the  whole  dramatis  persona?.  We 
have  also  seen  twice  the  Comedie  Francoise  ;  first, 
the  Mahomet  Second,  a  tragedy  that  has  had  a 
great  run  of  late;  and  the  thing  itself  does  not 
want  its  beauties,  but  the  actors  are  beyond  mea- 
sure delightful.  Mademoiselle  Gausin  (M.  Vol- 
taire's Zara)  has  with  a  charming  (though  little) 
person,  the  most  pathetic  tone  of  voice,  the  finest 
expression  in  her  face,  and  most  proper  action 
imaginable.  There  is  also  a  Dufrene,  who  did 
the  chief  character,  a  handsome  man  and  a  pro- 
digious fine  actor.  The  second  we  saw  the  Phi- 


*  The  French  opera  has  only  three  acts,  but  often  a  pro- 
logue on  a  different  subject,  which  (as  Mr.  Walpole  informs 
me,  who  saw  it  at  the  same  time)  was  the  case  in  this  very 
representation. 


losophc  Marie,  and  here  they  performed  as  well 
in  comedy ;  there  is  a  Mademoiselle  duinaul", 
somewhat  in  Mrs.  Olive's  way,  and  a  Monsieur 
Grandval,  in  the  nature  of  Wilks,  who  is  the 
genteelest  thing  in  the  world.  There  are  several 
more  would  be  much  admired  in  England,  and 
many  (whom  we  have  not  seen)  much  celebrated 
here.  Great  part  of  our  time  is  spent  in  seeing 
churches  and  palaces  full  of  fine  pictures,  &c,  the 
quarter  of  which  is  not  yet  exhausted.  For  my 
part  I  could  entertain  myself  this  month  merely 
with  the  common  streets  and  the  people  in  them. 


TO  MR.  WEST. 

Paris,  May  22,  1739. 

AFTER  the  little  particulars  aforesaid  I  should 
have  proceeded  to  a  journal  of  our  transactions 
for  this  week  past,  should  have  carried  you  post 
from  hence  to  Versailles,  hurried  you  through  the 
gardens  to  Trianon,  back  again  to  Paris,  so  away 
to  Chantilly.  But  the  fatigue  is  perhaps  more  than 
you  can  bear,  and  moreover  I  think  I  have  reason 
to  stomach  your  last  piece  of  gravity.  Supposing 
you  were  in  your  soberest  mood,  I  am  sorry  you 
should  think  me  capable  of  ever  being  so  dissipe, 
so  evapore,  as  not  to  be  in  a  condition  of  relishing 
any  thing  you  could  say  to  me.  And  now,  if  you 
have  a  mind  to  make  your  peace  with  me,  arouse 
ye  from  your  megrims  and  your  melancholies,  and 
(for  exercise  is  good  for  you)  throw  away  your 
night- cap,  call  for  your  jack-boots,  and  set  out  with 
me,  last  Saturday  evening,  for  Versailles — and  so 
at  eight  o'clock,  passing  through  a  road  speckled 
with  vines,  and  villas,  and  hares,  and  partridges, 
we  arrive  at  the  great  avenue,  flanked  on  either 
hand,  with  a  double  row  of  trees  about  half  a  mile 
long,  and  with  the  palace  itself  to  terminate  the 
view ;  facing  which,  on  each  side  of  you,  is  placed 
a  semi-circle  of  very  handsome  buildings,  which 
form  the  stables.  These  we  will  not  enter  into, 
because  you  know  we  are  no  jockies.  Well !  and 
is  this  the  great  front  of  Versailles  1  What  a  huge 
heap  of  littleness !  It  is  composed,  as  it  were  of 
three  courts,  all  open  to  the  eye  at  once,  and  gra- 
dually diminishing  till  you  come  to  the  royal  apart- 
ments, which  on  this  side  present  but  half  a  dozen 
windows  and  a  balcony.  This  last  is  all  that  can 
be  called  a  front,  for  the  rest  is  only  great  wings. 
The  hue  of  all  this  mass  is  black,  dirty  red,  and 
yellow ;  the  first  proceeding  from  stone  changed  by 
age ;  the  second,  from  a  mixture  of  brick ;  and  the 
last  from  a  profusion  of  tarnished  gilding.  You 
can  not  see  a  more  disagreeable  tout-ensemble; 
and,  to  finish  the  matter,  it  is  all  stuck  over  in 
many  places  with  small  busts  of  a  tawny  hue  be- 
tween every  two  windows.  We  pass  through  this 
to  go  into  the  garden,  and  here  the  case  is  indeed 


LET.  16. 


LETTERS. 


9 


altered  ;  nothing  can  be  vaster  and  more  magnifi- 
cent than  the  back  front ;  before  it  a  very  spacious 
terrace  spreads  it --elf,  adorned  with  two  large  ba- 
sins; these  are  bordered  and  lined  (as  most  of  the 
others)  with  white  marble,  with  handsome  statues 
of  bronze  reclined  on  their  edges.  From  hence 
you  descend  a  huge  flight  of  steps  into  a  semi-cir- 
cle formed  by  woods  that  are  cut  all  round  into 
niches,  which  are  filled  with  beautiful  copies  of  all 
the  famous  antique  statues  in  white  marble.  Just 
in  the  midst  is.  the  basin  of  Latona;  she  and  her 
children  are  standing  on  the  top  of  a  rock  in  the 
middle,  on  the  sides  of  which  are  the  peasants, 
some  half,  some  totally  changed  into  frogs,  all  which 
throw  out  water  at  her  in  great  plenty.  From  this 
place  runs  on  the  great  alley,  which  brings  you 
into  a  complete  round,  where  is  the  basin  of  Apol- 
lo, the  biggest  in  the  gardens.  He  is  rising  in  his 
car  out  of  the  water,  surrounded  by  nymphs  and 
tritons,  all  in  bronze,  and  finely  executed;  and 
these,  as  they  play,  raise  a  perfect  storm  about  him; 
beyond  this  is  the  great  canal,  a  prodigious  long 
piece  of  water,  that  terminates  the  whole.  All 
this  you  have  at  one  coup  d'oeil  in  entering  the 
garden,  which  is  truly  great.  I  can  not  say  as 
much  of  the  general  taste  of  the  place :  every  thing 
you  behold  savours  too  much  of  art ;  all  is  forced, 
all  is  constrained  about  you;  statues  and  vases 
sowed  every  where  without  distinction ;  sugar-loaves 
and  mince-pies  of  yew ;  scrawl-work  of  box,  and 
little  squirting  jets-d'eau,  besides  a  great  sameness 
in  the  walks,  can  not  help  striking  one  at  first 
sight,  not  to  mention  the  silliest  of  labyrinths,  and 
all  jEsop's  fables  in  water;  since  these  were  de- 
signed in  usum  Delphini  only.  Here  then  we 
walk  by  moonlight,  and  hear  the  ladies  and  the 
nightingales  sing.  Next  morning,  being  Whit- 
sunday, make  ready  to  go  to  the  Installation  of 
nine  knights  du  Saint  Esprit,  Cambis  is  one:* 
high  mass  is  celebrated  with  music,  great  crowd, 
much  incense,  king,  queen,  dauphin,  mesdames, 
cardinals,  and  court !  knights  arrayed  by  his  ma- 
reverences  before  the  altar,  not  bows,  but 
curtsies;  stiff  hams;  much  tittering  among  the 
;  trumpets,  kettle-drums,  and  fifes.  My  dear 
1  run  \astly  delighted  with  Trianon,  all  of 
us  with  Chantilly  ;  if  you  would  know  why,  you 
must  have  patience,  for  I  can  hold  my  pen  no  long- 
•  •pt  to  tell  you  that  I  saw  Britannicus  last 
all  the  characters,  particularly  Agrippina 
and  Nero  done  to  perfection;  to-morrow  Phaedra 
and  Hippoly  ;:rc  making  you  a  little 

bundle  of  petite  pieces ;  there  is  nothing  in  them, 
but  they  are  acting  at  present ;  there  are  two  Crc- 
billon's  Letters,  and  Amusemens  sur  le  langage 
.id  to  be  one  Bougeant,  a  Jesuit ;  they 


*  The  Comtc  cle  Gambia  waa  lately  returned  from  hia  em- 
i3sy  in  England. 


are  both  esteemed,  and  lately  come  out.     This  day 
se'ennight  we  go  to  Rheims. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Rheims,  June  21,  N.  S.  1739. 

WE  have  now  been  settled  almost  three  weeks 
in  this  city,  which  is  more  considerable  upon  ac- 
count of  its  size  and  antiquity,  than  from  the  num- 
ber of  its  inhabitants,  or  any  advantages  of  com- 
merce. There  is  little  in  it  worth  a  stranger's  cu- 
riosity, besides  the  cathedral  church,  which  is  a 
vast  Gothic  building  of  a  surprising  beauty  and 
lightness,  all  covered  over  with  a  profusion  of  little 
statues,  and  other  ornaments.  It  is  here  the  kings 
of  France  are  crowned  by  the  archbishop  of 
Rheims,  who  is  the  first  peer,  and  the  primate  of 
the  kingdom.  The  holy  vessel  made  use  of  on 
that  occasion,  which  contains  the  oil,  is  kept  in  the 
church  of  St.  Nicasius  hard  by,  and  is  believed  to 
have  been  brought  by  an  angel  from  heaven  at  the 
coronation  of  Clovis,  the  first  Christian  king.  The 
streets  in  general  have  but  a  melancholy  aspect, 
the  houses  all  old ;  the  public  walks  run  along  the 
side  of  a  great  moat  under  the  ramparts,  where 
one  hears  a  continual  croaking  of  frogs ;  the  coun- 
try round  about  is  one  great  plain  covered  with 
vines,  which  at  this  time  of  the  year  afford  no  ve- 
ry pleasing  prospect,  as  being  not  above  a  foot  high. 
What  pleasures  the  place  denies  to  the  sight,  it 
makes  up  to  the  palate ;  since  you  have  nothing  to 
drink  but  the  best  champaigne  in  the  world,  and 
all  sorts  of  provisions  equally  good.  As  to  other 
pleasures,  there  is  not  that  freedom  of  conversation 
among  the  people  of  fashion  here,  that  one  sees  in 
other  parts  of  France ;  for  though  they  are  not 
very  numerous  in  this  place,  and  consequently 
must  live  a  good  deal  together,  yet  they  never  come 
to  any  great  familiarity  with  one  another.  As  my 
lord  Conway  had  spent  a  good  part  of  his  time 
among  them,  his  brother,  and  we  with  him,  were 
soon  introduced  into  all  their  assemblies.  As  soon 
as  you  enter,  the  lady  of  the  house  presents  each 
of  you  a  card,  and  offers  you  a  party  at  quadrille; 
you  sit  down,  and  play  forty  deals  without  inter- 
mission, excepting  one  quarter  of  an  hour,  when 
every  body  rises  to  eat  of  what  they  call  the  gout- 
er,  which  supplies  the  place  of  our  tea,  and  is  a 
service  of  wine,  fruits,  cream,  sweetmeats,  craw- 
fish, and  cheese.  People  take  what  they  like  and 
sit  down  again  to  play ;  after  that,  they  make  little 
parties  to  go  to  the  walks  together,  and  then  all 
the  company  retire  to  their  separate  habitations. 
Very  seldom  any  suppers  or  dinners  are  given ; 
and  this  is  the  manner  they  live  among  one  another ; 
not  so  much  out  of  any  aversion  they  have  to  plea- 
sure, as  out  of  a  sort  of  formality  they  have  con- 
tracted by  not  being  much  frequented  by  peo- 
ple who  have  lived  at  Paris.  It  is  sure  they  do 


10 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


LET.  17,  18. 


not  hate  gaiety  any  more  than  the  rest  of  their 
country-people,  and  can  enter  into  diversions,  that 
are  once  proposed,  with  a  good  grace  enough ;  for 
instance,  the  other  evening  we  happened  to  be  got 
together  in  a  company  of  eighteen  people,  men  and 
women  of  the  best  fashion  here,  at  a  garden  in  the 
town,  to  walk ;  when  one  of  the  ladies  bethought 
herself  of  asking,  why  should  not  we  sup  here  1 
Immediately  the  cloth  was  laid  by  the  side  of  a 
fountain  under  the  trees,  and  a  very  elegant  sup- 
per served  up:  after  which  another  said,  Come, 
let  us  sing;  and  directly  began  herself.  From 
singing  we  insensibly  fell  to  dancing,  and  singing 
in  a  round :  when  somebody  mentioned  the  vio- 
lins, and  immediately  a  company  of  them  was  or- 
dered. Minuets  were  begun  in  the  open  air,  and 
then  some  country-dances,  which  held  till  four 
o'clock  next  morning :  at  which  hour  the  gayest 
lady  there  proposed,  that  such  as  were  weary 
should  get  into  their  coaches,  and  the  rest  of  them 
should  dance  before  them  with  the  music  in  the 
van ;  and  in  this  manner  we  paraded  through  all 
the  principal  streets  of  the  city,  and  waked  every 
body  in  it.  Mr.  Walpole  had  a  mind  to  make  a 
custom  of  the  thing,  and  would  have  given  a  ball 
in  the  same  manner  next  week,  but  the  women  did 
not  come  into  it ;  so  I  believe  it  will  drop,  and  they 
will  return  to  their  dull  cards,  and  usual  formali- 
ties. We  are  not  to  stay  above  a  month  longer 
here,  and  shall  then  go  to  Dijon,  the  chief  city  of 
Burgundy,  a  very  splendid  and  a  very  gay  town ; 
at  least  such  is  the  present  design. 


TO  HIS  FATHER. 

Dijon,  Friday,  Sept  11,  N.  S.  1739. 
WE  have  made  three  short  days'  journey  of  it 
from  Rheims  hither,  where  we  arrived  the  night 
before  last.  The  road  we  have  passed  through  has 
been  extremely  agreeable :  it  runs  through  the 
most  fertile  part  of  Champaigne,  by  the  side  of  the 
river  Marne,  with  a  chain  of  hills  on  each  hand  at 
some  distance,  entirely  covered  with  woods  and 
vineyards,  and  every  now  and  then  the  ruins  of 
some  old  castle  on  their  tops :  we  lay  at  St.  Dizier 
the  first  night,  and  at  Langres  the  second,  and  got 
hither  the  next  evening,  time  enough  to  have  a  full 
view  of  this  city  on  entering  it.  It  lies  in  a  very 
extensive  plain  covered  with  vines  and  corn,  and 
consequently  is  plentifully  supplied  with  both.  I 
need  not  tell  you  that  it  is  the  chief  city  of  Bur- 
gundy, nor  that  it  is  of  great  antiquity ;  consider- 
ing which,  one  should  imagine  it  ought  to  be  larger 
than  one  finds  it.  However,  what  it  wants  in  ex- 
tent is  made  up  in  beauty  and  cleanliness,  and  in 
rich  convents  and  churches,  most  of  which  we  have 
seen.  The  palace  of  the  States  is  a  magnificent 
new  building,  where  the  duke  of  Bourbon  is  lodged 


when  he  comes  over  every  three  years  to  hold  that 
assembly  as  governor  of  the  province.  A  quarter 
of  a  mile  out  of  the  town  is  a  famous  abbey  of 
Carthusians,  which  we  are  just  returned  from  see- 
ing. In  their  chapel  are  the  tombs  of  the  ancient 
dukes  of  Burgundy,  that  were  so  powerful,  till,  at 
the  death  of  Charles  the  Bold,  the  last  of  them, 
this  part  of  his  dominions  was  united  by  Louis 
XI.  to  the  crown  of  France.  To-morrow  we  are 
to  pay  a  visit  to  the  abbot  of  the  Cistercians,  who 
lives  a  few  leagues  off,  and  who  uses  to  receive  all 
strangers  with  great  civility ;  his  abbey  is  one  of 
the  richest  in  the  kingdom ;  he  keeps  open  house 
always,  and  lives  with  great  magnificence.  We 
have  seen  enough  of  this  town  already,  to  make  us 
regret  the  time  we  spent  at  Rheims ;  it  is  full  of 
people  of  condition,  who  seem  to  form  a  much  more 
agreeable  society  than  we  found  in  Champaigne ; 
but  as  we  shall  stay  here  but  two  or  three  days 
longer,  it  is  not  worth  while  to  be  introduced  into 
their  houses.  On  Monday  or  Tuesday  we  are  to 
set  out  for  Lyons,  which  is  two  days'  journey  dis- 
tant, and  from  thence  you  shall  hear  again  from 


TO  MR.  WEST. 

Lyons,  Sep.  18,  N.  S.  1739. 

Scavez  vous  bien,  mon  cher  ami,  que  je  xous 
hais,  que  je  vous  dcteste  ?  wz'/a,  des  termes  un  peu 
fortes;  and  that  will  save  me,  upon  a  just  compu- 
tation, a  page  of  paper  and  six  drops  of  ink ;  which, 
if  I  confined  myself  to  reproaches  of  a  more  mode- 
rate nature,  I  should  be  obliged  to  employ  in  using 
you  according  to  your  deserts.  What !  to  let  any 
body  reside  three  months  at  Rheims,  and  write  but 
once  to  them  ?  Please  to  consult  Tully  de  Amicit. 
page  5,  line  25,  and  you  will  find  it  said  in  express 
terms,  "  Ad  amicum  inter  Remos  relegatum  mense 
uno  quinquies  scriptum  esto ;"  nothing  more  plain, 
or  less  liable  to  false  interpretations.  Now  be- 
cause, I  suppose,  it  will  give  you  pain  to  know  we 
are  in  being,  I  take  this  opportunity  to  tell  you  that 
we  are  at  the  ancient  and  celebrated  Lugdunum, 
a  city  situated  upon  the  confluence  of  the  Rhone 
and  Saone,  (Arar,  I  should  say)  two  people,  who, 
though  of  tempers  extremely  unlike,  think  fit  to 
join  hands  here,  and  make  a  little  party  to  travel 
to  the  Mediterranean  in  company  ;  the  lady  comes 
gliding  along  through  the  fruitful  plains  of  Bur- 
gundy, incrcdibili  lenitate,  ita  ut  oculis  in  ulram 
partem  Jluit  judicari  non  possit ;  the  gentleman 
runs  all  rough  and  roaring  down  from  the  moun- 
tains of  Switzerland  to  meet  her ;  and  with  all  her 
soft  airs  she  likes  him  never  the  worse  :  she  goes 
through  the  middle  of  the  city  in  state,  and  he 
passes  incog,  without  the  walls,  but  waits  for  her 
a  little  below.  The  houses  here  are  so  hiijh,  and 


LET.  19,  20. 


LETTERS. 


11 


the  streets  KO  narrow,  as  would  l>e  sufficient  to  ren- 
der Lyons  the  disimllost  place  in  the  world ;  but 
the  number  of  people,  and  the  face  of  commerce 
dill'used  about  it,  are,  at  least,  as  sufficient  to  make 
it  the  liveliest.  Between  these  two  sufficiencies 
you  will  be  in  doubt  what  to  think  of  it ;  so  we 
shall  leave  the  city,  and  proceed  to  its  environs, 
which  are  beautiful  beyond  expression :  it  is  sur- 
rounded with  mountains,  and  those  mountains  all 
bedropped  and  bespeckled  with  houses,  gardens, 
and  plantations  of  the  rich  Bourgeois,  who  have 
from  thence  a  prospect  of  the  city  in  the  vale  below 
on  one  hand,  on  the  other  the  rich  plains  of  the 
Lyonnois.  with  the  rivers  winding  among  them, 
and  the  Alps,  with  the  mountains  of  Dauphine,  to 
bound  the  view.  All  yesterday  morning  we  were 
busied  in  climbing  up  Mount  Fourviere,  where 
the  ancient  city  stood  perched  at  such  a  height, 
that  nothing  but  the  hopes  of  gain  could  certainly 
ever  persuade  their  neighbours  to  pay  them  a  visit. 
Here  are  the  ruins  of  the  emperor's  palaces,  that 
resided  here,  that  is  to  say,  Augustus  and  Severus: 
they  consist  in  nothing  but  great  masses  of  old 
wall,  that  have  only  their  quality  to  make  them 
respected.  In  a  vineyard  of  the  Minims  are  re- 
mains of  a  theatre ;  the  fathers,  whom  they  belong 
to,  hold  them  in  no  esteem  at  all,  and  would  have 
showed  us  their  sacristy  and  chapel  instead  of  them. 
The  Ursuline  Nuns  have  in  their  garden  some 
Roman  baths,  but  we  having  the  misfortune  to  be 
men,  and  heretics,  they  did  not  think  proper  to  ad- 
mit us.  Hard  by  are  eight  arches  of  the  most 
magnificent  aqueduct,  said  to  be  erected  by  An- 
tony, when  his  legions  were  quartered  here :  there 
are  many  other  parts  of  it  dispersed  up  and  down 
the  country,  for  it  brought  the  water  from  a  river 
many  leagues  off  in  La  Forcz.  Here  are  remains 
too  of  Agrippa's  seven  great  roads  which  met  at 
Lyons ;  in  some  places  they  lie  twelve  feet  deep  in 
the  ground.  In  short,  a  thousand  matters  that 
you  shall  not  know,  till  you  give  rne  a  description 
of  the  Pais  de  Tombridge,  and  the  effect  its  waters 
have  upon  you. 


FROM  MR.  WEST. 

Temple,  Sept.  23, 1739. 

IP  wishes  could  turn  to  realities,  I  would  fling 
down  my  law  books,  and  sup  with  you  to-night. 
But,  alas !  here  I  am  doomed  to  fix,  while  you  are 
fluttering  from  city  to  city,  and  enjoying  all  the 
pleasures  which  a  gay  climate  can  afford.  It  is 
out  of  the  power  of  my  heart  to  envy  your  good 
fortune,  yet  I  can  not  help  indulging  a  few  natural 
desires ;  as  for  example,  to  take  a  walk  with  you 
on  the  banks  of  the  Rhone,  and  to  be  climbing  up 
Mount  Fourviere; 


Jam  mcns  prrctrepidans  avet  vagari : 
Jam  laeti  studio  pedes  vigescunt. 

However,  so  long  as  I  am  not  deprived  of  your 
correspondence,  so  long  shall  I  always  find  some 
pleasure  in  being  at  home.  And,  setting  all  vain 
curiosity  aside,  when  the  fit  is  over,  and  my  reason 
begins  to  come  to  herself,  I  have  several  other  pow- 
erful motives  which  might  easily  cure  me  of  my 
restless  inclinations.  Amongst  these,  my  mother's 
ill  state  of  health  is  not  the  least,  which  was  the 
reason  of  our  going  to  Tunbridge ;  so  that  you  can 
not  expect  much  description  or  amusement  from 
thence.  Nor  indeed  is  there  much  room  for  either ; 
for  all  diversions  there  may  be  reduced  to  two  arti- 
cles, gaming  and  going  to  church.  They  were 
pleased  to  publish  certain  Tunbrigiana  this  season ; 
but  such  ana !  I  believe  there  were  never  so  many 
vile  little  verses  put  together  before.  So  much  for 
Tunbridge.  London  affords  me  as  little  to  say. 
What !  so  huge  a  town  as  London?  Yes,  consider 
only  how  I  live  in  that  town.  I  never  go  into  the 
gay  or  high  world,  and  consequently  receive  no- 
thing from  thence  to  brighten  my  imagination. 
The  busy  world  I  leave  to  the  busy;  and  am  re- 
solved never  to  talk  politics  till  I  can  act  at  the 
same  tune.  To  tell  old  stories,  OK  prate  of  old 
books,  seems  a  little  musty;  and  toujours,  chapon 
bouilli,  won't  do.  However,  for  want  of  better 
fare,  take  another  little  mouthful  of  my  poetry. 

O  meae  jucunda  comes  quietis! 
QUSE  fere  aigrotum  solita  es  levare 
Pectus,  et  sensim,  ah !  nimis  ingruentes 
Fallere  curas : 

Quid  canes?  quanto  Lyra  die  furore 
Gesties,  quando  hac  reducem  sodalem ! 
Glauciam'  gaudere  simul  videbis 

Meque  sub  umbra  1 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Lyons,  Oct.  13,  N.  S.  1739. 

IT  is  now  almost  five  weeks  since  I  left  Dijon, 
one  of  the  gayest  and  most  agreeable  little  cities 
of  France,  for  Lyons,  its  reverse  in  all  these  par- 
ticulars. It  is  the  second  in  the  kingdom  in  big- 
ness and  rank ;  the  streets  excessively  narrow  and 
nasty;  the  houses  immensely  high  and  large; 
(that,  for  instance,  where  we  are  lodged,  has  twen- 
ty-five rooms  on  a  floor,  and  that  for  five  stories ;) 
it  swarms  with  inhabitants  like  Paris  itself,  but 
chiefly  a  mercantile  people  too  much  given  up  to 
commerce  to  think  of  their  own,  much  less  of  a 
stranger's  diversions.  We  have  no  acquaintance 
in  the  town,  but  such  English  as  happen  to  be 


*  He  gives  Mr.  Gray  the  name  of  Glaucias  frequently  in 
his  Latin  verge,  as  Mr.  Gray  calls  him  Favoniu*. 


1-3 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


LET.  21. 


passing  through  here,  in  their  way  to  Italy  anc 
the  south,  which  at  present  happen  to  be  neai 
thirty  in  number.  It  is  a  fortnight  since  we  set 
out  from  hence  upon  a  little  excursion  to  Geneva 
We  took  the  longest  road,  which  lies  through 
Savoy,  on  purpose  to  see  a  famous  monastery 
called  the  Grand  Chartreuse,  and  had  no  reason  to 
think  our  time  lost.  After  having  travelled  seven 
days  very  slow  (for  we  did  not  change  horses,  it 
being  impossible  for  a  chaise  to  go  post  in  these 
roads)  we  arrived  at  a  little  village  among  the 
mountains  of  Savoy,  called  Echelles ;  from  thence 
we  proceeded  on  horses,  who  are  used  to  the  way 
to  the  mountain  of  the  Chartreuse.  It  is  six  miles 
to  the  top ;  the  road  runs  winding  up  it,  commonly 
not  six  feet  broad ;  on  one  hand  is  the  rock,  with 
woods  of  pine-trees  hanging  over  head;  on  the 
other  a  monstrous  precipice,  almost  perpendicular, 
at  the  bottom  of  which  rolls  a  torrent,  that  some- 
times tumbling  among  the  fragments  of  stone  that 
have  fallen  from  on  high,  and  sometimes  precipi- 
tating itself  down  vast  descents  with  a  noise  like 
thunder,  which  is  still  made  greater  by  the  echo 
from  the  mountains  on  each  side,  concurs  to  form 
one  of  the  most  solemn,  the  most  romantic,  and 
the  most  astonishing  scenes  I  ever  beheld.  Add 
to  this  the  strange  views  made  by  the  crags  and 
cliffs  on  the  other  hand ;  the  cascades  that  in  many 
places  throw  themselves  from  the  very  summit 
down  into  the  vale,  and  the  river  below;  and  many 
other  particulars  impossible  to  describe ;  you  will 
conclude  we  had  no  occasion  to  repent  our  pains. 
This  place  St.  Bruno  chose  to  retire  to,  and  upon 
its  very  top  founded  the  aforesaid  convent,  which 
is  the  superior  of  the  whole  order.  When  we 
came  there,  the  two  fathers,  who  are  commissioned 
to  entertain  strangers  (for  the  rest  must  neither 
speak  one  to  another,  or  to  any  one  else,)  received 
us  very  kindly;  and  set  before  us  a  repast  of  dried 
fish,  eggs,  butter  and  fruits,  all  excellent  in  their 
kind,  and  extremely  neat.  They  pressed  us  to 
spend  the  night  there,  and  to  stay  some  days  with 
them ;  but  this  we  could  not  do,  so  they  led  us 
about  their  house,  which  is,  you  must  think,  like 
a  little  city;  for  there  are  100  fathers,  besides  300 
servants,  that  make  their  clothes,  grind  their  corn, 
press  their  wine,  and  do  every  thing  among  them- 
s:-l\ts.  The  whole  is  quite  orderly  and  simple; 
nothing  of  finery,  but  the  wonderful  decency,  and 
the  strange  situation,  more  than  supply  the  place 
of  it.  In  the  evening  we  descended  by  the  same 

way,  passing  through  many  clouds  that  were  then !  night  we  eat  part  of  a  trout,  taken  in  the  lake,  that 
forming  themselves  on  the  mountain's  side.  Next  j  weighed  thirty-seven  pounds :  as  great  a  monster 
day  we  continued  our  journey  by  Chamberry,  as  it  appeared  to  us,  it  was  esteemed  there  nothing 
which,  though  the  chief  city  of  the  duchy,  and  extraordinary,  and  they  assured  us,  it  was  not  un- 
residence  of  the  king  of  Sardinia,  when  he  comes  j  common  to  catch  them  of  fifty  pounds :  they  are 
into  this  part  of  his  dominions,  makes  but  a  very  dressed  here,  and  sent  post  to  Paris  upon  some 
mean  and  insignificant  appearance;  we  lay  at  groat  occasions ;  nay,  even  to  Madrid,  as  we  were 
Aix,  once  famous  for  its  hot  baths,  and  the  next  told.  The  road  we  returned  through  was  not  the 


night  at  Annecy :  the  day  after,  by  noon,  we  got 
to  Geneva.  I  have  not  time  to  say  any  thing  about 
it,  nor  of  our  solitary  journey  back  again.  *  *  * 


TO  HIS  FATHER. 

Lyons,  Oct.  25,  N.  9. 1739. 

IN  my  last  I  gave  you  the  particulars  of  our  little 
journey  to  Geneva;  I  have  only  to  add,  that  we 
stayed  about  a  week,  in  order  to  see  Mr.  Conway 
settled  there.  I  do  not  wonder  so  many  English 
choose  it  for  their  residence ;  the  city  is  very  small, 
neat,  prettily  built,  and  extremely  populous ;  the 
Rhone  runs  through  the  middle  of  it,  and  it  is  sur- 
rounded with  new  fortifications,  that  give  it  a  mili- 
tary compact  air ;  which,  joined  to  the  happy,  lively 
countenances  of  the  inhabitants,  and  an  exact  dis- 
cipline always  as  strictly  observed  as  in  time  of 
war,  makes  the  little  republic  appear  a  match  for 
a  much  greater  power;  though  perhaps  Geneva, 
and  all  that  belongs  to  it,  are  not  of  equal  extent 
with  Windsor  and  its  two  parks.  To  one  that  has 
passed  through  Savoy,  as  we  did,  nothing  can  be 
more  striking  than  the  contrast,  as  soon  as  he  ap- 
proaches the  town.  Near  the  gates  of  Geneva 
runs  the  torrent  Arve,  which  separates  it  from  the 
king  of  Sardinia's  dominions ;  on  the  other  side  of  it 
lies  a  country  naturally,  indeed,  fine  and  fertile ; 
but  you  meet  with  nothing  in  it  but  meagre,  rag- 
ged, bare-footed  peasants,  with  their  children,  in 
extreme  misery  and  nastiness :  and  even  of  these 
no  great  numbers.  You  no  sooner  have  crossed 
the  stream  I  have  mentioned,  but  poverty  is  no 
more ;  not  a  beggar,  hardly  a  discontented  face  to 
be  seen,  numerous,  and  well-dressed  people  swarm- 
ing on  the  ramparts ;  drums  beating,  soldiers  well- 
clothed  and  armed,  exercising;  and  folks,  with 
business  in  their  looks,  hurrying  to  and  fro;  all 
contribute  to  make  any  person,  who  is  not  blind, 
sensible  what  a  difference  is  between  the  two  go- 
vernments, that  are  the  causes  of  one  view  and 
the  other.  The  beautiful  lake,  at  one  end  of  which 
the  town  is  situated ;  its  extent;  the  several  states 
that  border  upon  it ;  and  all  its  pleasures,  are  too 
well  known  for  me  to  mention  them.  We  sailed 
upon  it  as  far  as  the  dominions  of  Geneva  extend, 
hat  is,  about  two  leagues  and  a  half  on  each  side; 
and  landed  at  several  of  the  little  houses  of  plea- 
sure that  the  inhabitants  have  built  all  about  it, 
who  received  us  with  much  politeness.  The  same 


LET.  23. 


LETTERS. 


same  ^  i  the  Rhone  at  Seys 

sel,  and  passed  ibr  three  days  ainonir  tlie  moun 

ith  any  thing 

at  last  we  came  out  into  the  plains  of  ~ 
Bresse,  and  so  to  Lyons  again.  Sir  Robert  has 
written  to  Mr.  Widpole,  to  desire  he  would  go  to 
Italy,  which  he  has  resolved  to  do;  so  that  all  the 
scheme  of  s?{  tending  the  winter  in  the  south  of 
France  is  laid  aside,  and  we  are  to  pass  it  in  a 
much  finer  country.  You  may  imagine  I  am  no 
sorry  to  huve  this  opportunity  of  seeing  the  place 
in  the  world  that  best  deserves  it :  besides,  as  the 
pope,  who  is  eighty-eight,  and  has  been  lately  a 
the  i*>int  of  death,  can  not  probably  last  a  grea 
while,  perhaps  we  may  have  the  fortune  to  be  pre- 
sent at  the  election  of  a  new  one,  when  Rome  wil 
be  in  all  its  glory.  Friday  next  we  certainly  begin 
our  journey;  in  two  days  we  shall  come  to  the 
foot  of  the  Alps,  and  six  more  we  shall  be  in  pass- 
ing them.  Even  here  the  winter  is  begun ;  whal 
then  must  it  be  among  those  vast  snowy  moun- 
tains where  it  is  hardly  ever  summer  1  We  are 
however,  as  well  armed  as  possible  against  the 
cold,  with  muffs,  hoods,  and  masks  of  beaver,  fur 
boots,  and  bear  skins.  When  we  arrive  at  Turin 
we  shall  rest  after  the  fatigues  of  the  journey.  *  *  * 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Turin,  Nov.  7,  N.  S.  1739. 

this  night  arrived  here,  and  have  just  sat 

down  to  rest  me  after  eight  days'  tiresome  journey 

for  the  three  first  we  had  the  same  road  we  before 

passed  through  to  go  to  Geneva ;  the  fourth  we 

turned  out  of  it,  and  for  that  day  and  the  next 

travelled  rather  among  than  upon  the  Alps;  the 

way  commonly  running  through  a  deep  valley  by 

the  side  of  the  river  Arc,  which  works  itself  a 

.  with  great  difficulty  and  a  mighty  noise, 

•f  rocks,  that  have  rolled 

down  from  the  mountain  tops.     The  winter  was 
so  far  advanced,  as  in  great  measure  to  spoil  the 
:  >ect ;  however,  there  was  still 
.,at  fine  remain!;  >  die  savageness 

.  ror  of  the  place.    The  sixth  we  Ix-gan  to  go 
;  utains ;  and  as  we  were 
'.ith  an  odd  accident  enough: 


had  alitt!-  >aniel,  that  he 

.;  ic  times  used  to  set 
ii^e  side.    "\\ 

at  that  tin)''  in  a  very  r«>uerh  road,  not  two  yards 
broad  ;  s  a  great  wood  of 

nd  .-M  Hie  o'!:rr  avast  precipice;  it  was 
noon-day,  ai  ri«:ht.  when  all  of  a 

suddrn  woo  f-^ide.  (which  was  as  steep 

upwards  p.s  the  other  part  was  downwards)  out 
rushed  a  great  wolf,  came  close  to  the  head  of  the 


up  the  hill  again  with  him  in  his  mouth.  This 
was  done  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  minute;  we 
all  saw  it,  and  yet  the  servants  had  no  time  to 
draw  their  pistols,  or  to  do  any  thing  to  save  the 
dog.  If  he  had  not  been  there,  and  the  creature 
had  thought  it  fit  to  lay  hold  of  one  of  the  horses, 
chaise,  and  we,  and  all  must  inevitably  have  tum- 
bled above  fifty  fathoms  perpendicular  down  the 
precipice.  The  seventh  we  came  to  Lanebourg, 
the  last  town  in  Savoy;  it  lies  at  the  foot  of  the 
famous  Mount  Cenis,  which  is  so  situated  as  to 
allow  no  room  for  any  way  but  over  the  very  top 
of  it.  Here  the  chaise  was  forced  to  be  pulled  to 
pieces,  and  the  baggage  and  that  to  be  carried  by 
mules:  we  ourselves  were  wrapped  up  in  our  furs, 
and  seated  upon  a  sort  of  matted  chair  without 
legs,  which  is  carried  upon  poles  in  the  manner 
of  a  bier,  and  so  begun  to  ascend  by  the  help  of 
eight  men.  It  was  six  miles  to  the  top,  where  a 
plain  opens  itself  about  as  many  more  in  breadth, 
covered  perpetually  with  very  deep  snow,  and  in 
the  midst  of  that  a  great  lake  of  unfathomable 
depth,  from  whence  a  river  takes  its  rise,  and  tum- 
bles over  monstrous  rocks  quite  down  the  other 
skle  of  the  mountain.  The  descent  is  six  miles 
more,  but  infinitely  more  steep  than  the  going  up; 
and  here  the  men  perfectly  fly  down  with  you, 
stepping  from  stone  to  stone  with  incredible  swift- 
ness in  places  where  none  but  they  could  go  three 
paces  without  falling.  The  immensity  of  the  preci- 
pices, the  roaring  of  the  river  and  torrents  that  run 
into  it,  the  huge  crags  covered  with  ice  and  snow, 
and  the  clouds  below  you  and  about  you,  are  objects 
t  is  impossible  to  conceive  without  seeing  them ; 
and  though  we  had  heard  many  strange  descrip- 
tions of  the  scene,  none  of  them  at  all  came  up  to  it. 
We  were  but  five  hours  in  performing  the  whole, 
irom  which  you  may  judge  of  the  rapidity  of  the 
men's  motion.  We  are  now  got  into  Piedmont, 
and  stopped  a  little  while  at  La  Ferriere,  a  small 
illage  about  three  quarters  of  the  way  down,  but 
still  among  the  clouds,  where  we  began  to  hear  a 
new  language  spoken  round  about  us ;  at  last  we 
got  quite  down,  went  through  the  Pas  de  Suse,  a 
narrow  road  among  the  Alps,  defended  by  two 
rortresses,  and  lay  at  Bossolens:  next  evening, 
hrough  a  fine  avenue  of  nine  miles  in  length,  as 
straight  as  a  line,  we  arrived  at  this  city,  which, 
you  know,  is  the  capital  of  the  principality,  and 
he  residence  of  the  king  of  Sardinia.*  *  *  We 
hall  stay  here,  I  believe,  a  fortnight,  and  proceed 
or  Genoa,  which  is  three  or  four  days'  journey, 


to  go  post. 


I  am,  &c. 


horses,  seized  the  dog  by  the  throat,  and  rush, 


***  That  part  of  the  letter  here  omitted,  contained  onJy  a  de- 
scription of  the  city ;  which,  as  Mr.  Gray  has  giver, 
Vest  in  the  following  letter,  and  that  iu  a  more  lively  man- 
er,  I  thought  it  unnecessary  to  insert}  a  liberty  I  have  taken 
n  other  parts  of  tills  correspondence,  in  order  to  avoid  repc- 


14 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


LET.  23,  24, 


TO  MR.  WEST. 

Turin,  Nov.  16,  N.  S.  1739. 

AFTER  eight  days'  journey  through  Greenland, 
we  arrived  at  Turin — you  approach  it  by  a  hand- 
some avenue  of  nine  miles  long,  and  quite  straight. 
The  entrance  is  guarded  by  certain  vigilant  dra- 
goons, called  Douaniers,  who  mumbled  us  for  some 
time.  The  city  is  not  large,  as  being  a  place  of 
strength,  and  consequently  confined  within  its  for- 
tifications :  it  has  many  beauties  and  some  faults ; 
among  the  first  are  streets  all  laid  out  by  the  line, 
regular  uniform  buildings,  fine  walks  that  surround 
the  whole ;  and  in  general  a  good  lively  clean  ap- 
pearance :  but  the  houses  are  of  brick,  plastered, 
which  is  apt  to  want  repairing ;  the  windows  of 
oiled  paper,  which  is  apt  to  be  torn ;  and  every 
thing  very  slight,  which  is  apt  to  tumble  down. 
There  is  an  excellent  opera,  but  it  is  only  in  the 
carnival :  balls  every  night,  but  only  in  the  carni- 
val: masquerades  too,  but  only  in  the  carni- 
val. This  carnival  lasts  only  from  Christmas  to 
Lent ;  one  half  of  the  remaining  part  of  the  year 
is  passed  in  remembering  the  last,  the  other  in  ex- 
pecting the  future  carnival.  We  can  not  well 
subsist  upon  such  slender  diet,  no  more  than  upon 
an  execrable  Italian  comedy,  and  a  puppet  show, 
called  Rappresentazionc  d'un'  anima  dannata, 
which,  I  think,  are  all  the  present  diversions  of  the 
place ;  except  the  Marquise  de  Cavaillac's  conver- 
sazione, where  one  goes  to  see  people  play  at  ombre 
and  taroc,  a  game  with  seventy-two  cards  ail  paint- 
ed with  suns,  and  moons,  and  devils,  and  monks. 
Mr.  Walpole  has  been  at  court ;  the  family  are  at 
present  at  a  country  palace,  called  La  Venerie. 
The  palace  here  in  town  is  the  very  quintessence 
of  gilding  and  looking-glass ;  inlaid  floors,  carved 
panels,  and  painting  wherever  they  could  stick  a 
brush.  I  own  I  have  not,  as  yet,  any  where  met 
with  those  grand  and  simple  works  of  art,  that  are 
to  amaze  one,  and  whose  sight  one  is  to  be  the  bet- 
ter for :  but  those  of  nature  have  astonished  me 
beyond  expression.  In  our  little  journey  up  to  the 
Grande  Chartreuse  I  do  not  remember  to  have 
gone  ten  paces  without  an  exclamation,  that  there 
was  no  restraining.  Not  a  precipice,  not  a  torrent, 
not  a  cliff,  but  is  pregnant  with  religion  and  poet- 
ry. There  are  certain  scenes  that  would  awe  an 
atheist  into  belief,  without  the  help  of  other  argu- 
ment. One  need  not  have  a  very  fantastic  imagi- 
nation to  see  spirits  there  at  noon-day :  you  have 
death  perpetually  before  your  eyes ;  only  so  far  re- 
moved, as  to  compose  the  mind  without  frighting 
it.  I  am  well  persuaded  St.  Bruno  was  a  man  of 
no  common  genius,  to  choose  such  a  situation  for 
his  retirement ;  and  -perhaps  should  have  been  a 
disciple  of  his,  had  I  been  born  in  his  time.  You 
may  believe  Abelard  and  Heloise  were  not  forgot 
upon  tli  is  occasion :  if  I  do  not  mistake,  I  saw  you 


too  every  now  and  then  at  a  distance  among  the 
trees ;  il  me  semble,  que  fai  vu  ce  chien  de  visage 
la  quelque  part.  You  seemed  to  call  to  me  from 
the  other  side  of  the  precipice,  but  the  noise  of  the 
river  below  was  so  great,  that  I  really  could  not 
distinguish  what  you  said ;  it  seeme<J  to  have  a  ca- 
dence like  verse.  In  your  next  you  will  be  so  good 
to  let  me  know  what  it  was.  The  week  we  have 
since  passed  among  the  Alps,  has  not  equalled  the 
single  day  upon  that  mountain,  because  the  win- 
ter was  rather  too  far  advanced,  and  the  weather  a 
little  foggy.  However,  it  did  not  want  its  beau- 
ties ;  the  savage  rudeness  of  the  view  is  incon- 
ceivable without  seeing  it :  I  reckoned,  in  one  day, 
thirteen  cascades,  the  least  of  which  was,  I  dare  say, 
one  hundred  feet  in  height.  I  had  Livy  in  the 
chaise  with  me,  and  beheld  his  "  Nives  caslo  prope 
immistee,  tecta  informia  imposita  rupibus,  pecora 
jumentaque  torrida  f rigor  e,  homines  intonsi  et 
inculti,  animaliainanimaque  omniarigentiagelu; 
omnia  confragosa,  prceruptaque"  The  creatures 
that  inhabit  them  are,  in  all  respects,  below  huma- 
nity ;  and  most  of  them,  especially  women,  have 
the  tumidum  guttur,  which  they  call  goscia.  Mont 
Cenis,  I  confess,  carries  the  permission  mountains 
have  of  being  frightful  rather  too  far ;  and  its  hor- 
rors were  accompanied  with  too  much  danger  to 
give  one  time  to  reflect  upon  their  beauties.  There 
is  a  family  of  the  Alpine  monsters  I  have  mention- 
ed, upon  its  very  top,  that  in  the  middle  of  winter 
calmly  lay  in  their  stock  of  provisions  and  firing, 
and  so  are  buried  in  their  hut  for  a  month  or  two 
under  the  snow.  When  we  were  down  it,  and  a 
little  way  into  Piedmont,  we  began  to  find  "  Apri- 
cos  quosdam  colles,  rivosque  prope  silvas,  et  jam 
humano  cultu  digniora  loca"  I  read  Silius  Itali- 
cus  too,  for  the  first  time ;  and  wished  for  you,  ac- 
cording to  custom. — We  set  out  for  Genoa  in  two 
days'  time. 


TO  MR.  WEST. 

Genoa,  Nov.  21, 173a 
Horridos  tractus,  Boreaeque  linquens 
Regna  Taurini  fera,  molliorera 
Advehor  brumam,  Genuaeque  amantes 
Litora  soles. 

AT  least,  if  they  do  not,  they  have  a  very  ill 
taste ;  for  I  never  beheld  any  thing  more  amiable : 
only  figure  to  yourself  a  vast  semicircular  basin, 
full  of  fine  blue  sea,  and  vessels  of  all  sorts  and 
sizes,  some  sailing  out,  some  coming  in,  and  others 
at  anchor ;  and  all  around  it  palaces  and  churches 
peeping  over  one  another's  heads,  gardens,  and 
marble  terraces  full  of  orange  and  cypress  trees, 
fountains,  and  trellis-works  covered  with  vines, 
which  altogether  compose  the  grandest  of  theatres. 
This  is  the  first  coup  d'oeil,  and  is  almost  all  I  am 


LET.  25. 


LETTERS. 


15 


yet  nble  to  give  you  an  account  of,  for  we  arrived 
late  last  night.  To-day  was,  luckily,  a  great  fes- 
tival and  in  the  morning  we  resorted  to  the  church 
of  the  Madonna  dellr  Vigne,  to  put  up  our  little 
orisons;  (1  believe  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  we 
have  been  sometime  converts  to  the  holy  catholic 
church.)  we  found  our  lady  richly  drest  out,  with 
a  crown  of  diamonds  on  her  head,  another  upon 
the  child's,  and  a  constellation  of  wax  lights  burn- 
ing before  them:  shortly  attcj  came  the  doge,  in 
his  roU's  of  crimson  damask,  and  a  cap  of  the 
same,  followed  by  the  senate  in  black.  Upon  his 
approach,  began  ;>  line  concert  of  music,  and  among 
the  nst  two  runnehs'  voices,  that  were  a  perfect 
that  had  heard  nothing  but  French 
lor  a  year.  We  listened  to  this,  and  breath- 
ed nothing  but  inoensi'  for  two  hours.  The  doge 
ry  tall,  lean,  stately,  old  figure,  called  Con- 
stantino Balbi ;  and  the  senate  seem  to  have  been 
made  upon  the  same  model.  They  said  their  pray- 
ers, and  heard  an  absurd  white  friar  preach,  with 
equal  devotion.  After  this  we  went  to  the  Annon- 
ciata,  a  church  built  by  the  family  Lomellini,  and 
belonging  to  it ;  which  is,  indeed,  a  most  stately 
structure !  the  inside  wholly  marble  of  various  kinds, 
except  where  gold  and  painting  take  its  place. — 
From  hence  to  the  palazzo  Doria.  I  should  make 
you  sick  of  marble,  if  I  told  you  how  it  was  lav- 
ished here  upon  the  porticos,  the  oallustrades,  and 
terraces,  the  lowest  of  which  extends  quite  to  the 
sea.  The  inside  is  by  no  means  answerable  to  the 
outward  magnificence ;  the  furniture  seems  to  be 
as  old  as  the  founder  of  the  family.*  Their  great 
embossed  silver  tables  tell  you,  in  bas-relief,  his 
victories  at  sea,  how  he  entertained  the  emperor 
Charles,  and  how  he  refused  the  sovereignty  of  the 
commonwealth  when  it  was  offered  him ;  the  rest 
is  old-fashioned  velvet  chairs,  and  Gothic  tapestry. 
The  rest  of  the  day  has  been  spent,  much  to  our 
hearts'  content,  in  cursing  French  music  and  ar- 
chitecture, and  in  singing  the  praises  of  Italy.  We 
find  this  place  so  very  fine,  that  we  are  in  fear  of 
finding  nothing  finer.  We  are  fallen  in  love  with 
the  Mediterranean  sea,  and  hold  your  lakes  and 
your  rivers  in  vast  contempt.  This  is 

"The  happy  country  where  huge  lemons  grow," 
as  Waller  says ;  and  I  am  sorry  to  think  of  leav- 
ing it  in  a  week  for  Parma,  although  it  be 
The  happy  country  where  huge  cheeses  grow. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Bologna,  Dec.  9,  N.  S.  1739. 

OUR  journey  hither  has  taken  up  much  less 
time  than  I  expected.  We  left  Genoa  (a  charm- 
ing place  and  one  that  deserved  a  longer  stay)  the 


'  The  famous  Andrea  Doria. 


week  before  last ;  crossed  the  mountains,  and  lay 
that  night  at  Tortona,  the  next  at  St.  Giovanni, 
and  the  morning  after  came  to  Piacenza.  That 
city,  (though  the  capital  of  a  dutchy)  made  so  frip- 
pery an  appearance,  that  instead  of  spending  some 
days  there,  as  had  been  intended,  we  only  dined, 
and  went  on  to  Parma;  stayed  there  all  the  fol- 
lowing day,  which  was  passed  in  visiting  the  fa- 
mous works  of  Corregio  in  the  Dome,  and  other 
churches. — The  fine  gallery  of  pictures,  that  once 
belonged  to  the  Dukes  of  Parma,  is  no  more  here; 
the  King  of  Naples  has  carried  it  all  thither,  and 
the  city  had  not  merit  enough  to  detain  us  any 
longer,  so  we  proceeded  through  Reggio  to  Mode- 
na;  this,  though  the  residence  of  its  duke,  is  an 
ill-built  melancholy  place,  all  of  brick,  as  are  most 
of  the  towns  in  this  part  of  Lombardy :  he  himself 
lives  in  a  private  manner,  with  very  little  appear- 
ance of  a  court  about  him ;  he  has  one  of  the  no- 
blest collections  of  paintings  in  the  world,  which 
entertained  us  extremely  well  the  rest  of  that  day 
and  part  of  the  next:  and  in  the  afternoon  we 
came  to  Bologna :  so  now  you  may  wish  us  joy  of 
being  in  the  dominions  of  his  Holiness.  This  is 
a  populous  city,  and  of  great  extent;  all  the  streets 
have  porticos  on  both  sides,  such  as  surround  a 
part  of  Covent  Garden,  a  great  relief  in  summer 
time  in  such  a  climate ;  and  from  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal gates  to  a  church  of  the  Virgin,  (where  is  a 
wonder-working  picture,  at  three  miles  distance) 
runs  a  corridor  of  the  same  sort,  lately  finished, 
and,  indeed,  a  most  extraordinary  performance. 
The  churches  here  are  more  remarkable  for  their 
paintings  than  architecture,  being  mostly  old 
structures  of  brick;  but  the  palaces  are  numerous, 
and  fine  enough  to  supply  us  with  somewhat 
worth  seeing  from  morning  till  night.  The  coun- 
try of  Lombardy,  hitherto,  is  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful imaginable ;  the  roads  broad,  exactly  straight, 
and  on  either  hand  vast  plantations  of  trees,  chief- 
ly mulberries  and  olives,  and  not  a  tree  without  a 
vine  twining  about  it  and  spreading  among  its 
branches.  This  scene,  indeed,  which  must  be  the 
most  lovely  in  the  world  during  the  proper  season, 
is  at  present  all  deformed  by  the  winter,  which 
here  is  rigorous  enough  for  the  time  it  lasts;  but 
one  still  sees  the  skeleton  of  a  charming  place, 
and  reaps  the  benefit  of  its  product ;  for  the  fruits 
and  provisions  are  admirable:  in  short,  you  find 
every  thing  that  luxury  can  desire,  in  perfection. 
We  have  now  been  here  a  week,  and  shall  stay 
some  little  time  longer.  We  are  at  the  foot  of  the 
Appenine  mountains;  it  will  take  up  three  days 
to  cross  them,  and  then  we  shall  come  to  Florence, 
where  we  shall  pass  the  Christmas.  Till  then 
we  must  remain  in  a  state  of  ignorance  as  to  what 
s  doing  in  England,  for  our  letters  are  to  meet  us 
here  :  if  1  do  not  find  four  or  five  from  you  alone, 
[  shall  wonder. 


16 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


LET.  16,  17. 


tions;  if  not,  we  must  wait  for  the  carnival,  when 
all  those  things  come  of  course.  In  the  mean 
time,  it  is  impossible  to  want  entertainment;  the 
famous  gallery,  alone,  is  an  amusement  for  months: 
we  commonly  pass  two  or  three  hours  every  morn- 
ing in  it,  and  one  has  perfect  leisure  to  consider 
all  its  beauties.  You  know  it  contains  many  hun- 
dred antique  statues,  such  as  the  whole  world  can 
not  match,  beside  the  vast  collection  of  paintings, 
medals,  and  precious  stones,  such  as  no  other 

fore,  churches,  palaces,  and  pictures  from  morning  |  prince  was  ever  master  of;  in  short,  all  that  the 
tonight;  and  the  15th  of  this  month  set  out  for!  rich  anj  powerful  house  of  Medicis  has,  in  so 
Florence,  and  began  to  cross  the  Appenine  moun-  many  years,  got  together.  And  besides  this  city 
tains :  we  travelled  among  and  upon  them  all  i  abounds  with  so  many  palaces  and  churches,  that 
that  day,  and,  as  it  was  but  indifferent  weather,  |  you  can  hardly  place  yourself  any  where  without 
were  commonly  in  the  middle  of  thick  clouds,  having  some  fine  one  in  view,  or  at  least  some  statue 
that  utterly  deprived  us  of  a  sight  of  their  beauties:  or  fountain,  magnificently  adorned;  these  un- 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Florence,  Dec.  19,  N.  S.  1739. 

WE  spent  twelve  days  at  Bologna,  chiefly  (as 
most  travellers  do)  in  seeing  sights;  for  as  we 
knew  no  mortal  there,  and  as  it  is  no  easy  matter 
to  get  admission  into  any  Italian  house,  without 
very  particular  recommendations,  we  could  see  no 
company  but  in  public  places;  and  there  are  none 
in  that  city  but  the  churches.  We  saw,  there- 


for this  vast  chain  of  hills  has  its  beauties,  and  all 
the  vallies  are  cultivated;  even  the  mountains 
themselves  are  many  of  them  so  within  a  little  of 
their  very  tops.  They  are  not  so  horrid  as  the 
Alps,  though  pretty  near  as  high;  and  the  whole 
road  is  admirably  well  kept,  and  paved  throughout, 
which  is  a  length  of  fourscore  miles,  and  more. 
We  left  the  Pppe's  dominions,  and  lay  that  night 
in  those  of  the  Grand  Duke  of  Fiorenzuola,  a  pal- 
try little  town,  at  the  foot  of  mount  Giogo,  which 


doubtedly  are  far  more  numerous  than  Genoa  can 
pretend  to;  yet,  in  its  general  appearance  I  can  not 
think  that  Florence  equals  it  in  beauty.  Mr.  Wai- 
pole  is  just  come  from  being  presented  to  the  elec- 
tress  palatine  dowager ;  she  is  a  sister  of  the  late 
great  duke's ;  a  stately  old  lady,  that  never  goes 
out  but  to  church,  and  then  she  has  guards,  and 
eight  horses  to  her  coach.  She  received  him  with 
ceremony,  standing  under  a  huge  black  canopy, 
and,  after  a  few  minutes'  talking,  she  assured  him 


is  the  highest  of  them  all.    Next  morning  wesof  her  goodwill,  and  dismissed  him;  she  never 

went  up  it;  the  post  house  is  upon  its  very  top,  j  sees  anybody  but  thus  in  form;  and  so  she  passes 

and  usually  involved  in  clouds,  or  half  buried  in  her  life,  *  poor  woman !  *    *    * 

the  snow.     Indeed  there  was  none  of  the  last  at 

the  time  we  were  there,  but  it  was  still  a  dismal 

habitation.    The  descent  is  most  excessively  steep, 

and  the  turnings  very  short  and  frequent :  how- 


Florence, Jan.  15, 1740. 
I  THINK  I  have  not  yet  told  you  how  we  left  that 


ever  we  performed  it  without  any  danger,  and  in 

coming  down  could  dimly  discover  Florence,  and! 

the  beautiful  plain  about  it,  through  the  mists;  charming  place  Genoa;  how  we  crossed  a  moun- 

but  enough  to  convince  us,  it  must  be  one  of  the  |  tain  all  of  green  marble,  called  Buchetto ;  how  we 

noblest  prospects  upon  earth  in  summer.     That  came  to  Tortona,  and  waded  through  the  mud  to 

afternoon  we  got  thither:   and  Mr.  Mann,*  the  j  come  to  Castel  St.  Giovanni,  and  there  eat  mus- 

resident,  had  sent  his  servant  to  meet  us  at  the  tard  and  sugar  with  a  dish  of  crows  gizzards: 


gates,  and  conduct  us  to  his  house.  He  is  the 
best  and  most  obliging  person  in  the  world.  The 
next  night  we  were  introduced  at  the  Prince  of 
Craon's  assembly  (he  has  the  chief  power  here  in 
the  Grand  Duke's  absence).— The  princess  and 
he  were  extremely  civil  to  the  name  of  Walpole, 
so  we  were  asked  to  stay  supper,  which  is  as  much 
as  to  say,  you  may  come  and  sup  here  whenever 
you  please ;  for  after  the  first  invitation  this  is  al- 


secondly,  how  we  passed  the  famous  plains  * 

Qua  treble  glaucas  salices  intersecat  und§, 

Arvaque  Romania  nobilitata  mails. 
Visus  adhuc  amnis  veteri  de  clade  rubere, 

Et  suspirantes  ducere  moestus  aquas ; 
Maurorumque  ala,  et  nigrae  increbrescere  turmae, 

Et  pulsa  Ausonidum  ripa  sonare  fuga. 

Nor,  thirdly,  how  we  passed  through  Piacenza, 
Parma,  Modena,  entered  the  territories   of  the 


ways  understood.  We  have  also  been  at  the  pope;  stayed  twelve  days  at  Bologna ;  crossed  the 
Countess  Suarez's,  a  favourite  of  the  late  duke,  i  Appenines,  and  afterwards  arrived  at  Florence, 
and  one  that  gives  the  first  movement  to  every  j  j\jone  of  these  things  have  I  told  you,  nor  do  I  in- 
thing  gay  that  is  going  forward  here.  The  news;  tend  to  tell  you,  till  you  ask  me  some  questions 
is  every  day  expected  from  Vienna  of  the  great ;  concerning  them.  No,  not  even  of  Florence  itself, 
dutchess's  delivery;  if  it  be  a  boy,  here  will  be  all  except  that  it  is  at  fine  as  possible,  and  has  every 
sorts  of  balls,  masquerades,  operas,  and  illumina- ! - 


Afterwards  Sir  Horace  Mann. 


*  Persons  of  very  high  rank,  and  withal  very  good  .sense, 
will  only  feel  the  pathos  of  this  exclamation. 


LET.  8 


LETTERS. 


n 


thing  in  it  can  bless  the  r-ycs.     But,  before  I  enter 

rliculars.  you  inu-l  make  your  peace  both 

with  me  and  the  Venus  de  Medicis,  who,  let  me 

tell  you,  is  highly  and  justly  oflended  at  you  for 


not  inquiring, 


before  this,   concerning  her 


symmetry  and  proportions.  * 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Florence,  March  19, 1740. 
THE  pope*  is  at  last  dead,  and  we  are  to  set  out 


were  to  pass  there;  and  the  next  morning  we  set 
forward  on  our  journey  through  a  country  very 
oddly  composed  ;  for  some  miles  you  have  a  con- 
tinual scene  of  little  mountains  cultivated  from  top 
to  bottom  with  rows  of  olive  trees,  or  else  elms,  each 
of  which  has  its  vine  twining  about  it,  and  mixing 
with  the  branches ;  and  corn  sown  between  all  the 
ranks.  This,  diversified  with  numerous  small 
houses  and  convents,  makes  the  most  agreeable 
prospect  in  the  world :  but,  all  of  a  sudden,  it  alters 
to  black  barren  hills,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 
that  seem  never  to  have  been  capable  of  culture, 


for  Rome  on  Monday  next.     The  conclave  is  still  and  are  as  ugly  as  useless.     Such  is  the  country 
sitting  there,  and  likely  to  continue  so  some  time  for  some  time  before  one  comes  to  Mount  Radico- 

fani,  a  terrible  black  hill,  on  the  top  of  which  we 
were  to  lodge  that  night.  It  is  very  high,  and  dif- 
ficult of  ascent ;  and  at  the  foot  of  it  we  were  much 
embarrassed  by  the  fall  of  one  of  the  poor  horses 


.  as  the  two  French  cardinals  are  but  just 
arrived,  and  the  German  ones  are  still  expected. 

•  s  mighty  ill  with  those  that  remain  en- 
closed :  Ottoboni  is  already  dead  of  an  apoplexy ; 


Altieri  ami  several  others  are  said  to  be  dying,  or.  that  drew  us.  This  accident  obliged  another  chaise, 
very  bad :  yet  it  is  not  expected  to  break  up  till  which  was  coming  down,  to  stop  also ;  and  out  of 
after  Easter.  We  shall  be  at  Sienna  the  first  night,  |  it  peeped  a  figure  in  a  red  cloak,  with  a  handker- 
spend  a  day  there,  and  in  two  more  go  to  Rome.  \  chief  tied  round  its  head,  which,  by  its  voice  and 
One  begins  to  see  in  this  country  the  first  promises !  mien,  seemed  a  fat  old  woman ;  but  upon  its  get- 
of  an  Italian  spring,  clear  unclouded  skies,  and  ting  out,  appeared  to  be  Senesino,  who  was  return- 
warm  suns,  such  as  are  not  often  felt  in  England;  ing  from  Naples  to  Sienna,  the  place  of  his  birth 
yet,  for  your  sake,  I  hope  at  present  you  have  your !  and  residence.  On  the  highest  part  of  the  moun- 
proportion  of  them,  and  that  all  your  frosts,  and  tain  is  an  old  fortress,  and  near  it  a  house  built  by 
snows,  and  short-breaths,  are  by  this  time  utterly '  one  of  the  grand  dukes  for  a  hunting-seat,  but  now 
vanished.  I  have  nothing  new  or  particular  to  in-  converted  into  an  inn :  it  is  the  shell  of  a  large 
form  you  of;  and,  if  you  see  things  at  home  go  on  fabric;  but  such  an  inside,  such  chambers  and  ac- 
much  in  their  old  course,  you  must  not  imagine :  commodations  that  your  cellar  is  a  palace  in  com- 
them  more  various  abroad.  The  diversions  of  a  parison:  and  your  cat  sups  and  lies  much  better 


Florentine  Lent  are  composed  of  a  sermon  in  the 
morning,  full  of  hell  and  the  devil ;  a  dinner  at 
noon,  full  of  fish  and  meagre  diet;  and,  in  the 
evening  what  is  called  a  conversazione,  a  sort  of  as- 
sembly at  the  principal  people's  houses,  full  of  I 
can  not  tell  what. ;  besides  this,  there  is  twice  a 
week  a  very  grand  concert.  *  *  * 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Rome,  April  2,  N.  S.  1740. 

Tins  is  the  third  day  since  we  came  to  Rome, 
but  the  first  hour  I  have  had  to  write  to  you  in. 
The  journey  from  Florence  cost  us  four  days,  one 
of  which  was  spent  at  Sienna,  an  agreeably  clean, 
old  city,  of  no  great  magnificence  or  extent;  but  in 
a  fine  situation  and  good  air.  What  it  has  most 
considerable  is  its  cathedral,  a  huge  pile  of  marble, 
black  and  white  laid  alternately,  and  laboured  with 
a  Gothic  niceness  and  delicacy  in  the  old  fashioned 
way.  Within  too  are  some  paintings  and  sculpture 
of  considerable  hands.  The  sight  of  this  and  some 
collections  that  were  showed  us  in  private  houses, 
were  a  sufficient  employment  for  the  little  time  we 


'  Clement  the  Twelfth. 


than  we  did;  for  it  being  a  saint's  eve,  there  was 
nothing  but  eggs.  We  devoured  our  meagre  fare ; 
and,  after  stopping  up  the  windows  with  the 
quilts,  were  obliged  to  lie  upon  the  straw  beds  in  our 
clothes.  Such  are  the  conveniences  in  a  road,  that 
is,  as  it  were,  the  great  thoroughfare  of  all  the 
world.  Just  on  the  other  side  of  this  mountain,  at 
Ponte-Centino,  one  enters  the  patrimony  of  the 
church ;  a  most  delicious  country,  but  thinly  in- 
habited. That  night  brought  us  to  Viterbo,  a  city 
of  a  more  lively  appearance  than  any  we  had  lately 
met  with ;  the  houses  have  glass  windows,  which 
is  not  very  usual  here ;  and  most  of  the  streets  are 
terminated  by  a  handsome  fountain.  Here  we  had 
the  pleasure  of  breaking  our  fast  on  the  leg  of  an 
old  hare  and  some  broiled  crows.  Next  morning, 
in  descending  Mount  Viterbo,  we  first  discovered 
(though  at  near  thirty  miles  distance)  the  cupola 
of  St.  Peter's,  and  a  little  after  began  to  enter  on 
an  old  Roman  pavement,  with  now  and  then  a 
ruined  tower,  or  a  sepulchre  on  each  hand.  We 
now  had  a  clear  view  of  the  city,  though  not  to  the 
best  advantage,  as  coming  along  a  plain  quite  upon 
a  level  with  it ;  however,  it  appeared  very  vast,  and 
surrounded  with  magnificent  villas  and  garden8. 
We  soon  after  crossed  the  Tiber,  a  river  that  an- 
cient Rome  made  more  considerable  than  any  merii 


18 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


LET.  30,  31. 


of  its  own  could  have  done :  however,  it  is  not  con- 
temptibly small,  but  a  good  handsome  stream; 
very  deep,  yet  somewhat  of  a  muddy  complexion. 
The  first  entrance  of  Rome  is  prodigiously  striking. 
It  is  by  a  noble  gate,  designed  by  Michael  Angelo, 
and  adorned  with  statues ;  this  brings  you  into  a 
large  square,  in  the  midst  of  which  is  a  vast  obelisk 
of  granite,  and  in  front  you  have  at  one  view  two 
churches  of  a  handsome  architecture,  and  so  much 
alike,  that  they  are  called  the  Twins ;  with  three 
streets,  the  middlemost  of  which  is  one  of  the  long- 
est in  Rome.  As  high  as  my  expectation  was 
raised,  I  confess,  the  magnificence  of  this  city  in- 
finitely surpasses  it.  You  can  not  pass  along  a 
street,  but  you  have  views  of  some  palace,  or 
church,  or  square,  or  fountain,  the  most  picturesque 
and  noble  one  can  imagine.  We  have  not  yet  set 
about  considering  its  beauties,  ancient  and  modern, 
with  attention;  but  have  already  taken  a  slight 
transient  view  of  some  of  the  most  remarkable. 
St.  Peter's  I  saw  the  day  after  we  arrived,  and 
was  struck  dumb  with  wonder.  I  there  saw  the 
cardinal  D'Auvergne,  one  of  the  French  ones, 
who,  upon  coming  off  his  journey,  immediately  re- 
paired hither  to  offer  up  his  vows  at  the  high  altar, 
and  went  directly  into  the  conclave;  the  doors 
of  which  we  saw  opened  to  him,  and  all  the  other 
immured  cardinals  came  thither  to  receive  him. 
Upon  his  entrance  they  were  closed  again  directly. 
It  is  supposed  they  will  not  come  to  an  agreement 
about  a  pope  till  after  Easter,  though  the  confine- 
ment is  very  disagreeable.  I  have  hardly  philoso- 
phy enough  to  see  the  infinity  of  fine  things,  that 
are  here  daily  in  the  power  of  any  body  that  has 
money,  without  regretting  the  want  of  it ;  but  cus- 
tom has  the  power  of  making  things  easy  to  one. 
I  have  not  yet  seen  his  majesty  of  Great  Britain, 
&c.  though  I  have  the  two  boys  in  the  gardens  of 
the  Villa  Borgese,  where  they  go  a  shooting  almost 
every  day;  it  was  at  a  distance,  indeed,  for  we  did 
not  choose  to  meet  them,  as  you  may  imagine. 
This  letter  (like  all  those  the  English  send,  or  re- 
ceive) will  pass  through  the  hands  of  that  family, 
before  it  comes  to  those  it  was  intended  for.  They 
do  it  more  honour  than  it  deserves ;  and  all  they 
will  learn  from  thence  will  be,  that  I  desire  you 
to  give  my  duty  to  my  father,  and  wherever  else  it 
is  due,  and  that  I  am,  &c. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Rome,  April  15,  1740.  Good-Friday. 
TO-DAY  I  am  just  come  from  paying  my  adora- 
tions at  St.  Peter's  to  three  extraordinary  relics, 
which  are  exposed  to  public  view  only  on  these 
two  days  in  the  whole  year,  at  which  time  all  the 
confraternities  in  the  city  come  in  procession  to 
see  them.  It  was  something  extremely  novel  to 


see  that  vast  church,  and  the  most  magnificent  in 
the  world,  undoubtedly,  illuminated  (for  it  was 
night)  by  thousands  of  little  crystal  lamps,  disposed 
in  the  figure  of  a  huge  cross  at  the  high  altar,  and 
seeming  to  hang  alone  in  the  air.  All  the  light 
proceeded  from  this,  and  had  the  most  singular  ef- 
fect imaginable  as  one  entered  the  great  door.  Soon 
after  came  one  after  another,  I  believe,  thirty  pro- 
cessions, all  dressed  in  linen  frocks,  and  girt  with 
a  cord,  their  heads  covered  with  a  cowl  all  over, 
only  two  holes  to  see  through  left.  Some  of  them 
were  all  black,  others  red,  others  white,  others  par- 
ty-coloured; these  were  continually  coming  and 
going  with  their  tapers  and  crucifixes  before  them; 
and  to  each  company,  as  they  arrived  and  knelt 
before  the  great  altar,  were  shown  from  a  balcony, 
at  a  great  height,  the  three  wonders,  which  are, 
you  must  know,  the  head  of  the  spear  that  wound- 
ed Christ ;  St.  Veronica's  handkerchief,  with  the 
miraculous  impression  of  his  face  upon  it:  and  a 
piece  of  the  true  cross,  on  the  sight  of  which  the 
people  thump  their  breasts,  and  kiss  the  pavement 
with  vast  devotion.  The  tragical  part  of  the  cere- 
mony is  half  a  dozen  wretched  creatures,  who,  with 
their  faces  covered,  but  naked  to  the  waist,  are  in 
a  side-chapel  disciplining  themselves  with  scourges 
full  of  iron  prickles;  but  really  in  earnest,  as  our 
eyes  can  testify,  which  saw  their  backs  and  arms 
so  raw,  we  should  have  taken  it  for  a  red  satin 
doublet  torn,  and  showing  the  skin  through,  had 
we  not  been  convinced  of  the  contrary  by  the 
blood  which  was  plentifully  sprinkled  about  them. 
It  is  late ;  I  give  you  joy  of  Porto-Bello,  and  many 
other  things,  which  I  hope  are  all  true.  *  *  * 


TO  MR.  WEST. 

Tivoli,  May  20, 1740. 

THIS  day  being  in  the  palace  of  his  higlmess  the 
duke  of  Modena,  he  laid  his  most  serene  commands 
upon  me  to  write  to  Mr.  West,  and  said  he  thought 
it  for  his  glory,  that  1  should  draw  up  an  inventory 
of  all  his  most  serene  possessions  for  the  said  West's 
perusal. Imprimis,  a  house,  being  in  circum- 
ference a  quarter  of  a  mile,  two  feet  and  an  inch ; 
the  said  house  containing  the  following  particulars, 
to  wit,  a  great  room.  Item,  another  great  room; 
item,  a  bigger  room ;  item,  another  room ;  item,  a 
vast  room ;  item,  a  sixth  of  the  same ;  a  seventh 
ditto ;  an  eighth  as  before ;  a  ninth  as  abovesaid ; 
a  tenth  (see  No.  1. ;)  item,  ten  more  such,  besides 
twenty  besides,  which  not  to  be  too  particular,  we 
shall  pass  over.  The  said  rooms  contain  nine 
chair,  two  tables,  five  stools,  and  a  cricket.  From 
whence  we  shall  proceed  to  the  garden,  containing 
two  millions  of  superfine  laurel  hedges,  a  clump 
of  cypress  trees,  and  half  the  river  Teverone,  that 
pisses  into  two  thousand  several  chamberpots. 


LET.  31. 


LETTERS. 


Finis.-  ure  desired  me  to  put  in  a  list 

of  her  little  goods  and  cliatt.  Is,  and,  as  thoy  were 
small,  to  be  \i rv  minute  about  them.  She  has 
built  here  three  or  four  little  mountains,  and  laid 
them  out  in  an  irregular  semicircle ;  from  certain 
others  behind,  at  a  greater  distance,  she  has  drawn 
a  canal,  into  which  she  has  put  a  little  river  of  hers, 
called  Anio ;  she  has  cut  a  huge  cleft  between  the 
two  innermost  of  her  four  hills,  and  there  she  has 
left  it  to  its  own  disposal;  which  she  has  no  sooner 
done,  but,  like  a  heedless  chit,  it  tumbles  headlong 
down  a  declivity  fifty  feet  perpendicular,  breaks 
itself  all  to  shatters,  and  is  converted  into  a  shower 
of  rain,  where  the  sun  forms  many  a  bow,  red, 
green,  blue,  and  yellow.  To  get  out  of  our  meta- 
phors without  any  further  trouble,  it  is  the  most 
noble  sight  in  the  world.  The  weight  of  that 
quantity  of  waters,  and  the  force  they  fall  with, 
have  worn  the  rocks  they  throw  themselves  among 
into  a  thousand  irregular  crags,  and  to  a  vast  depth. 
In  this  channel  it  goes  boiling  along  with  a  mighty 
noise  till  it  comes  to  another  steep,  where  you  see 
it  a  second  time  come  roaring  down  (but  first  you 
must  walk  two  miles  farther)  a  greater  height  than 
before,  but  not  with  that  quantity  of  waters;  for 
by  this  time  it  has  divided  itself,  being  crossed  and 
opposed  by  the  rocks,  in  four  several  streams,  each 
of  which,  in  emulation  of  the  great  one,  will  tum- 
ble down  too ;  and  it  does  tumble  down,  but  not 
from  an  equally  elevated  place;  so  that  you  have 
at  one  view  all  these  cascades  intermixed  with 
groves  of  olive  and  little  woods,  the  mountains  ris- 
ing behind  them,  and  on  the  top  of  one  (that 
which  forms  the  extremity  of  one  of  the  half-cir- 
cle's horns)  is  seated  the  town  itself.  At  the  very 
extremity  of  that  extremity,  on  the  brink  of  the 
precipice,  stands  the  Sibyl's  temple,  the  remains 
of  a  little  rotunda,  surrounded  with  its  portico, 
above  half  of  whose  beautiful  Corinthian  pillars 
are  still  standing  and  entire;  all  this  on  one  hand. 
On  the  other,  the  open  campagna  of  Rome,  here 
and  there  a  little  castle  on  a  hillock,  and  the  city 
itself  on  the  very  brink  of  the  horizon,  indistinctly 
seen  (being  eighteen  miles  oft')  except  the  dome 
of  St.  Peter's;  which,  if  you  look  out  of  your  win- 
dow, wherever  you  are,  I  suppose,  you  can  see.  I 
did  not  tell  you  that  a  little  below  the  first  fall,  on 
if  of  the  rock,  and  hanging  over  that  torrent, 
are  little  ruins  which  they  show  you  for  Horace's 
house,  a  curious  situation  to  observe  the 

"Praeceps  Anio,  et  Tiburni  lucus,  et  uda 
Mobilibus  pomaria  rivis." 

Maecenas  did  not  care  for  such  a  noise,  it  seems, 
and  built  him  a  house  (which  they  also  carry  one 
to  see)  so  situated  that  it  sees  nothing  at  all  of  the 
matter,  and  for  any  thing  he  knew  there  might  be 
no  such  river  in  the  world.  Horace  had  another 
house  on  the  other  side  of  the  Teverone,  opposite 


to  Maecenas's ;  and  they  told  us  there  was  a  bridge 
of  communication,  by  which  "  andava  il  detto  Sig- 
ner per  trastullarsi  coll  istesso  Orazio."  In  com- 
ing hither  we  crossed  the  Aquae  Albulae,  a  vile 
little  brook  that  stinks  like  a  fury,  and  they  say  it 
has  stunk  so  these  thousand  years.  I  forget  the 
Piscina  of  Gluintilius  Varus,  where  he  used  to 
keep  certain  little  fishes.  This  is  very  entire,  and 
there  is  a  piece  of  the  aqueduct  that  supplied  it 
too ;  in  the  garden  below  is  old  Rome,  built  in  lit- 
tle, just  as  it  was,  they  say.  There  are  seven* 
temples  in  it,  and  no  houses  at  all :  they  say  there 
were  none. 

May  21. 

We  have  had  the  pleasure  of  going  twelve  miles 
out  of  our  way  to  Palestrina.  It  has  rained  all  day 
as  if  heaven  and  us  were  coming  together.  See 
my  honesty,  I  do  not  mention  a  syllable  of  the 
temple  of  Fortune,  because  I  really  did  not  see  it; 
which,  I  think,  is  pretty  well  for  an  old  traveller. 
So  we  returned  along  the  Via  Praenestina,  saw 
the  Lacus  Gabinus  and  Regillus,  where,  you  know, 
Castor  and  Pollux  appeared  upon  a  certain  occa- 
sion. And  many  a  good  old  tomb  we  left  on  each 
hand,  and  many  an  aqueduct, 

Dumb  are  whose  fountains,  and  their  channels  dry. 

There  are,  indeed,  two  whole  modern  ones,  works 
of  popes,  that  run  about  thirty  miles  a-piece  hi 
length ;  one  of  them  convey  still  the  famous  Aqua 
Virgo  to  Rome,  and  adds  vast  beauty  to  the  pros- 
pect. So  we  came  to  Rome  again,  where  waited 
for  us  a  splendidissimo  regalo  of  letters;  hi  one  of 
which  came  You,  with  your  huge  characters  and 
wide  intervals,  staring.  I  would  have  you  to  know, 
I  expect  you  should  take  a  handsome  crow-quill 
when  you  write  to  me,  and  not  leave  room  for  a 
pin's  point  in  four  sides  of  a  sheet  royal.  Do  you 
but  find  matter,  I  will  find  spectacles. 

I  have  more  time  .than  I  thought,  and  I  will  em- 
ploy it  in  telling  you  about  a  ball  that  we  were  at 
the  other  evening.  Figure  to  yourself  a  Roman 
villa;  all  its  little  apartments  thrown  open,  and 
lighted  up  to  the  best  advantage.  At  the  upper 
end  of  the  gallery,  a  fine  concert,  in  which  La 
Diamantina,  a  famous  virtuoso,  played  on  the 
violin  divinely,  and  sung  angellically ;  Giovannino 
and  Pasqualini  (great  names  in  musical  story) 
also  performed  miraculously.  On  each  side  were 
ranged  all  the  secular  grand  monde  of  Rome,  the 
ambassadors,  princesses,  and  all  that.  Among  the 
rest  II  Serenissimo  Pretendente  (as  the  Montova 
gazette  calls  him)  displayed  his  rueful  length  of 
person,  with  his  two  young  ones,  and  all  his  min- 
istry around  him.  "  Poi  nacque  un  grazioso 
ballo"  where  the  world  danced,  and  I  sat  in  a 
corner  regaling  myself  with  iced  fruits,  and  other 
pleasant  rinfrescatives. 


20 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


LET.  32. 


TO  MR.  WEST. 

Rome,  May,  1740. 

I  AM  to-day  just  returned  from  Alba,  a  good  deal 
fatigued;  for  you  know  the  Appian  is  somewhat 
tiresome.*  We  dined  at  Pompey's;  he  indeed 
was  gone  for  a  few  days  to  his  Tusculan,  but,  by 
the  care  of  his  villicus,  we  made  an  admirable 
meal.  We  had  the  dugs  of  a  pregnant  sow,  a 
peacock,  a  dish  of  thrushes,  a  noble  scarus,  just 
fresh  from  the  Tyrrhene,  and  some  conchylia  of 
the  lake  with  garum  sauce :  for  my  part  I  never 
eat  better  at  Lucullus's  table.  We  drank  half  a 
dozen  cyathi  a-piecc  of  ancient  Alban  to  Pholoe's 
health:  and,  after  bathing,  and  playing  an  hour 
at  ball,  we  mounted  our  essedum  again,  and  pro- 
ceeded up  the  mount  to  the  temple.  The  priests 
there  entertained  us  wkh  an  account  of  a  wonder- 
ful shower  of  birds'  eggs,  that  had  fallen  two  days 
before,  which  had  no  sooner  touched  the  ground, 
but  they  were  converted  into  gudgeons;  as  also 
that  the  night  past  a  dreadful  voice  had  been  heard 
out  of  the  adytum,  which  spoke  Greek  during  a 
full  half  hour,  but  nobody  understood  it.  But 
quitting  my  Romanities,  to  your  great  joy  and 
mine,  let  me  tell  you,  in  plain  English,  that  we 
come  from  Albano.  The,  present  town  lies  within 
the  enclosure  of  Pompey's  villa  in  ruins.  The 
Appian  way  runs  through  it,  by  the  side  of  which, 
a  little  farther,  is  a  large  old  tomb,  with  five  pyra- 
mids upon  it,  which  the  learned  suppose  to  be  the 
burying-place  of  the  family,  because  they  do  not 
know  whose  it  can  be  else.  But  the  vulgar  assure 
you  it  is  the  sepulchre  of  the  Curiatii,  and  by  that 
name  (such  is  their  power)  it  goes.  One  drives 
to  Castel  Gondolfo,  a  house  of  the  Pope's,  situated 
on  the  top  of  one  of  the  Collinette,  that  forms  a 
brim  to  the  basin  commonly  called  the  Alban  lake. 
It  is  seven  miles  round;  and  directly  opposite  to  you, 
on  the  other  side,  rises  the  Mons  Albanus,  much 
taller  than  the  rest,  along  whose  side  are  still  dis- 
coverable (not  to  common  eyes)  certain  little  ruins 
of  the  old  Alba  Longa.  They  had  need  be  very 
little,  as  having  been  nothing  but  ruins  ever  since 
the  days  of  Tullus  Hostilius.  On  its  top  is  a 
house  of  the  constable  Cplonna's  where  stood  the 
temple  of  Jupiter  Latialis.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill 
Gondolfo,  are  the  famous  outlets  of  the  lake,  built 
with  hewn  stone,  a  mile  and  a  half  under  ground. 
Livy,  you  know,  amply  informs  us  of  the  foolish 
occasion  of  this  expense,  and  gives  me  this  oppor- 


*  However  whimsical  this  humour  may  appear  to  some 
readers,  I  chose  to  insert  it,  as  it  gives  me  an  opportunity  of 
remarking  that  Mr.  Gray  was  extremely  skilled  in  the  cus- 
toms of  the  ancient  Romans;  and  has  catalogued,  in  his  com 
mon-place  book,  their  various  eatables,  wines,  perfumes, 
clothes,  medicines,  &c.  with  great  precision,  referring  under 
every  articles  to  passages  in  the  poets  and  historians  where 
there  names  are  mentioned. " 


tunity  of  displaying  all  my  erudition,  that  I  may 
appear  considerable  in  your  eyes.  This  is  the 
prospect  from  one  window  of  the  palace.  From 
another  you  have  the  whole  campagna,  the  city, 
Antium,  and  the  Tyrrhene  sea  (twelve  miles  dis- 
tant) so  distinguishable,  that  you  may  see  the  ves- 
sels sailing  upon  it.  All  this  is  charming.  .  Mr. 
Walpole  says  our  memory  sees  more  than  our 
eyes  in  this  country,  which  is  extremely  true; 
since,  for  realities,  Windsor,  or  Richmond  Hill,  is 
infinitely  preferable  to  Albano  or  Frescati.  I  am 
now  at  home,  and  going  to  the  window  to  tell  you 
it  is  the  most  beautiful  of  Italian  nights,  which,  in 
truth,  are  but  just  begun,  (so  backward  has  the 
spring  been  here,  and  every  where  else,  they  say). 
There  is  a  moon!  there  are  stars  for  you!  Do  not 
you  hear  the  fountain  7  Do  not  you  smell  the 
orange  flowers  ?  That  building  yonder  is  the  con- 
ent  of  St.  Isidore;  and  that  eminence,  with  the 
cypress  trees  and  pines  upon  it,  the  top  of  M. 
Gluirinal. — This  is  all  true,  and  yet  my  prospect 
is  not  two  hundred  yards  in  length.  We  send 
you  some  Roman  inscriptions  to  entertain  you. 
The  first  two  are  modern,  transcribed  from  the 
Vatican  Library  by  Mr.  Walpole. 

Pontifices  olim  quern  fundavere  priores, 
Praeciqua  Sixtus  perficit  arte  tholum  ;* 

Et  Sixti  tantum  se  gloria  tollit  in  altum, 
Quantum  se  Sixti  nobile  tollit  opus : 

Magnus  bonos  magni  fundamina  ponere  templi, 
Sed  finem  cceptis  ponere  major  honos. 

Saxa  agit  Amphion,  Thebana  utimocnia  condut : 
Sixtus  et  immcnsse  pondera  molis  agit.t 

Saxa  trahunt  ambo  longe  diversa :  scd  arte 
Hoee  trahit  Amphion ;  Sixtus  ct  arte  trahit. 

At  tantum  exsuperat  Dirceeum  Amphiona  Sixtus, 
Quantum  hie  exsuperat  ceetera  saxa  lapis. 

Mine  is  ancient,  and  I  think  not  less  curious. 
It  is  exactly  transcribed  from  a  sepulchral  marble 
at  the  villa  Giustiniani.  I  put  stops  to  it,  when  I 
understand  it. 

DIs  Manibus 
Claudiae,  Pistes 
Primus  Conjugi 
Optumse,  Sanctae, 
Et  1'iac,  Benemerhate. 

Non  aBquos,  Parcae,  statuistis  stamina  vitae. 

Tarn  bene  composites  potuistis  sede  tcnere. 

Amissaestconjux,  cur  ego  et  ipse  moror? 

Si  •  bella  •  esse  •  mi  •  iste  •  mea  •  vivere  •  debuilt  • 

Tristia  contigerunt  qui  amissa  conjuge  vivo. 

Nil  est  tarn  miserum,  quam  totam  perdere  vitam. 

Nee  vita  enasci  dura  peregistis  crudelia  pensa,  eororcs, 

Ruptaque  deficiunt  in  primo  munere  fusi. 

O  nimis  injustae  ter  clenos  dare  munus  in  annos, 

Deceptus  •  grautus  •  fatum  •  sic  •  pressit  •  egestas  • 

Dum  vitara  tulero,  Primus  Pistes  lugea  conjugtum. 


*  Sixtus  V.  built  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's. 
T  He  raised  the  obelisk  in  the  great  area. 


LET.  33,  31. 


LETTERS. 


21 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Naples,  June  17,  1740. 

OUR  journey  hither  was  through  the  most  beau- 
tiful part  of  the  finest  country  in  the  world ;  and 
-pot  of  it,  on  some  account  or  other,  famous 
for  these  three  thousand  years  past.*  The  season 
has  hitherto  been  just  as  warm  as  one  would  wish 
it;  no  unwholesome  airs,  or  violent  heats,  yet 
heard  of.  The  people  call  it  a  backward  year,  and 
are  in  pain  about  their  corn,  wine,  and  oil ;  but  we, 
who  are  neither  corn,  wine,  nor  oil,  find  it  very 
agreeable.  Our  road  was  through  Villetri,  Cis- 
terna,  Terracina,  Capua,  and  Aversa,  and  so  to 
Naples.  The  minute  one  leaves  his  holiness's 
dominions,  the  face  of  things  begins  to  change  from 
wide  uncultivated  plains  to  olive  groves  and  well- 
tilled  fields  of  corn,  intermixed  with  ranks  of  elms, 
every  one  of  which  has  its  vine  twining  about  it, 
and  hanging  in  festoons  between  the  rows  from  one 
tree  to  another.  The  great  old  fig-trees,  the  oranges 
in  full  bloom,  and  myrtles  in  every  hedge,  make 
one  of  the  delightfulest  scenes  you  can  conceive ; 
besides  that,  the  roads  are  wide,  well-kept,  and  full 
of  passengers,  a  sight  I  have  not  beheld  this  long 
time.  My  wonder  still  increased  upon  entering 
the  city,  which,  I  think,  for  number  of  people,  out- 
does both  Paris  and  London.  The  streets  are  one 
continued  market,  and  thronged  with  populace  so 
much  that  a  coach  can  hardly  pass.  The  common 
sort  are  a  jolly  lively  kind  of  animals,  more  indus- 
trious than  Italians  usually  are;  they  work  till 
evening ;  then  take  their  lute  or  guitar  (for  they 
all  play)  and  walk  about  the  city,  or  upon  the  sea- 
shore with  it,  to  enjoy  the  fresco.  One  sees  their 
little  brown  children  jumping  about  stark-naked, 
and  the  bigger  ones  dancing  with*  castanets,  while 
others  play  on  the  cymbal  to  them.  Your  maps 
will  show  you  the  situation  of  Naples :  it  is  on  the 
most  lovely  bay  in  the  world,  and  one  of  the  calm- 
est seas :  it  has  many  other  beauties  besides  those 
of  nature.  We  have  spent  two  days  in  visiting 
the  remarkable  places  in  the  country  round  it,  such 
as  the  bay  of  Baiae,  and  its  remains  of  antiquity ; 
the  lake  Avernus,  and  the  Solfatara,  Charon's 
grotto,  &c.  We  have  been  in  the  Sibyl's  cave  and 
many  other  strange  holes  under  ground  (I  only 
name  them,  because  you  may  consult  Sandy's  tra- 


deep  in  the  ground:  curiosity  led  them  on,  and 
they  have  been  digging  ever  since  ;  the  passage 
they  have  made,  with  all  its  turnings  and  windings, 
is  now  more  than  a  mile  long.  As  you  walk,  you 
see  parts  of  an  amphitheatre,  many  houses  adorned 
with  marble  columns,  and  incrusted  with  the  same ; 
the  front  of  a  temple,  several  arched  vaults  of  rooms 
painted  in  fresco.  Some  pieces  of  painting  have 
been  taken  out  from  hence,  finer  than  any  thing 
of  the  kind  before  discovered,  and  with  these  the 
king  has  adorned  his  palace ;  also  a  number  of 
statues,  medals,  and  gems ;  and  more  are  dug  out 
every  day.  This  is  known  to  be  a  Roman  town,* 
that  in  the  emperor  Titus's  time  was  overwhelmed 
by  a  furious  eruption  of  Mount  Vesuvius,  which  is 
hard  by.  The  wood  and  beams  remain  so  perfect 
that  you  may  see  the  grain;  but  burnt  to  a  coal, 
and  dropping  into  dust  upon  the  least  touch.  We 
were  to-day  at  the  foot  of  that  mountain,  which  at 
present  only  smokes  a  little,  where  we  saw  the 
materials  that  fed  the  stream  of  fire,  which  about 
four  years  since  ran  down  its  side.  We  have  but 
a  few  days  longer  to  stay  here ;  too  little  in  con- 
science for  such  a  place.  *  *  * 


TO  HIS  FATHER. 

Florence,  July  16, 1740. 

AT  my  return  to  this  city,  the  day  before  yes- 
terday, I  had  the  pleasure  of  finding  yours  dated 
June  the  9th.  The  period  of  our  voyages,  at  least 
towards  the  South,  is  come  as  you  wish.  We  have 
been  at  Naples,  spent  nine  or  ten  days  there,  and 
returned  to  Rome,  where  finding  no  likelihood  of 
a  pope  yet  these  three  months,  and  quite  wearied 
with  the  formal  assemblies,  and  little  society  of  that 
great  city,  Mr.  Walpole  determined  to  return 
hither  to  'spend  the  summer,  where  he  imagines  he 
shall  pass  his  time  more  agreeably  than  in  the  te- 
dious expectation  of  what,  when  it  happens,  will 
only  be  a  great  show.  For  my  own  part,  I  give 
up  the  thoughts  of  all  that  with  but  little  regret ; 
but  the  city  itself  I  do  not  part  with  so  easily,  which 
alone  has  amusements  for  whole  years.  However, 
I  have  passed  through  all  that  most  people  do, 
both  ancient  and  modern ;  what  that  is  you  may 
see,  better  than  I  can  tell  you,  in  a  thousand  books. 


vels ;)  but  the  strangest  hole  I  ever  was  in,  has  j  The  conclave  we  left  in  greater  uncertainty  than 
been  to-day,  of  a  place  called  Portici,  where  his  ever  5  the  more  than  ordinary  liberty  they  enjoy 
Sicilian  Majesty  has  a  country-seat.  About  a;tnere>  and  the  unusual  coolness  of  the  season, 
year  ago,  as  they  were  digging,  they  discovered  makes  the  confinement  less  disagreeable  to  them 
some  parts  of  ancient  buildings  above  thirty  feet  j tnan  common,  and,  consequently,  maintains  them 


in  their  irresolution.     There  have  been  very  high 


*  Mr.  Gray  wrote  a  minute  description  of  every  thing  he  words,  one  or  two  (it  is  said)  have  come  even  to 
saw  in  this  tour  from  Rome  to  Naples;  as  also  of  the  environs '  blows ;  two  more  are  dead  within  this  last  month, 
of  Rome,  Florence,  &c.  But  as  these  papers  are  apparently  Cenci  and  Portia;  the  latter  died  distracted  ;  and 
only  memorandums  for  his  own  use,  I  do,  not  think  it  neces- 
sary to  print  them,  although  they  abound  with  many  uncom- 


mon remark^  and  pertinent  classical  quotations. 
29 


'  It  should  seem,  by  the  omission  of  its  name  that  it  waa 
not  then  discovered  to  be  Herculaneum. 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


LET.  35,  36. 


we  left  another  (Altiera)  at  the  extremity:  yet 
nobody  dreams  of  an  election  till  the  latter  end  of 
September.  All  this  gives  great  scandal  to  all 
good  catholics,  and  every  body  talks  very  freely  on 
the  subject.  The  Pretender  (whom  you  desire  an 
account  of )  I  have  had  frequent  opportunities  of 
seeing  at  church,  at  the  corso,  and  other  places ; 
but  more  particularly,  and  that  for  a  whole  night, 
at  a  great  ball  given  by  Count  Patrizii  to  the  prince 
and  princess  Craon,  (who  were  come  to  Rome  at 
that  time,  that  he  might  receive  from  the  hands  of 
the  emperor's  ministers  there  the  order  of  the  gold- 
en fleece)  at  which  he  and  his  two  sons  were  pre- 
sent. They  are  good  fine  boys,  especially  the 
younger,  who  has  the  more  spirit  of  the  two,  and 
both  danced  incessantly  all  night  long.  For  him, 
he  is  a  thin  ill-made  man,  extremely  tall  and  awk- 
ward, of  a  most  unpromising  countenance,  a  good 
deal  resembling  king  James  the  Second,  and  has 
extremely  the  air  and  look  of  an  idiot,  particularly 
when  he  laughs  or  prays.  The  first  he  does  not 
often,  the  latter  continually.  He  lives  private 
enough  with  his  little  court  about  him,  consisting 
of  Lord  Dunbar,  who  manages  every  thing,  and 
two  or  three  of  the  Preston  Scotch  lords,  who  would 
be  very  glad  to  make  their  peace  at  home. 

We  happened  to  be  at  Naples  on  Corpus  Christi 
day,  the  greatest  feast  in  the  year,  so  had  an  op- 
portunity of  seeing  their  Sicilian  majesties  to  ad- 
vantage. The  king  walked  in  the  grand  proces- 
sion, and  the  queen  (being  big  with  child)  sat  in  a 
balcony.  He  followed  the  host  to  the  church  of 
St.  Clara,  where  high  mass  was  celebrated  to  a 
glorious  concert  of  music.  They  are  as  ugly  a 
little  pair  as  one  can  see :  she  a  pale  girl,  marked 
with  the  small-pox ;  and  he  a  brown  boy  with  a 
thin  face,  a  huge  nose,  and  as  ungain  as  possible. 

We  are  settled  here  with  Mr.  Mann,  in  a  charm- 
ing apartment;  the  river  Arno  runs  under  our 
windows,  which  we  can  fish  out  of.  The  sky  is 
so  serene,  and  the  air  so  temperate,  that  one  con- 
tinues in  the  open  air  all  night  long  in  a  slight 
night  gown,  without  any  danger ;  and  the  marble 
bridge  is  the  resort  of  every  body,  where  they  hear 
music,  eat  iced  fruits,  and  sup  by  moonlight; 
though  as  yet  (the  season  being  extremely  back- 
ward every  where)  these  amusements  are  not  be- 
gun. You  see  we  are  now  coming  northward 
again,  though  in  no  great  haste ;  the  Venetian  and 
Milanese  territories,  and  either  Germany  or  the 
south  of  France  (according  to  the  turn  the  war 
may  take,)  are  all  that  remain  for  us,  that  we  have 
not  yet  seen ;  as  to  Loretto,  and  that  part  of  Ita- 
ly, we  have  given  over  all  thoughts  of  it. 

FROM  MR.  WEST. 

Bond-street,  June  5th,  1740. 
I  LIVED  at  the  Temple  till  I  was  sick  of  it:  I 


have  just  left  it,  and  find  myself  as  much  a  lawyer 
as  I  was  when  I  was  in  it.  It  is  certain,  at  least, 
I  may  study  the  law  here  as  well  as  I  could  there. 
My  being  in  chambers  did  not  signify  to  me  a 
pinch  of  snuff.  They  tell  me  my  father  was  a 
lawyer,  and,  as  you  know,  eminent  in  the  profes- 
sion ;  and  such  a  circumstance  must  be  of  advan- 
tage to  me.  My  uncle  too  makes  some  figure  in 
Westminster-hall;  and  there's  another  advantage: 
then  my  grand-father's  name  would  get  me  many 
friends.  Is  it  not  strange  that  a  young  fellow, 
that  might  enter  the  world  with  so  many  advan- 
tages, will  not  know  his  own  interest  1  &c.  &c. 
What  shall  I  say  in  answer  to  all  this  1  For 
money,  I  neither  dote  upon  it  nor  despise  it ;  it  is 
a  necessary  stuff"  enough.  For  ambition,  I  do  not 
want  that  neither;  but  it  is  not  to  sit  upon  a 
bench.  In  short,  is  it  not  a  disagreeable  thing 
to  force  one's  inclination,  especially  when  one  'a 
young?  not  to  mention  that  one  ought  to  have  the 
strength  of  a  Hercules  to  go  through  our  common 
law ;  which,  I  am  afraid,  I  have  not.  Well !  but 
then,  say  they,  if  one  profession  does  not  suit  you, 
you  may  choose  another  more  to  your  inclination. 
Now  I  protest  I  do  not  yet  know  my  own  inclina- 
tion, and  I  believe,  if  that  was  to  be  my  direction, 
I  should  never  fix  at  all.  There  is  no  going  by  a 
weather-cock.  I  could  say  much  more  upon  this 
subject;  but  there  is  no  talking  tete-a-tete  cross 
the  Alps.  Oh,  the  folly  of  young  men,  that  never 
know  their  own  interest !  they  never  grow  wise 
till  they  are  ruined !  and  then  nobody  pities  them, 
nor  helps  them.  Dear  Gray !  consider  me  in  the 
condition  of  one  that  has  lived  these  two  years 
without  any  person  that  he  can  speak  freely  to.  I 
know  it  is  very  seldom  that  people  trouble  them- 
selves with  the  sentiments  of  those  they  converse 
with;  so  they  can  chat  about  trifles,  they  never 
care  whether  your  heart  aches  or  no.  Are  you 
one  of  these?  I  think  not.  But  what  right  have 
I  to  ask  you  this  question?  Have  we  known  one 
another  enough,  that  I  should  expect  or  demand 
sincerity  from  you  1  Yes,  Gray,  I  hope  we  have ; 
and  I  have  not  quite  such  a  mean  opinion  of  my- 
self, as  to  think  I  do  not  deserve  it.  But,  signor, 
is  it  not  time  for  me  to  ask  something  about  your 
future  intentions  abroad?  Where  do  you  propose 
going  next?  an  in  Apuliam?  nam  illo  si  advenc- 
ris}  tanquam  Ulysses,  cognosces  tuorum  nemi- 
nem.  Vale.  So  Cicero  prophesies  in  the  end  of 
one  of  his  letters — and  there  I  end. 

Yours,  &c. 


TO  MR.  WEST. 

Florence,  July  16, 1740. 

You  do  yourself  and  me  justice,  in  imagining 
that  you  merit,  and  that  I  am  capable  of  sincerity. 


LET.  36. 


LETTERS. 


23 


I  have  not  a  thought,  or  even  a  weakness,  I  desire 
to  conceal  from  you ;  and  consequently  on  my  side 
deserve  to  be  treated  with  the  same  openness  of 
heart.  My  vanity  perhaps  might  make  me  more 
reserved  towards  you,  if  you  were  one  of  the  heroic 
race,  superior  to  all  human  failings ;  but  as  mutua 
wants  are  the  ties  of  general  society,  so  are  mutua 
weaknesses  of  private  friendships,  supposing  them 
mixed  with  some  proportion  of  good  qualities;  for 
where  one  may  not  sometimes  blame,  one  does  no 
much  care  ever  to  praise.  All  this  has  the  air  of 
an  introduction  designed  to  soften  a  very  harsh 
reproof  that  is  to  follow ;  but  it  is  no  such  matter 
I  only  meant  to  ask,  why  did  you  change  your 
lodgings  1  Was  the  air  bad,  or  the  situation  me 
lancholy  ?  If  so,  you  are  quite  in  the  right.  Only 
is  it  not  putting  yourself  a  little  out  of  the  way  of 
a  people,  with  whom  it  seems  necessary  to  keep  up 
some  sort  of  intercourse  and  conversation,  though 
but  little  for  your  pleasure  or  entertainment  (yet 
there  are,  I  believe,  such  among  them  as  might 
give  you  both,)  at  least  for  your  information  in 
that  study,  which,  when  I  left  you,  you  thought 
of  applying  to  1  for  that  there  is  a  certain  study 
necessary  to  be  followed,  if  we  mean  to  be  of  any 
use  in  the  world,  I  take  for  granted ;  disagreeable 
enough  (as  most  necessities  are,)  but,  I  am  afraid 
unavoidable.  Into  how  many  branches  these  stu- 
dies are  divided  in  England,  every  body  knows 
and  between  that  which  you  and  I  had  pitched 
upon,  and  the  other  two,  it  was  impossible  to  ba- 
lance long.  Examples  show  one  that  it  is  not  ab- 
solutely necessary  to  bff  a  blockhead  to  succeed  in 
this  profession.  The  labour  is  long,  and  the  ele- 
ments dry  and  unentertaining;  nor  was  ever  any 
body  (especially  those  that  afterwards  made  a  figure 
in  it)  amused,  or  even  not  disgusted,  in  the  begin- 
ning; yet,  upon  a  further  acquaintance,  there  is 
surely  matter  for  'curiosity  and  reflection.  It  is 
strange  if,  among  all  that  huge  mass  of  words,  there 
be  not  somewhat  intermixed  for  thought.  Laws 
have  been  the  result  of  long  deliberation,  and  that 
not  of  dull  men,  but  the  contrary ;  and  have  so 
close  a  connexion  with  history,  nay,  with  philoso- 
phy itself,  that  they  must  partake  a  little  of  what 
they  are  related  to  so  nearly.  Besides,  tell  me, 
have  you  ever  made  the  attempt?  Were  not  you 
frighted  merely  with  the  distant  prospect  ?  Had 
the  Gothic  character  and  bulkiness  of  those  volumes 
(a  tenth  part  of  which  perhaps  it  will  be  no  further 
necessary  to  consult,  than  as  one  does  a  dictiona- 
ry) no  ill  effect  upon  your  eye?  Are  you  sure, 
if  Coke  had  been  printed  by  Elzevir,  and  bound 
in  twenty  neat  pocket  volume's,  instead  of  one  folio, 
you  should  never  have  taken  him  up  for  an  hour, 
as  you  would  a  Tully,  or  drank  your  tea  over 
him?  I  know  how  great  an  obstacle  ill  spirits 
are  to  resolution.  Do  you  really  think,  if  you  rid 


ten  miles  every  morning,  in  a  week's  time  you 
should  not  entertain  much  stronger  hopes  of  the 
chancellorship,  and  think  it  a  much  more  probable 
thing  than  you  do  at  present?  The  advantages 
you  mention  are  not  nothing;  our  inclinations  are 
more  than  we  imagine  in  our  own  power;  reason 
and  resolution  determine  them,  and  support  under 
many  difficulties.  To  me  there  hardly  appears  to 
be  any  medium  between  a  public  life  and  a  private 
one ;  he  who  prefers  the  first,  must  put  himself  in 
a  way  of  being  serviceable  to  the  rest  of  mankind, 
if  he  has  a  mind  to  be  of  any  consequence  among 
them :  nay,  he  must  not  refuse  being  in  a  certain 
degree  even  dependent  upon  some  men  who  al- 
ready are  so.  If  he  has  the  good  fortune  to  light 
on  such  as  will  make  no  ill  use  of  his  humility, 
there  is  no  shame  in  this:  if  not,  his  ambition 
ought  to  give  place  to  a  reasonable  pride,  and  he 
should  apply  to  the  cultivation  of  his  own  mind 
those  abilities  which  he  has  not  been  permitted  to 
use  for  others'  service.  Such  a  private  happiness 
(supposing  a  small  competence  of  fortune)  is  al- 
most always  in  every  one's  power,  and  the  proper 
enjoyment  of  age,  as  the  other  is  the  employment 
of  youth.  You  are  yet  young,  have  some  advan- 
tages and  opportunities,  and  an  undoubted  capa- 
city, which  you  have  never  yet  put  to  the  trial. 
Set  apart  a  few  hours,  see  how  the  first  year  will 
agree  with  you,  at  the  end  of  it  you  are  still  the 
master;  if  you  change  your  mind,  you  will  only 
have  got  the  knowledge  of  a  little  somewhat  that 
can  do  no  hurt,  or  give  you  cause  of  repentance. 
If  your  inclination  be  not  fixed  upon  any  thing 
Ise,  it  is  a  symptom  that  you  are  not  absolutely 
determined  against  this,  and  warns  you  not  to 
mistake  mere  indolence  for  inability.  I  am  sensi- 
ble there  is  nothing  stronger  against  what  I  would 
persuade  you  to  than  my  own  practice;  which  may 
make  you  imagine  I  think  not  as  I  speak.  Alas! 
t  is  not  so ;  but  I  do  not  act  what  I  think,  and  I 
lad  rather  be  the  object  of  your  pity  than  that  you 
should  be  that  of  mine;  and,  be  assured,  the  advan- 
age  I  may  receive  from  it,  does  not  diminish  my 
concern  in  hearing  you  want  somebody  to  con- 
verse with  freely,  whose  advice  might  be  of  more 
weight,  and  always  at  hand.  We  have  some  tune 
since  come  to  the  southern  period  of  our  voyages; 
we  spent  about  nine  days  at  Naples.  It  is  the 
argest  and  most  populous  city,  as  its  environs  are 
he  most  deliciously  fertile  country,  of  all  Italy. 
We  sailed  iji  the  bay  of  Baiae,  sweated  in  the 
Solfatara,  and  died  in  the  grotto  del  Cane,  as  all 
strangers  do;  saw  the  Corpus  Christi  procession, 
and  the  king  and  the  queen,  and  the  city  under- 
ground (which  is  a  wonder  I  reserve  to  tell  you 
)f  another  time)  and  so  returned  to  Rome  for  an- 
rther  fortnight;  left  it  (left  Rome!)  and  came 
hither  for  the  summer.  You  have  seen  an  Epis- 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


LET.  37,  38. 


tie*  to  Mr.  Ashton,  that  seems  to  me  full  of  spirit 
and  thought,  and  a  good  deal  of  poetic  fire.  I 
would  know  your  opinion.  Now  I  talk  of  verses, 
Mr.  Walpole  and  I  have  frequently  wondered  you 
should  never  mention  a  certain  imitation  of  Spen- 
cer, published  last  year  by  a  namesaket  of  yours, 
with  which  we  are  all  enraptured  and  enmar- 
vailed. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER.  - 

Florence,  Aug.  21,  N.  S.  1740. 
IT  is  some  time  since  I  have  had  the  pleasure 
of  writing  to  you,  having  been  upon  a  little  excur- 
sion cross  the  mountains  to  Bologna.  We  set  out 
from  hence  at  sunset,  passed  the  Apennines  by 
moonlight,  travelling  incessantly  till  we  came  to 
Bologna  at  four  in  the  afternoon  next  day.  There 
we  spent  a  week  agreeably  enough,  and  returned 
as  we  came.  The  day  before  yesterday  arrived 
the  news  of  a  pope :  and  I  have  the  mortification 
of  being  within  four  days'  journey  of  Rome,  and 
not  seeing  his  coronation,  the  heats  being  violent, 
and  the  infectious  air  now  at  its  height.  We  had 
an  instance,  the  other  day,  that  it  is  not  only  fancy. 
Two  country-fellows,  strong  men,  and  used  to  the 
country  about  Rome,  having  occasion  to  come  from 
thence  hither,  and  travelling  on  foot,  as  common 
with  them,  one  died  suddenly  on  the  road;  the 
other  got  hither,  but  extremely  weak,  and  in  a 
manner  stupid;  he  was  carried  to  the  hospital,  but 
died  in  two  days.  So,  between  fear  and  laziness, 
we  remain  here,  and  must  be  satisfied  with  the  ac- 
counts other  people  give  us  of  the  matter.  The 
new' pope  is  called  Benedict  XIV.  being  created 
cardinal  by  Benedict  XIII.  the  last  pope  but  one. 
His  name  is  Lambertini,  a  noble  Bolognese,  and 
archbishop  of  that  city.  When  I  was  first  there, 
I  remember  to  have  seen  him  two  or  three  times ; 
he  is  a  short,  fat  man,  about  sixty-five  years  of  age, 
of  a  hearty,  merry  countenance,  and  likely  to  live 
some  years.  He  bears  a  good  character  for  gene- 
rosity, affability,  and  other  virtues ;  and,  they  say, 
wants  neither  knowledge  nor  capacity.  The  worst 
side  of  him  is,  that  he  has  a  nephew  or  two ;  be- 
sides a  certain  young  favourite,  called  Melara,  who 
is  said  to  have  had,  for  some  time,  the  arbitrary 
disposal  of  his  purse  and  family.  He  is  reported 
to  have  made  a  little  speech  to  the  cardinals  in  the 
conclave,  while  they  were  undetermined  about  an 
election,  as  follows:  "Most  eminent  lords,  here 
are  three  Bolognese  of  different  characters,  but  all 


Gotti ;  if  upon  a  politician,  there  is  Aldrovandi ; 
if  upon  a  booby,  here  am  I."  The  Italian  is  much 
more  expressive,  and,  indeed  not  to  be  translated  ; 
wherefore,  if  you  meet  with  any  body  that  under- 
stands it,  you  may  show  them  what  he  said  in  the 
language  he  spoke  it.  "  Eminssimi.  Sigfi.  Ci 
siamo  trc,  diversi  si,  md  tutti  idonei  al  Papato. 
Se  mpiace  un  Santo,  c'  e  V  Gotti;  se  volete  una 
testa  scaltra,  e  Politico,  c'  e  VAldrovande;  se  un 
Cog-Hone,  ecco  mi!"  Cardinal  Coscia  is  restored 
to  his  liberty,  and,  it  is  said,  will  be  to  all  his  be- 
nefices. Corsini  (the  late  pope's  nephew)  as  he 
has  had  no  hand  in  this  election,  it  is  hoped,  will 
be  called  to  account  for  all  his  villanous  practices. 
The  Pretender,  they  say,  has  resigned  all  his  pre- 
tensions to  his  eldest  boy,  and  will  accept  of  the 
grand  chancellorship,  which  is  thirty  thousand 
crowns  a-year ;  the  pension  he  has  at  present  is 
only  twenty  thousand.  I  do  not  affirm  the  truth 
of  this  last  article ;  because,  if  he  does,  it  is  neces- 
sary he  should  take  the  ecclesiastical  habit,  and  it 
will  sound  mighty  odd  to  be  called  his  majesty  the 
chancellor. — So  ends  my  gazette. 


TO  HIS  FATHER. 

Florence,  Oct.  9, 1740. 

THE  beginning  of  next  spring  is  the  time  de- 
termined for  our  return  at  furthest ;  possibly  it  may 
be  before  that  time.  How  the  interim  will  be  em- 
ployed, or  what  route  we  shall  take,  is  not  so  cer- 
tain. If  we  remain  friends  with  France,  upon 
leaving  this  country  we  shall  cross  over  to  Venice, 
and  so  return  through  the  cities  north  of  the  Poto 
Genoa ;  from  thence  take  a  felucca  to  Marseilles, 
and  come  back  through  Paris.  If  the  contrary  fall 
out,  which  seems  not  unlikely,  we  must  take  the 
Milanese,  and  those  parts  of  Italy,  in  our  way  to 
Venice ;  from  thence  must  pass  through  the  Tyrol 
into  Germany,  and  come  home  by  the  Low-Coun- 
tries. As  for  Florence,  it  has  been  gayer  than 
ordinary  for  this  last  month,  being  one  round  of 
balls  and  entertainments,  occasioned  by  the  arrival 
of  a  great  Milanese  lady;  for  the  only  thing  the 
Italians  shine  in,  is  their  reception  of  strangers. 
At  such  times  every  thing  is  magnificence  :  the 
more  remarkable,  as  in  their  ordinary  course  of  life 
they  are  parsimonious,  even  to  a  degree  of  nasti- 
ness.  I  saw  in  one  of  the  vastest  palaces  in  Rome, 
that  of  prince  Pamfilio,  the  apartment  which  he 
himself  inhabited,  a  bed  that  most  servants  in  En- 
gland would  disdain  to  lie  in,  and  furniture  much 


equally  proper  for  the  popedom.    If  it  be  your  j  like  that  of  a  soph  at  Cambridge,  for  convenience 
pleasure  to  pitch  upon  a  saint,  there  is  cardinal  and  neatness.   This  man  is  worth  30,000/.  sterling 

a  year.  As  for  eating,  there  are  not  two  cardinals 
in  Rome  that  allow  more  than  six  paoli,  which  is 
three  shillings  a  day,  for  the  expense  of  their  ta- 
ble ;  and  you  may  imagine  they  are  still  less  ex- 


*  The  reader  will  find  this  among  Mr.  Walpole's  Fugitive 
Pieces. 
1  "  On  the  Abuse  of  Travelling,"  by  Gilbert.  West. 


LET.  39,  40. 


LETTERS. 


25 


mt  here  than  thoro.  But  when  thry  re- 
coivr  a  visit  from  any  frit'nd,  their  houses  and  per- 
sons are  set  out  to  the  greatest  advantage,  and  ap- 
pear in  all  their  sjik-ndour;  it  is,  indeed,  from  a 
motive  of  vanity,  and  with  the  hopes  of  having  it 
repaid  them  with  interest,  whenever  they  have  oc- 
casion to  return  the  visit.  I  call  visits  going  from 
one  city  of  Italy  to  another ;  for  it  is  not  so  among 
acquaintance  of  the  same  place  on  common  occa- 
sions. The  new  pope  has  retrenched  the  charges 
of  his  own  table  to  a  sequin  (ten  shillings)  a  meal 
The  applause  which  all  he  says  and  does  meet 
with,  is  enough  to  encourage  him  really  to  deserve 
fame.  They  say  he  is  an  able  and  honest  man 
he  is  reckoned  a  wit  too.  The  other  day,  when 
the  senator  of  Rome  came  to  wait  upon  him,  at  the 
first  compliments  he  made  him,  the  pope  pulled  off 
his  cap.  His  master  of  the  ceremonies,  who  stood 
by  his  side,  touched  him  softly,  as  to  warn  him 
that  such  a  condescension  was  too  great  in  him 
and  out  of  all  manner  of  rule.  Upon  which  he 
turned  to  him,  and  said,  "  Oh !  I  cry  you  mercy 
good  master :  it  is  true,  I  am  but  a  novice  of  a 
pope ;  I  have  not  yet  so  much  as  learned  ill  man- 
ners." *  *  * 


TO  HIS  FATHER. 

Florence,  Jan.  12, 1741. 

"We  still  continue  constant  at  Florence,  at  pre- 
sent one  of  the  dullest  cities  in  Italy.  Though  it 
is  the  middle  of  the  carnival,  there  are  no  public 
diversions :  nor  is  masquerading  permitted  as  yet 
The  emperor's  obsequies  are  to  be  celebrated  pub- 
licly on  the  IGth  of  this  month;  and  after  that,  it 
is  imagined  every  thing  will  go  on  in  its  usual 
course.  In  the  mean  time,  to  employ  the  minds 
of  the  populace,  the  government  has  thought  fit  to 
bring  into  the  city  in  a  solemn  manner,  and  at  a 
great  expense,  a  famous  statue  of  the  Virgin,  call- 
ed the  Madonna  dell'  Impruneta,  from  the  place 
&  her  residence,  which  is  upon  a  mountain  seven 
miles  off.  It  never  has  been  practised  but  at  times 
of  public  calamity;  and  was  done  at  present  to 
avert  the  ill  effects  of  a  late  great  inundation, 
which  it  was  feared  might  cause  some  epidemical 

.^r.  It  was  introduced  a  fortnight 
procession,  attended  by  the  council  of  regency,  the 
senate,  the  nobility,  and  all  the  religious  orders, 
on  foot  and  bare-headed,  and  so  carried  to  the 
great  church,  where  it  was  frequented  by  an  in- 
finite concourse  of  people  from  all  the  country 
round.  Among  the  rest,  I  paid  my  devotions  al- 
most every  day,  and  saw  numbers  of  people  pos- 
sessed  with  the  devil,  who  were  brought  to  be  ex- 
orcised. It  was  indeed  in  the  evening,  and  the 
church-doors  were  always  shut  before  the  ceremo- 
nies were  finished,  so  that  I  could  not  be  eye-wit- 


ness of  the  event ;  but  that  they  were  all  cured  is 
certain,  for  one  never  heard  any  more  of  them  the 
next  morning.  I  am  to-night  just  returned  from 
seeing  our  lady  make  her  exit  with  the  same  so- 
lemnities she  entered.  The  show  had  a  finer 
effect  than  before;  for  it  was  dark,  and  every  body 
(even  those  of  the  mob  that  could  afford  it)  bore  a 
white  wax  flambeaux.  I  believe  there  were  at 
least  five  thousand  of  them,  and  the  march  was 
near  three  hours  in  passing  before  the  window. 
The  subject  of  all  this  devotion  is  supposed  to  be 
a  large  tile  with  a  rude  figure  in  bas-relief  upon 
it.  I  say  supposed,  because  since  the  time  it  was 
found  (for  it  was  found  in  the  earth  in  ploughing) 
only  two  people  have  seen  it;  the  one  was,  by 
good  luck,  a  saint ;  the  other  was  struck  blind  for 
his  presumption.  Ever  since  she  has  been  covered 
with  seven  veils ;  nevertheless,  those  who  approach 
her  tabernacle  cast  their  eyes  down,  for  fear  they 
should  spy  her  through  all  her  veils.  Such  is  the 
history,  as  I  had  from  the  lady  of  the  house  where 
I  stood  to  see  her  pass;  with  many  other  circum- 
stances: all  of  which  she  firmly  believes,  and  ten 
thousand  besides. 

We  shall  go  to  Venice  in  about  six  weeks,  or 
sooner.  A  number  of  German  troops  are  upon 
their  march  into  this  state,  in  case  the  King  of 
Naples  thinks  proper  to  attack  it.  It  is  certain 
that  he  asked  the  Pope's  leave  for  his  troops  to 
pass  through  his  country.  The  Tuscans  in  gene- 
ral are  much  discontented,  and  foolish  enough  to 
wish  for  a  Spanish  government,  or  any  rather 
than  this.  *  *  * 


TO  MR.  WEST. 

Florence,  April  21, 1741. 

I  KNOW  not  what  degree  ,of  satisfaction  it  will 
give  you  to  be  told  that  we  shall  set  out  from 

hence  the  24th  of  this  month,  and  not  stop  above 
a  fortnight  at  any  place  in  our  way.  This  I  feel, 
that  you  are  the  principal  pleasure  I  have  to  hope 
for  in  my  own  country.  Try  at  least  to  make  me 
imagine  myself  not  indifferent  to  you ;  for  I  must 
own  I  have  the  vanity  of  desiring  to  be  esteemed 

ay  somebody,  and  would  choose  that  somebody 
ago  in  -should  be  one  whom  I  esteem  as  much  as  I  do 
you.  As  I  am  recommending  myself  to  your  love, 
methinks  I  ought  to  send  you  my  picture  (for  I  am 
no  more  what  I  was,  some  circumstances  except- 
ed,  which  I  hope  I  need  not  particularize  to  you); 
you  must  add  then,  to  your  former  idea,  two  years 

f  age,  a  reasonable  quantity  of  dulness,  a  great 
deal  of  silence,  and  something  that  rather  resem- 

iles,  than  is,  thinking ;  a  confused  notion  of  many 
strange  and  fine  things  that  have  swum  before 
my  eyes  for  some  time,  a  want  of  love  for  general 
society,  indeed,  an  inability  to  it.  On  the  good 


26 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


LET.  41. 


side  you  may  add  a  sensibility  for  what  others 
feel,  and  indulgence  for  their  faults  or  weaknesses 
a  love  of  truth,  and  detestation  of  every  thing  else 
Then  you  are  to  deduct  a  little  impertinence,  a 
little  laughter,  a  great  deal  of  pride,  and  some  spi 
rits.  These  are  all  the  alterations  I  know  of,  you 
perhaps  may  find  more.  Think  not  that  I  have 
been  obliged  for  this  reformation  of  manners  to 
reason  or  reflection,  but  to  a  severer  school-mis- 
tress, experience.  One  has  little  merit  in  learning 
her  lessons,  for  one  can  not  well  help  it;  but  they 
are  more  useful  than  others,  and  imprint  them- 
selves in  the  very  heart.  1  find  I  have  been  ha- 
ranguing in  the  style  of  the  son  of  Sirach,  so  shall 
finish  here,  and  tell  you  that  our  route  is  settled 
as  follows :  first  to  Bologna  for  a  few  days,  to  hear 
the  Viscontina  sing;  next  to  Reggio,  where  is  a 
fair.  Now,  you  must  know,  a  fair  here,  is  not  a 
place  where  one  eats  gingerbread  or  rides  upon 
hobby-horses;  here  are  no  musical  clocks,  nor 
tall  Leicestershire  women;  one  has  nothing  but 
masquing,  gaming,  and  singing.  If  you  love  operas, 
there  will  be  the  most  splendid  in  Italy,  four  tip- 
top voices,  a  new  theatre,  the  duke  and  dutchess  in 
all  their  pomps  and  vanities.  Does  not  this  sound 
magnificent  1  Yet  is  the  city  of  Reggio  but  one 
step  above  old  Brentford.  Well;  next,  to  Venice 
by  the  llth  of  May,  there  to  see  the  old  Doge  wed 
the  Adriatic  whore.  Then  to  Verona,  so  to  Milan, 
so  to  Marseilles,  so  to  Lyons,  so  to  Paris,  so  to 
West,  &c.  in  scecula  soeculorum.  Amen. 

Eleven  months,  at  different  times,  have  I  passed 
at  Florence;  and  yet  (God  help  me)  know  not 
either  people  or  language.  Yet  the  place  and  the 
charming  prospects  demand  a  poetical  farewell, 
and  here  it  is. 

*    *    Oh  Faesulse  amoena 
Frigoribusjuga,  nee  nimium  spirantibus  auris, 
Alma  quibua  Tusci  Pallas  Deus  Apennini 
Esse  dedit,  glaucaque  sua  canescere  silva ! 
Non  ego  vos  poethac  Ami  de  valle  videbo 
Porticibus  circum,  et  candenti  cincta  corona 
Villarum  longe  nitido  consurgere  dorso, 
Antiquamve  eedem,  et  veteres  praeferre  cupressus 
Mirabor,  tectisque  super  pendentia  tecta. 

I  will  send  you,  too,  a  pretty  little  sonnet  of  a 
Signor  Abbate  Buondelmonte,  with  my  imitation 
of  it. 

Spesso  Amor  sotto  la  forma 
D'amista  ride,  e  s'asconde : 
Poi  si  mischia,  e  si  confonde 
Con  lo  sdegno,  e  col  rancor. 
In  Pietade  ei  si  transforma; 
Par  trastullo,  e  par  dispetto : 
Ma  nelsuo  diverse  aspetto : 
Sempr'egli,  e  1'istesao  Amor. 
Lusit  amicitiffi  interdum  velatus  amictu, 
Et  bone,  composite  veste  fefellit  Amor. 
Mox  iras  assumsit  cultus,  faciemque  minantem, 
Inque  odium  versus,  versus  et  in  lacrymas : 
Ludentem  fuge,  nee  lacrymanti,  aut  crede  iurenti ; 
Idem  est  dissimili  semper  in  ore  Deus. 


Here  comes  a  letter  Irom  you.  —I  must  defer 
giving  my  opinion  of  Pausanias*  till  I  can  see  the 
whole,  and  only  have  said  what  I  did  in  obedience 
to  your  commands.  I  have  spoken  with  such 
freedom  on  this  head,  that  it  seems  but  just  you 
should  have  your  revenge;  and  therefore  I  send 
you  the  beginning,  not  of  an  epic  poem,  but  of  a 
metaphysic  one.t  Poems  and  metaphysics  (say 
you,  with  your  spectacles  on)  are  inconsistent 
things.  A  metaphysical  poem  is  a  contradiction 
in  terms.  It  is  true,  but  I  will  go  on.  It  is  Latin 
too,  to  increase  the  absurdity.  It  will,  I  suppose, 
put  you  in  mind  of  the  man  who  wrote  a  treatise 
of  canon  law  in  hexameters.  Pray  help  me  to 
the  description  of  a  mixed  mode,  and  a  little  epi- 
sode about  space. 


Mr.  Walpole  and  Mr.  Gray  set  out  from  Flo- 
rence at  the  time  specified  in  the  foregoing  letter. 
When  Mr.  Gray  left  Venice,  which  he  did  the 
middle  of  July  following,  he  returned  home 
through  Padua,  Verona,  Milan,  Turin,  and 
Lyons;  from  all  which  places  he  writ  either  to  his 
?ather  or  mother  with  great  punctuality:  but  mere- 
y  to  inform  them  of  his  health  and  safety;  about 
which  (as  might  be  expected)  they  were  now  very 
anxious,  as  he  travelled  with  only  a  "  Laquais  de 
Voyage."  These  letters  do  not  even  mention  that 
ie  went  out  of  his  way  to  make  a  second  visit  to 
the  Grande  Chartreuse,  and  there  wrote  in  the 
Album  of  the  Fathers  the  Alcaic  Ode; 

Oh  Tu,  severi  Religio  loci,  &c.—See  Poems. 

He  was  at  Turin  the  15th  of  August,  and  began 
to  cross  the  Alps  the  next  day.  On  the  25th  he 
reached  Lyons;  therefore  it  must  have  been  be- 
tween these  two  dates  that  he  made  this  visit. 


FROM  MR.  WEST. 

I  WRITE  to  make  you  write,  for  I  have  not  much 
to  tell  you.  I  have  recovered  no  spirits  as  yet,* 
mt,  as  I  am  not  displeased  with  my  company,  I 
sit  purring  by  the  fireside  in  my  arm-chair  with 
no  small  satisfaction.  I  read  too  sometimes,  and 
lave  begun  Tacitus,  but  have  not  yet  read  enough 
;o  judge  of  him ;  only  his  Pannonian  sedition  in 
he  first  book  of  his  annals,  which  is  just  as  far 


'  Some  part  of  a  tragedy  under  that  title,  which  Mr.  West 
lad  begun. 

T  The  beginning  of  the  first  book  of  a  didactic  poem,  "De 
rincipiis  Cogitandi." — See  Poems. 
}  The  distresses  of  Mr.  West's  mind  had  already  too  far  af- 
ected  a  body,  from  the  first  weak  and  delicate.    His  health 
.eclined  daily,  and,  therefore,  he  left  town  in  March,  1742,  and, 
or  the  benefit  of  the  air,  went  to  David  Mitchell's,  Esq.  at 
Popes,  near  Hatfield,  Hertfordshire;  at  whose  house  he  died 
the  1st  of  June  following. 


LET.  42. 


LETTERS. 


-27 


as  I  have  got,  seemed  to  me  a  little  tedious.  I  have 
no  more  to  say,  but  to  desire  you  will  write  letters 
of  a  handsome  length,  and  always  answer  me 
within  a  reasonable  space  of  time,  which  I  leave 
to  your  discretion. 

Popes,  March  23, 1742. 

P.  S.  The  new  Dunciad!  qu?en  pensez  vous? 


TO  MR.  WEST* 

I  TRUST  to  the  country,  and  that  easy  indolence 
you  say  you  enjoy  there,  to  restore  you  your 
health  and  spirits ;  and  doubt  not  but,  when  the 
sun  grows  warm  enough  to  tempt  you  from  your 
fireside,  you  will  (like  all  other  things)  be  the  bet- 
ter for  his  influence.  He  is  my  old  friend,  and  an 
excellent  nurse,  I  assure  you.  Had  it  not  been 
for  him,  life  had  been  often  to  me  intolerable. 
Pray  do  not  imagine  that  Tacitus,  of  all  authors  in 
the  world,  can  be  tedious.  An  annalist,  you 
know,  is  by  no  means  master  of  his  subject;  and 
I  think  one  may  venture  to  say,  that  if  those  Pan- 
nonian  affairs  are  tedious  in  his  hands,  in  another's 
they  would  have  been  insupportable.  However, 
fear  not,  they  will  soon  be  over,  and  he  will  make 
ample  amends.  A  man,  who  could  join  the  bril- 
liant of  wit  and  concise  sententiousness  peculiar 
to  that  age,  with  the  truth  and  gravity  of  better 
times,  and  the  deep  reflection  and  good  sense  of 
the  best  moderns,  can  not  choose  but  have  some- 
thing to  strike  you.  Yet  what  I  admire  in  him 
above  all  this,  is  his"  detestation  of  tyranny,  and  the 
high  spirit  of  liberty  that  every  now  and  then 
breaks  out  as  it  were,  whether  he  would  or  no.  I 
remember  a  sentence  in  his  Agricola  that  (concise 
as  it  is)  I  always  admired  for  saying  much  in  a 
little  compass.  He  speaks  of  Domitian,  who  upon 
seeing  the  last  will  of  that  general,  where  he  had 
made  him  coheir  with  his  wife  and  daughter, 
"  Satis  constabat  l&tatum  eum^  velut  honore,  ju- 
dicioque :  tarn  caeca  et  corrupta  mens  assiduis  adu- 
lationibus  erat,  ut  nesciret  a  bono  patre  non  scribi 
hceredem,  nisi  malum  principem." 

As  to  the  Dunciad,  it  is  greatly  admired :  the 
genii  of  Operas  and  Schools,  with  their  attendants, 
the  pleas  of  the  Virtuosos  and  Florists,  and  tho 
yawn  of  Dulness  in  the  end,  are  as  fine  as  any 
tiling  he  has  written.  The  Metaphysician's  part 
is  to  me  the  worst ;  and  here  and  there  a  few  ill 
expressed  lines,  and  some  hardly  intelligible. 

I  take  the  liberty  of  sending  you  a  lonir 
of  Agrippina  ;t  much  too  long,  but  I  would  be  glad 


*  Mr.  Gray  came  to  town  about  the  1st  of  September,  1741. 
His  lather  died  the  6th  of  November  following,  at  the  age  of 
sixty-five.  The  latter  end  of  the  subsequent  year  he  went 
to  Cambridge  to  take  hia  bachelor's  degree  in  civil  law. 

t  See  Poems. 


you  would  retrench  it.  Aceronia,  you  may  re- 
member, had  been  giving  quiet  counsels.  I  fancy, 
if  it  ever  be  finished,  it  will  be  in  the  nature  of 
Nat.  Lee's  bedlam  tragedy,  which  had  twenty-five 
acts,  and  some  odd  scenes. 


FROM  MR.  WEST. 

Popes,  April  4, 1742. 

I  OWN,  in  general,  I  think  Agrippina's  speech 
too  long ;  but  how  to  retrench  it,  I  know  not :  but 
I  have  something  else  to  say,  and  that  is  in  relation 
to  the  style,  which  appears  to  me  too  antiquated. 
Racine  was  of  another  opinion  :  he  no  where  gives 
you  the  phrases  of  Ronsard :  his  language  is  the 
language  of  the  times,  and  that  of  the  purest  sort; 
so  that  his  French  is  reckoned  a  standard.  I  will 
not  decide  what  style  is  fit  for  our  English  stage : 
but  I  should  rather  choose  one  that  bordered  upon 
Cato,  than  upon  Shakspeare.  One  may  imitate 
(if  one  can)  Shakspeare's  manner,  his  surprising 
strokes  of  true  nature,  his  expressive  force  in 
painting  characters,  and  all  his  other  beauties;  pre- 
serving, at  the  same  time,  our  own  language.  Were 
Shakspeare  alive  now,  he  would  write  in  a  differ- 
ent style  from  what  he  did.  These  are  my  senti- 
ments upon  these  matters :  perhaps  I  am  wrong, 
for  I  am  neither  a  Tarpa,  nor  am  I  quite  an  Aris- 
tarchus.  You  see  I  write  freely  both  of  you  and 
Shakspeare ;  but  it  is  as  good  as  writing  not  freely, 
where  you  know  it  is  acceptable. 

I  have  been  tonnented  within  this  week  with  a 
most  violent  cough ;  for  when  once  it  sets  up  its 
note,  it  will  go  on,  cough  after  cough,  shaking  and 
tearing  me  for  half  an  hour  together ;  and  then  it 
leaves  me  in  a  great  sweat,  as  much  fatigued  as  if 
I  had  been  labouring  at  the  plough.  All  this  de- 
scription of  my  cough  in  prose,  is  only  to  introduce 
another  description  of  it  in  verse,  perhaps  not  worth 
your  perusal ;  but  it  is  very  short,  and  besides  has 
this  remarkable  in  it,  that  it  was  the  production  of 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  while  I  lay  in  my  bed 
tossing  and  coughing,  and  all  unable  to  sleep. 

Ante  omnes  morbos  importunissima  tussis, 
Qua  durare  datur,  traxitque  sub  ilia  vires : 
Dura  etenim  versans  imo  sub  pectore  regna, 
Perpetuo  exercet  teneras'luctamine  costas, 
Oraque  distorquet,  vocemque  immutat  anhclam ; 
Nee  cessare  locus :  sed  ssevo  concita  motu, 
Molle  domat  latus,  et  corpus  lalwr  omne  fatigat: 
Unde  molesta  dies,  noctemque  insomnia  turbant. 
Nee  Tua,  si  mecum  Comes  hie  jucundus  adesses, 
Verba  juvare  qucant,  aut  hunc  Icnire  dolon  in 
Sufficiant  tua  vox  dukis,  nee  fultus  amatus. 

Do  not  mistake  me,  I  do  not  condemn  Tacitus : 
I  was  then  inclined  to  find  him  trdious :  the  Ger- 
man sedition  sufficiently  made  up  for  it ;  and  the 
speech  of  Germanicus,  by  which  he  reclaims  his 
soldiers,  is  quite  masterly.  Your  new  Dunciad  I 


28 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


LET.  43,  44. 


have  no  conception  of.     I  shall  be  too  late  for  our 
dinner  if  I  write  any  more.  Yours. 


TO  DR.  WHARTON  * 

Cambridge,  December  27, 1742. 
I  OUGHT  to  have  returned  you  my  thanks  a  long 


TO  DR.  WHARTON. 

Peterhouse,  April  26,  1744. 

You  write  so  feelingly  to  Mr.  Brown,  and  re- 
present your  abandoned  condition  in  terms  so  touch- 
ing, that  what  gratitude  could  not  effect  in  several 
months,  compassion  -has  brought  about  in  a  few 


time  ago,  for  the  pleasure,  I  should  say  prodigy,  of  days ;  and  broke  that  strong  attachment,  or  rather 
your  letter;  for  such  a  thing  has  not  happened  .allegiance,  which  I  and  all  here  owe  to  our  sove- 
above  twice  within  this  last  age  to  mortal  man,  reign  lady  and  mistress,  the  president  of  presidents 
and  no  one  here  can  conceive  what  it  may  portend,  'and  head  of  heads,  (if  I  may  be  permitted  to  pro- 
You  have  heard,  I  suppose,  how  I  have  been  em-  nounce  her  name,  that  ineffable  Octogrammaton) 
ployed  a  part  of  the  time ;  how,  by  my  own  inde-  the  power  of  Laziness.  You  must  know  she  had 
fatigable  application  for  these  ten  years  past,  and  .been  pleased  to  appoint  me  (in  preference  to  so 
by  the  care  and  vigilance  of  that  worthy  magis-  many  old  servants  of  hers  who  had  spent  their 
trate,  the  man  in  blue,t  (who,  I  assure  you,  has  \  whole  lives  in  qualifying  themselves  for  the  office) 
not  spared  his  labour,  nor  could  have  done  more  'grand  picker  of  straws  and  push-pin  player  to  her 
for  his  own  son)  I  am  got  half  way  to  the  top  of  supinity,  (for  that  is  her  title.)  The  first  is  much 


jurisprudence,^  and^bid  as  fair  as  another  body  to 
open  a  case  of  impotency  with  all  decency  and  cir- 
cumspection. You  see  my  ambition.  I  do  not 


in  the  nature  of  lord  president  of  the  council ;  and 
the  other  like  the  groom-porter,  only  without  the 
profit ;  but  as  they  are  both  things  of  very  great 


r ^       _.  ^  ~"-J    fe*~" 

doubt  but  some  thirty  years  hence  I  shall  convince  j  honour  in  this  country,  I  consider  with  myself  the 
the  world  and  you  that  I  am  a  very  pretty  young  load  of  envy  attending  such  great  charges ;  and 


fellow;  and  may  come  to  shine  in  a  profession, 
perhaps  the  noblest  of  all,  except  man-midwifery. 
As  for  you,  if  your  distemper  and  you  can  but 
agree  about  going  to  London,  I  may  reasonably  ex- 
pect, in  a  much  shorter  time,  to  see  you  in  your 
three-cornered  villa,  doing  the  honours  of  a  well 
furnished  table  with  as  much  dignity,  as  rich  a 
mien,  and  as  capacious  a  belly,  as  Dr.  Mead.  Me- 
thinks  I  see  Dr.  *  *,  at  the  lower  end  of  it,  lost  in 
admiration  of  your  goodly  person  and  parts,  cram- 
ming down  his  envy  (for  it  will  rise)  with  the  wing 
of  a  pheasant,  and  drowning  it  in  neat  Burgundy. 
But  not  to  tempt  your  asthma  too  much  with  such 
a  prospect,  I  should  think  you  might  be  almost  as 
happy  and  as  great  as  this  even  in  the  country. 
But  you  know  best,  and  I  should  be  sorry  to  say 
any  thing  that  might  stop  you  in  the  career  of 
glory ;  far  be  it  from  me  to  hamper  the  wheels  of 
your  gilded  chariot.  Go  on,  Sir  Thomas;  and 
when  you  die,  (for  even  physicians  must  die)  may 
the  faculty  in  Warwick-lane  erect  your  statue  in 
the  very  niche  of  Sir  John  Cutler's. 

I  was  going  to  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  for  your 
illness,  but  I  hope  it  is  too  late  now :  I  can  only 
say  that  I  really  was  very  sorry.  May  you  live  a 
hundred  Christmases,  and  eat  as  many  collars  of 
brawn  stuck  with  rosemary.  Adieu,  &c. 


•  Of  Old-Park,  near  Durham.  With  this  gentleman  Mr. 
Gray  contracted  an  acquaintance  very  early ;  and  though  they 
were  not  educated  at  Eton,  yet  afterwards  at  Cambridge,  when 
the  doctor  was  fellow  of  Pembroke-Hall,  they  became  intimate 
friends,  and  continued  so  to  the  time  of  Mr.  Gray's  death. 

t  A  servant  of  the  vice-chancellor's  for  the  time  being,  usu 


besides  (between  you  and  me)  1  found  myself  una- 
ble to  support  the  fatigue  of  keeping  up  the  ap- 
pearance that  persons  of  such  dignity  must  do ;  so 
I  thought  proper  to  decline  it,  and  excused  myself 
as  well  as  I  could.  However,  as  you  see  such  an 
affair  must  take  up  a  good  deal  of  time,  and  it  has 
always  been  the  policy  of  this  court  to  proceed 
slowly,  like  the  Imperial  and  that  of  Spain,  in  the 
dispatch  of  business  you  will  on  this  account  the 
easier  forgive  me,  if  I  have  not- answered  your  let- 
ter before. 

You  desire  to  know,  it  seems,  what  character 
the  poem  of  your  young  friend  bears  here.*  I 
wonder  that  you  ask  the  opinion  of  a  nation,  where 
those,  who  pretend  to  judge,  do  not  judge  at  all ; 
and  the  rest,  (the  wiser  part)  wait  to  catch  the 
judgment  of  the  world  immediately  above  them; 
that  is,  Dick's  and  the  Rainbow  Coffee-houses. — 
Your  readier  way  would  be  to  ask  the  ladies  that 
keep  the  bars  in  those  two  theatres  of  criticism. 
However,  to  show  you  that  I  am  a  judge,  as  well 
as  my  countrymen,  I  will  tell  you,  though  I  have 
rather  turned  it  over  than  read  it  (but  no  matter ; 
no  more  have  they,)  that  it  seems  to  me  above  the 
middling;  and  now  and  then,  for  a  little  while, 
rises  even  to  the  best,  particularly  in  description. 
It  is  often  obscure,  and  even  unintelligible ;  and 
too  much  infected  with  the  Hutchinson  jargon.  In 
short,  its  great  fault  is,  that  it  was  published  at 


Pleasures  of  the  Imagination:— From  the  posthumous 
publication  of  Dr.  Akenside's  Poems,  it  should  seem  that  the 

,  „ — .,„.„„„.  „.- ..„.„.„»  „..«,  „„.„,  -^"i;,,  "^    autlior  had  very  much  the  same  opinion  afterwards  of  his  own 

ally  known  by  the  name  of  Blue  Coat,  whose  business  it  is  to  I  works  which  Mr.  Gray  here  expresses ;  since  he  undertook  a 
Attend  acts  for  degrees,  &c.  .reform  of  it,  which  must  have  given  him,  had  he  concluded 

$  i.  e.  Bachelor  of  civil  law,  '  it^  as  much  trouble  as  if  he  had  written  it  entirely  new. 


LET.  45,  46. 


LETTERS. 


least  nine  y«  or-  too  parly.  And  so  methinks  in  a 
few  words,  " a  la  mode  du  Temple"  I  have  very 
pertly  dispatched  what  may  perhaps  for  several 
years  have  employed  a  very  ingenious  man  worth 
fifty  of  myself. 

You  are  much  in  the  right  to  have  a  taste  for 
Socrates ;  he  was  a  divine  man.  I  must  tell  you 
by  way  of  news  of  the  place,  that  the  other  day  a 
certain  new  professor  made  an  apology  for  him  an 
hour  long  in  the  school* ;  and  all  the  world  brought 
in  Socrates  guilty,  except  the  people  of  his  own 
college. 

The  muse  is  gone,  and  left  me  in  far  worse  com- 
pany ;  if  she  returns,  you  will  hear  of  her.  As 
to  her  child*  (since  you  are  so  good  as  to  inquire 
after  it)  it  is  but  a  puling  chit  yet,  not  a  bit  grown 
to  speak  of;  I  believe,  poor  thing,  it  has  got  the 
worms,  that  will  carry  it  off  at  last.  Mr.  Trollope 
and  I  are  in  a  course  of  tar-water ;  he  for  his  pre- 
sent, and  I  for  my  future  distempers.  If  you  think 
it  will  kill  me,  send  away  a  man  and  horse  direct- 
ly ;  for  I  drink  like  a  fish. 


TO  MR.  WALPOLE. 

Cambridge,  Feb.  3, 1746. 

You  are  so  good  to  inquire  after  my  usual  time 
of  coming  to  town :  it  is  at  a  season  when  even 
you,  the  perpetual  friend  of  London,  will,  I  fear, 
hardly  be  in  it — the  middle  of  June :  and  I  com- 
monly return  hither  in  Septemlxr ;  a  month  when 
I  may  more  probably  find  you  at  home. 

Our  defeat  to  be  sure  is  a  rueful  affair  for  the 
honour  of  the  troops ;  but  the  duke  is  gone  it  seems 
with  the  rapidity  of  a  cannon-bullet  to  undefeat 
us  again.  The  common  people  in  town  at  least 
know  how  to  be  afraid  ;  but  we  are  such  uncom- 
mon people  here  as  to  have  no  more  sense  of  dan- 
ger, than  if  the  battle  had  been  fought  when  and 
where  the  battle  of  Cannae  was.  The  perception 
of  these  calamities  and  of  their  consequences,  that 
we  are  supposed  to  get  from  books,  is  so  faintly  im- 
pressed, that  we  talk  of  war,  famine,  and  pestilence, 
with  no  more  apprehension  than  of  a  broken  head, 
or  of  a  coach  overturned  between  York  and  Edin- 
burgh. I  heard  three  people,  sensible  middle  aged 
men  (when  the  Scotch  were  said  to  be  at  Stanford, 
and  actually  were  at  Derby.)  talking  of  hiring  a 
chaise  to  go  to  Caxton  (a  place  in  the  high  road) 
to  see  the  Pretender  and  the  highlanders  as  they 
passed. 

I  can  say  no  more  for  Mr.  Pope  (for  what  you 
keep  in  reserve  may  be  worse  than  all  the  rest.)  It 
is  natural  to  wish  the  finest  writer,  one  of  them, 
we  ever  had,  should  be  an  honest  man.  It  is  for 
the  interest  even  of  that  virtue,  whose  friend  he 


*  His  poem  "  De  Principiis  Coeitandi.' 


professed  himself,  and  whose  beauties  he  sung,  that 
he  should  not  be  found  a  dirty  animal.  But,  how- 
ever, this  is  Mr.  Warburton's  business,  not  mine, 
who  may  scribble  his  pen  to  the  stumps  and  all  in 
vain,  if  these  facts  are  so.  It  is  not  from  what  he 
told  me  about  himself  that  I  thought  well  of  him, 
but  from  a  humanity  and  goodness  of  heart,  ay, 
and  greatness  of  mind,  that  runs  through  his  pri- 
vate correspondence,  not  less  apparent  than  are  a 
thousand  little  vanities  and  weaknesses  mixed  with 
those  good  qualities ;  for  nobody  ever  took  him  for 
a  philosopher. 

If  you  know  any  thing  of  Mr.  Mann's  state  of 
health  and  happiness,  or  the  motions  of  Mr.  Chute 
homewards,  it  will  be  a  particular  favour  to  inform 
me  of  them,  as  I  have  not  heard  this  half-year 
from  them. 


TO  DR.  WHARTON. 

Cambridge,  December  11, 1746. 
I  WOULD  make  you  an  excuse  (as  indeed  I  ought,) 
if  they  were  a  sort  of  thing  I  ever  gave  any  credit 
to  myself  in  these  cases ;  but  I  know  they  are  ne- 
ver true.  Nothing  so  silly  as  indolence  when  it 
hopes  to  disguise  itself;  every  one  knows  it  by  its 
saunter,  as  they  do  his  majesty  (God  bless  him) 
at  a  masquerade,  by  the  firmness  of  his  tread  and 
the  elevation  of  his  chin.  However,  somewhat  I 
had  to  say  that  has  a  little  shadow  of  reason  in  it. 
I  have  been  in  town  (I  suppose  you  know)  flaunt- 
ing about  at  all  kind  of  public  places  with  two 
friends  lately  returned  from  abroad!  The  world 
itself  has  some  attractions  in  it  to  a  solitary  of  six 
years'  standing :  and  agreeable  well-meaning  peo- 
ple of  sense  (thank  heaven  there  are  so  few  of  them) ' 
are  my  peculiar  magnet.  It  is  no  wonder  then  if 
I  felt  some  reluctance  at  parting  with  them  so 
soon ;  or  if  my  spirits,  when  I  returned  back  to 
my  cell,  should  sink  for  a  time,  not  indeed  to  storm 
and  tempest,  but  a  good  deal  below  changeable. 
Besides,  Seneca  says  (and  my  pitch  of  philosophy 
does  not  pretend  to  be  much  above  Seneca,)  "  Nun- 
quam  mores,  quos  cztuli,  refero.  Aliquid  ex  eo 
quod  composui,  turbatur :  aliquid  ex  his,  quacfu- 
gavi,  redit."  And  it  will  happen  to  such  as  us, 
mere  imps  of  science.  Well  it  may,  when  wisdom 
herself  is  forced  often 

In  sweet  retired  solitude 
To  plume  her  feathers,  and  let  grow  her  wings, 
That  in  the  various  bustle  of  resort 
Were  all  too  ruffled,  and  sometimes  impaired. 

It  is  a  foolish  thing  that  without  money  one  can 
not  either  live  as  one  pleases,  or  where  and  with 
whom  one  pleases.  Swift  somewhere  says,  that 
money  is  liberty;  and  I  fear  money  is  friendship 
too  and  society,  and  almost  every  external  blessing. 
It  is  a  great,  though  an  ill-natured,  comfort,  to  see 


30 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


LET.  47. 


most  of  those  who  have  it  in  plenty,  without  plea- 
sure, without  liberty,  and  without  friends. 

I  am  not  altogether  of  your  opinion  as  to  your 


rageous  long  speech :  it  was  begun  about  four  years 
ago  (it  is  a  misfortune  you  know  my  age,  else  I 
might  have  added,  when  I  was  very  young.)  Poor 


historical  consolation  in  time  of  trouble:  a  calm  j  West  put  a  stop  to  that  tragic  torrent  he  saw 
melancholy  it  may  produce,  a  stiller  sort  of  despair !  breaking  in  upon  him : — have  a  care,  I  warn  you, 
(and  that  only  in  some  circumstances,  and  on  some  not  to  set  open  the  flood-gate  again,  lest  it  drown 


constitutions;)  but  I  doubt  no  real  comfort  or  con- 
tent can  ever  arise  in  the  human  mind,  but  from 
hope. 

I  take  it  very  ill  you  should  have  been  in  the 
twentieth  year  of  the  war,*  and  yet  say  nothing  of 
the  retreat  before  Syracuse:  is  it,  or  is  it  not,  the 


you  and  me  and  the  bishop  and  all. 

I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  you  treat  philosophy  and 
her  followers  like  a  parcel  of  monks  and  hermits, 
and  think  myself  obliged*  to  vindicate  a  profession 
I  honour,  bien  que  je  n'en  tienne  pas  boutique  (as 
Madame  Sevigne  says.)  The  first  man  that  ever 


finest  thing  you  ever  read  in  your  life  ?  And  how  j  bore  the  name,  if  you  remember,  used  to  say,  that 
does  Xenophon  or  Plutarch  agree  with  you  ?  For  life  was  like  the  Olympic  games  (the  greatest  pub- 
my  part  I  read  Aristotle,  his  poetics,  politics,  and  lie  assembly  of  his  age  and  country,)  where  some 
morals;  though  I  do  not  well  know  which  is  which,  came  to  show  their  strength  and  agility  of  body,  as 
In  the  first  place,  he  is  the  hardest  author  by  far  I  the  champions ;  others,  as  the  musicians,  orators, 
ever  meddled  with.  Then  he  has  a  dry  concise- :  poets,  and  historians,  to  show  their  excellence  in 
ness  that  makes  one  imagine  one  is  perusing  a  j  those  arts ;  the  traders  to  get  money ;  and  the  bet- 
table  of  contents  rather  than  a  book:  it  tastes  for  ter  sort,  to  enjoy  the  spectacle,  and  judge  of  all 
all  the  world  like  chopped  hay,  or  rather  like  these.  They  did  not  then  run  away  from  society 
chopped  logic;  for  he  has  a  violent  affection  to  that ;  for  fear  of  its  temptations :  they  passed  their  days 
art,  being  in  some  sort  his  own  invention;  so  that  in  the  midst  of  it:  conversation  was  their  business: 
he  often  loses  himself  in  little  trifling  distinctions ;  they  cultivated  the  arts  of  persuasion,  on  purpose 
and  verbal  niceties;  and,  what  is  worse,  leaves'  to  show  men  it  was  their  interest,  as  well  as  their 
you  to  extricate  him  as  well  as  you  can.  Thirdly,  I  duty,  not  to  be  foolish,  and  false,  and  unjust ;  and 
he  has  suffered  vastly  from  the  transcribblers,  that  too  in  many  instances  with  success :  which  is 


as  all  authors  of  great  brevity  necessarily  must. 
Fourthly  and  lastly,  he  has  abundance  of  fine 


not  very  strange ;  for  they  allowed  by  their  life  that 
their  lessons  were  not  impracticable ;  and  that  plea- 


TO  MR.  WALPOLE. 


uncommon  things,  which  makes  him  well  worth  j  sures  were  no  temptations,  but  to  such  as  wanted 
the  pains  he  gives  one.  You  see  what  you  are  to  a  clear  perception  of  the  pains  annexed  to  them.* 
expect  from  him.  But  I  have  done  speaking  a  la  Grecque.  Mr. 

Ratcliffet  made  a  shift  to  behave  very  rationally 
without  their  instructions,  at  a  season  which  they 
took  a  great  deal  of  pains  to  fortify  themselves  and 
others  against :  one  would  not  desire  to  lose  one's 
January,  1747.  head  with  a  better  grace.  I  am  particularly  satis- 

IT  is  doubtless  an  encouragement  to  continue !  fied  with  the  humanity  of  that  last  embrace  to  all 
writing  to  you,  when  you  tell  me  you  answer  me '  the  people  about  him.  Sure  it  must  be  somewhat 
with  pleasure :  I  have  another  reason  which  would ,  embarrassing  to  die  before  so  much  good  company ! 
make  me  very  copious,  had  I  any  thing  to  say:  it!  You  need  not  fear  but  posterity  will  be  ever  glad 
is,  that  I  write  to  you  with  equal  pleasure,  though '  to  know  the  absurdity  of  their  ancestors ;  the  fool- 
not  with  equal  spirits,  nor  with  like  plenty  of  ma-  ish  will  be  glad  to  know  they  were  as  foolish  as 
terials:  please  to  subtract  then  so  much  for  spirit,  j  they,  and  the  wise  will  be  glad  to  find  themselves 
and  so  much  for  matter;  and  you  will  find  me,  I  wiser.  You  will  please  all  the  world  then;  and 
hope,  neither  so  slow,  nor  so  short,  as  I  might  if  you  recount  miracles  you  will  be  believed  so 
otherwise  seem.  Besides,  I  had  a  mind  to  send  \  much  the  sooner.  We  are  pleased  when  we  won- 
you  the  remainder  of  Agrippina,  that  was  lost  in  tier ;  and  we  believe  because  we  are  pleased.  Folly 
a  wilderness  of  papers.  Certainly  you  do  her  too  and  wisdom,  and  wonder  and  pleasure,  join  with 

much  honour :  she  seemed  to  me  to  talk  like  an  j . 

Oldboy,  all  in  figures  and  mere  poetry,  instead  of  j     .  Never>  ^^  was  a  more  admirable  picturc  ^^  of 
nature  and  the  language  of  real  passion.     Do  you  true  philosophy  and  its  real  and  important  services ;  services 
remember  Approchez-vousJ  Neron. — Who  would   not  confined  to  the  speculative  opinions  of  the  studious,  but 
not  rather  have  thought  of  that  half  line  than  all  adaPted  tothe  common  purposes  of  life,  and  promoting  the  ge- 
Mr.  Rowe's  flowers  of  eloquence  7    However,  you  "eml  haPPinf  of  ™nkind  5  n°;  "P™  the  chimerical  basis 
........  -11  i  •  °'  a  system,  but  on  the  immutable  foundations  of  truth  and 

will  find  the  remainder  here  at  the  end  in  an  out-  vinue    g 

t  Brother  to  the  earl  of  Derwentwater.  He  was  executed 
at  Tyburn,  December,  1746,  for  having  been  concerned  in  the 
rebellion  in  Scotland.  B. 


*  Thucydides,  1,  vii. 

t  Agrippina,  in  Racine's  tragedy  of  Britannicus.   B. 


LET,  48, 49,  50. 


LETTERS. 


31 


me  in  desiring  you  would  continue  to  entertain 
them:  refuse  us,  if  you  can.     Adieu,  dear  Sir! 


TO  MR.  WALPOLE. 

Cambridge,  March  1, 1747. 

As  one  ought  to  be  particularly  careful  to  avoid 
blunders  in  a  compliment  of  condolence,  it  would 
be  a  sensible  satisfaction  to  me  (before  I  testify  my 
sorrow,  and  the  sincere  part  I  take  in  your  misfor- 
tune) to  know  for  certain,  who  it  is  I  lament.  I 
knew  Zara  and  Selima,  (Selima  was  it,  or  Fati- 
ma "?)  or  rather  I  knew  them  both  together ;  for  I 
can  not  justly  say  which  was  which. — Then  as  to 
your  handsome  cat,  the  name  you  distinguish  her 
by,  I  am  no  less  at  a  loss,  as  well  knowing  one's 
handsome  cat  is  always  the  cat  one  likes  best ;  or, 
if  one  be  alive  and  the  other  dead,  it  is  usually  the 
latter  that  is  the  handsomest.  Besides,  if  the  point 
were  never  so  clear,  I  hope  you  do  not  think  me  so 
ill-bred  or  so  imprudent  as  to  forfeit  all  my  interest 
in  the  survivor  :  Oh  no !  I  would  rather  seem  to 
mistake,  and  imagine  to  be  sure  it  must  be  the 
tabby  one  that  had  met  with  this  sad  accident. 
Till  this  affair  is  a  little  better  determined,  you  will 
excuse  me  if  I  do  not  begin  to  cry ; 

"Tempus  inane  peto,  requiem,  spatiumque  doloris." 
Which  interval  is  the  more  convenient,  as  it  gives 
time  to  rejoice  with  you  on  your  new  honours.* 
This  is  only  a  beginning ;  I  reckon  next  week  we 
shall  hear  you  are  a  free-mason,  or  a  gormogon  at 
least. — Heigh  ho !  I  feel  (as  you  to  be  sure  have 
done  long  since)  that  I  have  very  little  to  say,  at 
least  in  prose.  Somebody  will  be  the  better  for  it; 
I  do  not  mean  you,  but  your  cat,  feue  mademoi- 
selle Setime,  whom  I  am  about  to  immortalize  for 
one  week  or  fortnight,  as  follows  :t  *  *  *— There's 
a  poem  for  you ;  it  is  rather  too  long  for  an  epi- 
taph. 


TO  DR.  WHARTON. 

Stoke,  June  5, 1748. 

YOCR  friendship  has  interested  itself  in  my  af- 
faire so  naturally,  that  I  can  not  help  troubling 
you  a  little  with  a  detail  of  them.*  ******* 
And  now,  my  dear  Wharton,  why  must  I  tell  you 


*  Mr.  Walpole  was  about  this  time  elected  a  Fellow  of  the 
Royal  Society. 

1  The  reader  need  hardly  be  told,  that  the  4th  ode  in  the  col- 
lection of  his  poems  was  inserted  in  the  place  of  these  aster- 
isks. This  letter  (as  some  other  slight  ones  have  been)  is  print- 
ed  chiefly  to  mark  the  date  of  one  of  his  compositions. 

J  The  paragraph  here  omitted  contained  an  account  of  Mr. 
Gray's  loss  of  a  house  by  fire  in  Cornhill,  and  the  expense  he 
should  he  at  in  rebuilding  it.  Though  it  was  insured,  he 
could  at  this  time  ill  bear  to  lay  out  the  additional  sum  neces- 
sary for  the  purpose. 


a  thing  so  contrary  to  my  own  wishes  and  yours  1 
believe  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  see  you  in  the 
north,  or  to  enjoy  any  of  those  agreeable  hours  I 
had  flattered  myself  with.  This  business  will 
oblige  me  to  be  in  town  several  times  during  the 
summer,  particularly  in  August,  when  half  the 
money  is  to  be  paid ;  besides  the  good  people  here 
would  think  me  the  most  careless  and  ruinous  of 
mortals,  if  I  should  take  such  a  journey  at  this 
time.  The  only  satisfaction  I  can  pretend  to,  is 
that  of  hearing  from  you,  and  particularly  at  this 
time  when  I  was  bid  to  expect  the  good  news  of  an 
increase  of  your  family.  Your  opinion  of  Diodorus 
is  doubtless  right ;  but  there  are  things  in  him  very 
curious,  got  out  of  better  authorities  now  lost.  Do 
you  remember  the  Egyptian  history,  and  particu- 
larly the  account  of  the  gold  mines'?  My  own 
readings  have  been  cruelly  interrupted:  what  I 
have  been  highly  pleased  with,  is  the  new  comedy 
from  Paris  by  Gresset,  called  le  Mechant ;  if  you 
have  it  not,  buy  his  works  all  together  in  two  little 
volumes:  they  are  collected  by  the  Dutch  book- 
sellers, and  consequently  contain  some  trash ;  but 
then  there  are  the  Ververt,  the  epistle  to  P.  Bou- 
geant,  the  Chartreuse,  that  to  his  sister,  an  ode  on 
his  country,  and  another  on  mediocrity,  and  the 
Sidnei,  another  comedy,  all  which  have  great 
beauties.  There  is  also  a  poem  lately  published 
by  Thomson,  called  the  Castle  of  Indolence,  with 
some  good  stanzas  in  it.  Mr.  Mason  is  my  ac- 
quaintance; I  liked  that  ode  much,  but  have  found 
no  one  else  that  did.  He  has  much  fancy,  little 
judgment,  and  a  good  deal  of  modesty;  I  take  him 
for  a  good  and  well-meaning  creature ;  but  then 
he  is  really  in  simplicity  a  child,  and  loves  every 
body  he  meets  with:  he  reads  little  or  nothing; 
writes  abundance,  and  that  with  a  design  to  make 
his  fortune  by  it.  My  best  compliments  to  Mrs. 
Wharton  and  your  family :  does  that  name  include 
any  body  I  am  not  yet  acquainted  with  1  • 


TO  DR.  WHARTON. 

Cambridge,  August  8,  1749. 

I  promised  Dr.  Keene  long  since  to  give  you  an 
account  of  our  magnificence  here  ;*  but  the  news- 
papers and  he  himself  in  person,  have  got  the  start 
of  my  indolence,  so  that  by  this  time  you  are  well 
acquainted  with  all  the  events  that  adorned  that 
week  of  wonders.  Thus  much  I  may  venture  to 
tell  you,  because  it  is  probable  nobody  else  has 
done  it,  that  our  friend  *  *'s  zeal  and  eloquence 
surpassed  all  power  of  description.  Vesuvio  in  an 
eruption  was  not  more  violent  than  his  utterance, 
nor  (since  I  am  at  my  mountains)  Pelion,  with  all 


*  The  Duke  of  Newcastle's  Installation  as  Chancellor  of  the 
University. 


32 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


LET.  51,  52. 


its  pine-trees  in  a  storm  of  wind,  more  impetuous 
than  his  action ;  and  yet  the  senate-house  still 
stands,  and  (I  thank  God)  we  are  all  safe  and  well 
at  your  service.  I  was  ready  to  sink  for  him,  and 
scarce  dared  to  look  about  me,  when  I  was  sure  it 
was  all  over ;  but  soon  found  I  might  have  spared 
my  confusion ;  all  people  joined  to  applaud  him. 
Every  thing  was  quite  right ;  and  I  dare  swear  not 
three  people  here  but  think  him  a  model  of  oratory; 
for  all  the  duke's  little  court  came  with  a  resolu- 
tion to  be  pleased  ;  and  when  the  tone  was  once 
given,  the  university,  who  ever  wait  for  the  judg- 
ment of  their  betters,  struck  into  it  with  an  ad- 
mirable harmony:  for  the  rest  of  the  performances, 
they  were  just  what  they  usually  are.  Every  one, 
while  it  lasted,  was  very  gay  and  very  busy  in  the 
morning,  and  very  owlish  and  very  tipsy  at  night : 
I  make  no  exceptions  from  the  chancellor  to  blue- 
coat.  Mason's  ode  was  the  only  entertainment 
that  had  any  tolerable  elegance ;  and,  for  my  own 
part,  I  think  it  (with  some  little  abatements)  un- 
commonly well  on  such  an  occasion.  Pray  let  me 
know  your  sentiments ;  for  doubtless  you  have  seen 
it.  The  author  of  it  grows  apace  into  my  good 
graces,  as  I  know  him  more ;  he  is  very  ingenious, 
with  great  good-nature  and  simplicity ;  a  little  vain, 
but  in  so  harmless  and  so  comical  a  way,  that  it 
does  not  offend  one  at  all ;  a  little  ambitious,  but 
withal  so  ignorant  in  the  world  and  its  ways  that 
this  does  not  hurt  him  in  one's  opinion ;  so  sincere 
and  so  undisguised,  that  no  mind  with  a  spark  of 
generosity,  would  ever  think  of  hurting  him,  he 
lies  so  open  to  injury;  but  so  indolent,  that  if  he 
can  not  overcome  this  habit,  all  his  good  qualities 
will  signify  nothing  at  all.  After  all,  I  like  him 
so  well,  I  could  wish  you  knew  him. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Cambridge,  Nov.  7,  1749. 

THE  unhappy  newsj  have  just  received  from 
you  equally  surprises  and  afflicts  me.*  I  have  lost 
a  person  I  loved  very  much,  and  have  been  used  to 
from  my  infancy ;  but  am  much  more  concerned 
for  your  loss,  the  circumstances  of  which  I  forbear 
to  dwell  upon,  as  you  must  be  too  sensible  of  them 
yourself;  and  will,  I  fear,  more  and  more  need  a 
consolation  that  no  one  can  give,  except  He  who 
has  preserved  her  to  you  so  many  years,  and,  at 
last,  when  it  was  his  pleasure,  has  taken  her  from 
us  to  himself;  and  perhaps,  if  we  reflect  upon  what 
she  felt  in  this  life,  we  may  look  upon  this  as  an 


*  The  death  of  his,  aunt  Mrs.  Mary  Antrobus,  who  died  the 
5th  of  November,  and  was  buried  in  a  vault  in  Stoke  church- 
yard, near  the  chancel  door,  in  which  also  his  mother  and 
himself  (according  to  the  direction  in  his  will)  were  after 
wards  buried. 


nstance  of  his  goodness  both  to  her,  and  to  those 
hat  loved  her.  She  might  have  languished  many 
fears  before  our  eyes,  in  a  continual  increase  of 
pain,  and  totally  helpless;  she  might  have  long 
wished  to  end  her  misery  without  being  able  to  at- 
tain it ;  or  perhaps  even  lost  all  sense,  and  yet  con- 
tinued to  breathe ;  a  sad  spectacle  to  such  as  must 
lave  felt  more  for  her  than  she  could  have  done 
br  herself.  However  you  may  deplore  your  own 
oss,  yet  think  that  she  is  at  last  easy  and  happy: 
and  has  no  more  occasion  to  pity  us  than  we  her. 
[  hope,  and  beg,  you  will  support  yourself  with 
that  resignation  we  owe  to  Him,  who  gave  us  our 
being  for  our  good,  and  who  deprives  us  of  it  for 
the  same  reason.  I  would  have  come  to  you  di- 
rectly, but  you  do  not  say  whether  you  desire  I 
should  or  not ;  if  you  do,  I  beg  I  may  know  it,  for 
there  is  nothing  to  hinder  me,  and  I  am  in  very 
good  health. 


TO  MR.  WALPOLE. 

Stoke,  June  12, 1750. 

As  I  live  In  a  place,  where  even  the  ordinary 
tattle  of  the  town  arrives  not  till  it  is  stale,  and 
which  produces  no  events  of  its  own,  you  will  not 
desire  any  excuse  from  me  for  writing  so  seldom, 
especially  as  of  all  people  living  I  know  you  are 
the  least  a  friend  to  letters  spun  out  of  one's  own 
brains,  with  all  the  toil  and  constraint  that  accom- 
panies sentimental  productions.  I  have  been  here 
at  Stoke  a  few  days  (where  I  shall  continue  good 
part  of  the  summer;)  and  having  put  an  end  to  a 
thing,  whose  beginning  you  have  seen  long  ago, 
I  immediately  sent  it  you.*  You  will,  I  hope,  look 
upon  it  in  the  light  of  a  thing  with  an  end  to  it; 
a  merit  that  most  of  my  writings  have  wanted, 
and  are  like  to  want,  but  which  this  epistle  I  am 
determined  shall  not  want,  when  it  tells  you  that 
I  am  ever  Yours. 

Not  that  I  have  done  yet ;  but  who  could  avoid 
the  temptation  of  finishing  so  roundly  and  so  cle- 
verly in  the  manner  of  good  Glueen  Anne's  days? 
Now  I  have  talked  of  writings;  I  have  seen  a  book, 
which  is  by  this  time  in  the  press,  against  Middle- 
ton  (though  without  naming  him,)  by  Asheton. 
As  far  as  I  can  judge  from  a  very  hasty  reading, 
there  are  things  in  it  new  and  ingenious,  but 
rather  too  prolix,  and  the  style  here  and  there  sa- 
vouring too  strongly  of  sermon.  I  imagine  it  will 
do  him  credit.  So  much  for  other  people,  now  to 
self  again.  You  are  desired  to  tell  me  your  opinion, 
if  you  can  take  the  pains,  of  these  lines.  I  am 
once  more,  Ever  yours. 


This  was  the  Elegy  in  the  church-yard.— B. 


POEMS 


OF 


ODE  I. 

ON  THE  SPRING. 

Lo !  where  the  rosy-bosomed  hours, 

Fair  Venus'  train,  appear, 
Disclose  the  long-expecting  flowers, 

And  wake  the  purple  year, 
The  attic  warbler  pours  her  throat 
Responsive' to  the  cuckoo's  note, 

The  untaught  harmony  of  spring, 
While,  whispering  pleasure  as  they  fly, 
Cool  zephyrs  through  the  clear  blue  sky 

Their  gathered  fragrance  fling. 

Where'er  the  oak's  thick  branches  stretch 

A  broader,  browner  shade, 
Where'er  the  rude  and  moss-grown  beech 

O'er-canopies  the  glade.* 
Beside  some  water's  rushy  brink 
With  me  the  Muse  shall  sit,  and  think 

(At  ease  reclined  in  rustic  state) 
How  vain  the  ardour  of  the  crowd, 
How  low,  how  little,  are  the  proud, 

How  indigent  the  great. 

Still  is  the  toiling  hand  of  Care, 

The  panting  herds  repose, 
Yet  hark!  how  through  the  peopled  air, 

The  busy  murmur  glows! 
The  insect  youth  are  on  the  wing, 
Eager  to  taste  the  honeyed  spring, 

And  float  amid  the  liquid  noonjt 
Some  lightly  o'er  the  current  skim, 
Some  show  their  gayly-gilded  trim, 

duick-glancing  to  the  sun.* 


thank 


CVer-caoopied  with  luscious  woodbine. 

Shaksp.  Mid.  Dream. 
\  Nare  per  aeetatem  liquidam.     Virg.  Georg.  lib.  4. 

sporting  with  quick  glance, 

Show  to  the  am  their  waved  coats  dropt  with  cold. 

Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  b.  7. 


To  contemplation's  sober  eye,* 

Such  is  the  race  of  man, 
And  they  that  creep  and  they  that  fly 

Shall  end  where  they  began. 
Alike  the  busy  and  the  gay 
But  flutter  through  life's  little  day, 

In  fortune's  varying  colours  drest; 
Brushed  by  the  hand  of  rough  Mischance, 
Or  chilled  by  Age,  their  airy  dance 

They  leave,  in  dust  to  rest. 

Methinks  I  hear,  in  accents  low, 

The  sportive  kind  reply, 
Poor  moralist!  and  what  art  thou ? 

A  solitary  fly ! 

Thy  joys  no  glittering  female  meets, 
No  hive  hast  thou  of  hoarded  sweets, 

No  painted  plumage  to  display ; 
On  hasty  winfs  thy  youth  is  flown, 
Thy  sun  is  set,  thy  spring  is  gone — 

We  frolic  while  'tis  May. 


ODE  II. 

ON  THE  DEATH^OF  A  FAVOURITE  CAT, 

Drowned  in  a  Tub  of  Gold  Fishes. 
'TWAS  on  a  lofty  vase's  side, 
Where  China's  gayest  art  had  died 

The  azure  flowers  that  blow, 
Demurest  of  the  tabby  kind, 
The  pensive  Selima,  reclined, 

Gazed  on  the  lake  below. 

Her  conscious  tail  her  joy  declared; 
The  fair  round  face,  the  snowy  beard, 

The  velvet  of  her  paws, 
Her  coat  that  with  the  tortoise  vies, 
Her  ears  of  jet,  and  emerald  eyes, 

She  saw,  and  purred  applause. 


*  While  insects  from  the  threshold  preach,  «fcc. 
Mr.  Green  in  the  Grotto.   Dodsletfs  MisccUanies,  vol.  • 
p.  161. 


34 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


Still  had  she  gazed,  but,  'midst  the  tide, 
Two  angel  forms  were  seen  to  glide. 

The  Genii  of  the  stream: 
Their  scaly  armour's  Tyrian  hue, 
Through  richest  purple,  to  the  view 

Betrayed  a  golden  gleam. 

The  hapless  nymph  with  wonder  saw : 
A  whisker  first,  and  then  a  claw, 

With  many  an  ardent  wish, 
She  stretched  in  vain  to  reach  the  prize: 
What  female  heart  can  gold  despised 

What  Cat's  averse  to  fish? 

Presumptuous  maid !  with  looks  intent, 
Again  she  stretched,  again  she  bent, 

Nor  knew  the  gulf  between : 
(Malignant  Fate  sat  by  and  smiled,) 
The  slippery  verge  her  feet  beguiled; 

She  tumbled  headlong  in. 

Eight  times  emerging  from  the  flood, 
She  mewed  to  every  watery  god 

Some  speedy  aid  to  send. 
No  Dolphin  came,  no  Nereid  stirred, 
Nor  cruel  Tom  or  Susan  heard: 

A  fav'rite  has  no  friend ! 

From  hence,  ye  Beauties !  undeceived, 
Know  one  false  step  is  ne'er  retrieved, 

And  be  with  caution  bold: 
Not  all  that  tempts  your  wandering  eyes, 
And  heedless  hearts,  is  lawful  prize, 

Nor  all  that  glistens  gold. 

ODE  III. 

ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF  E^ON  COLLEGE. 

YE  distant  Spires!  ye  antique  Towers! 

That  crown  the  watery  glade 
Where  grateful  science  still  adores 

Her  Henry's*  holy  shade ; 
And  ye  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor's  heights  the,  expanse  below 

Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead,  survey, 
Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers  among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  silver-winding  way ; 

Ah  happy  hills !  ah  pleasing  shade ! 

Ah  fields  beloved  in  vain ! 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood  strayed, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain! 
I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow, 

As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing 
My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  sooth, 
And,  redolentt  of  joy  and  youth, 

To  breathe  a  second  spring. 


*  King  Henry  VI.  founder  of  the  College, 
t  And  beee  their  honey  redolent  of  spring. 

Dryderis  Fable  on  the  Pythag.  System, 


Say,  father  Thames!  forthou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race, 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green, 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace, 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave 
With  pliant  arm  thy  glassy  wave  7 

The  captive  linnet  which  enthral1? 
What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed, 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball  ? 

While  some,  on  earnest  business  bent, 

Their  murmuring  labours  ply 
'Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  constraint, 

To  sweeten  liberty ; 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  little  reign, 

And  unknown  regions  dare  descry 
Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind, 
They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 

And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 

Gay  hope  is  theirs,  by  fancy  fed, 

Less  pleasing  when  possest; 
The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed, 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast; 
Their  buxom  health  of  rosy  hue, 
Wild  wit,  invention  ever  new, 

And  lively  cheer  of  vigour  born ; 
The  thoughtless  day.  the  easy  night, 
The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light 

That  fly  the  approach  of  morn. 

Alas!  regardless  of  their  doom, 

The  little  victims  play ! 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come, 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day : 
Yet  see  how  all  around  'em  wait 
The  ministers  of  human  fate, 

And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train ! 
Ah !  show  them  where  in  ambush  stand, 
To  seize  their  prey,  the  murderous  band ! 

Ah !  tell  them  they  are  men. 

These  shall  the  fury  passions  tear, 

The  vultures  of  the  mind; 
Disdainful  anger,  pallid  fear, 

And  shame  that  skulks  behind; 
Or  pining  love  shall  waste  their  youth, 
Or  jealousy,  with  rankling  tooth, 

That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart ; 
And  envy  wan,  and  faded  care, 
Grim-visaged,  comfortless  despair, 

And  sorrow's  piercing  dart. 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise, 
Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high, 

To  bitter  scorn  a  sacrifice. 
And  grinning  infamy, 

The  stings  of  falsehood  those  shall  try, 

And  hard  unkindness'  altered  eye, 


ODES. 


35 


That  mocks  the  tear  it  forced  to  flow; 
And  keen  remorse,  with  blood  defiled, 
And  moody  madness*  laughing  wild 

Amid  severest  wo. 

Lo !  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 

A  grisly  troop  are  seen, 
The  painful  family  of  death, 

More  hideous  than  their  queen : 
This  racks  the  joints,  this  lires  the  veins, 
That  every  lab'ring  sinew  .strains, 

Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage ; 
Lo  !  poverty  to  fill  the  band, 
That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand, 

And  slow-consuming  age. 

To  each  his  sufferings ;  all  are  men 

Condemned  alike  to  groan, 
The  tender  for  another's  pain, 

Th'  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
Yet  ah!  why  should  they  know  their  fate 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies  7 
Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise, 
No  more ;  where  ignorance  is  bliss 

'Tis  folly  to  be  wise. 


ODE  IV. 

TO  ADVERSITY. 

DAUGHTER  of  Jove,  relentless  power, 

Thou  tamer  of  the  human  breast, 
Whose  iron  scourge  and  torturing  hour 

The  bad  affright,  afflict  the  best ! 
Bound  in  thy  adamantine  chain, 
The  proud  are  taught  to  taste  of  pain, 
And  purple  tyrants  vainly  groan 
With  pangs  unfelt  before,  unpitied  and  alone. 

When  first  thy  sire  to  send  on  earth 

Virtue,  his  darling  child,  designed, 
To  thee  he  gave  the  heavenly  birth, 

And  bade  to  form  her  infant  mind ; 
Stern  rugged  nurse !  thy  rigid  lore 
With  patience  many  a  year  she  bore  : 
What  sorrow  was  tliou  bad'st  her  know,      9 
And  from  her  own  she  learned  to  melt  at  others' 
wo. 

Sacred  at  thy  frown  terrific  fly 

Self-pleasing  folly's  idle  brood, 
Wild  laughter,  noise  and  thoughtless  joy, 

And  leave  us  leisure  to  be  good. 
Light  they  ,.l  with  them  go 

The  summer  friend,  the  flattering  foe : 
By  vain  prosperity  received, 
To  her  they  vow  their  truth,  and  are  again  be- 
lieved. 


'  And  Madness  li'ii-liin-  i;i  Ins  ireful  mood. 

Dryden's  Fable  of  Palamon  and  Arctic. 


Wisdom,  in  sable  garb  arrayed, 
Immersed  in  rapt'rous  thought  profound, 

And  melancholy,  silent  maid, 
With  leaden  eye,  that  loves  the  ground, 

Still  on  thy  solemn  steps  attend ; 

Warm  charity,  the  general  friend, 

With  justice,  to  herself  severe, 

And  pity,  dropping  soft  the  sadly-pleasing  tear. 

Oh !  gently  on  thy  suppliant's  head, 

Dread  goddess !  lay  thy  chastening  hand, 
Not  in  thy  Gorgon  terrors  clad, 

Nor  circled  with  the  vengeful  band ; 
(As  by  the  impious  thou  art  seen,) 
With  thundering  voice  and  threatening  mien, 
With  screaming  horror's  funeral  cry, 
Despair,  and  fell  disease,  and  ghastly  poverty. 

Thy  form  benign,  O  Goddess !  wear, 

Thy  milder  influence  impart, 
Thy  philosophic  train  be  there, 

To  soften,  not  to  wound  my  heart : 
The  generous  spark  extinct  revive ; 
Teach  me  to  love  and  to  forgive ; 
Exact  my  own  defects  to  scan, 
What  others  are  to  feel,  and  know  myself  a  man. 


ODE  V. 

THE  PROGRESS  OF  POESY. — PINDARIC. 

Advertisement. 
When  (he  author  first  published  this  and  the  following  Ode, 
he  was  advised,  even  by  his  friends,  to  subjoin  some  few 
explanatory  notes,  but  had  too  much  respect  for  the  under- 
standing of  liis  readers  to  take  that  liberty 

I.  1. 

AWAKE,  ^Eolian  lyre !  awake,* 

And  give  to  rapture  all  thy  trembling  strings ; 

From  Helicon's  harmonious  springs 

A  thousand  rills  their  mazy  progress  take ; 

The  laughing  flowers,  that  round  them  blow, 

Drink  life  and  fragrance  as  they  flow. 

N^ow  the  rich  stream  of  music  winds  along 

Deep,  majestic,  smooth,  and  strong, 

Through  verdant  vales  and  Ceres'  golden  reign ; 

N"ow  rolling  down  the  steep  amain, 

Headlong,  impetous,  see  it  pour ; 

The  rocks  and  nodding  groves  rebellow  to  the  roar. 


*  Awake,  my  glory !  awake,  lute  and  harp. 

David's  Psalms. 
Pindar  styles  his  own  poetry,  with  its  musical  accompani- 
ments, jEolian  song,  jEolian  strings,  the  breath  of  the  ./Eolian 
flute.    The  subject  and  simile,  as  usual  with  Pindar,  are  here 

nited.    The  various  sources  of  poetry,  which  gives  life  and 

ustre  to  all  it  touches,  are  here  described,  as  well  in  its  quiet 
majestic  progress,  enriching  every  subject  (otherwise  dry  and 

jarren)  with  all  the  pomp  of  diction,  and  luxuriant  harmony 
rf numbers,  as  in  its  more  rapid  and  irresistible  course  when 

wollen  and  hurried  away  by  the  conflict  of  tumultuous  pas- 


36 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


1.2. 

Oh  sovereign*  of  the  willing  soul, 
Parent  of  sweet  and  solemn-breathing  airs, 
Enchanting  shell !  the  sullen  cares 
And  frantic  passions  hear  thy  soft  control. 
On  Thracia's  hills  the  lord  of  war 
Has  curbed  the  fury  of  his  car, 
And  dropped  his  thirsty  lance  at  thy  command : 
Perching  on  the  sceptred  handt 
Of  Jove,  thy  magic  lulls  the  feathered  king 
•With  ruffled  plumes  and  flagging  wing ; 
duenched  in  dark  clouds  of  slumber  lie 
The  terror  of  his  beak  and  lightning  of  his  eye. 

I.  3. 

Theef  the  voice,  the  dance  obey, 

Tempered  to  thy  warbled  lay : 

O'er  Idalia's  velvet  green 

The  rosy-crowned  loves  are  seen, 

On  Cytherea's  day, 

With  antic  sports  and  blue-eyed  pleasures 

Frisking  light  in  frolic  measures : 

Now  pursuing,  now  retreating, 

Now  in  circling  troops  they  meet ; 

To  brisk  notes  in  cadence  beating 

Glance  their  many-twinkling  feet. 

Slow-melting  strains  their  queen's  approach  declare; 

Where'er  she  turns  the  graces  homage  pay : 

With  arms  sublime,  that  float  upon  the  air, 

In  gliding  state  she  wins  her  easy  way ; 

O'er  her  warm  cheek  and  rising  bosom  move 

The  bloom  of  young  desire  and  purple  light  of  love. 

II.  1. 

Man's  feeble  race  what  ills  await  !§ 
Labour  and  penury,  the  rack  of  pain, 
Disease,  and  sorrow's  weeping  train, 
And  death,  sad  refuge  from  the  storms  of  fate ! 
The  fond  complaint,  my  song !  disprove, 
And  justify  the  laws  of  Jove. 
Say,  has  he  given  in  vain  the  heavenly  muse? 
Night  and  all  her  sickly  dews, 
Her  spectres  wan,  and  birds  of  boding  cry, 
He  gives  to  range  the  dreary  sky, 
Till  down  the  eastern  cliffs  afarll 
Hyperion's  march  they  spy  and  glittering  shafts  of 
war. 


*  Power  of  harmony  to  calm  the  turbulent  passions  of  the 
soul.  The  thoughts  are  borrowed  from  the  first  Pythian  of 
Pindar. 

t  This  is  a  weak  imitation  of  some  beautiful  lines  in  the 
same  ode. 

J  Power  of  harmony  to  produce  all  the  graces  of  motion  in 
the  body. 

§  To  compensate  the  real  or  imaginary  ills  of  life,  the  muse 
was  given  to  mankind  by  the  same  Providence  that  sends  the 
day  by  its  cheerful  presence  to  dispel  the  gloom  and  terrors  of 
the  night. 

1  Or  seen  the  morning's  well-appointed  star, 
Come  marching  up  the  eastern  hills  afar. — Cowley. 


.      II.  2. 

In  climes*  beyond  the  solar  road,t 
Where  shaggy  forms  o'er  ice-built  mountains  roam, 
The  muse  has  broke  the  twilight-gloom 
To  cheer  the  shivering  native's  dull  abode : 
And  oft  beneath  the  odorous  shade 
Of  Chili's  boundless  forests  laid, 
She  deigns  to  hear  the  savage  youth  repeat, 
In  loose  numbers,  wildly  sweet, 
Their  feather-cinctured  chiefs  and  dusky  loves. 
Her  track,  where'er  the  goddess  roves, 
Glory  pursue,  and  generous  shame, 
The  unconquerable  mind  and  freedom's  holy  flame. 

II.  3. 

Woods  that  wave  o'er  Delphi's  steep,t 
Isles  that  crown  the  ^Egean  deep, 
Fields  that  cool  Ilissus  laves, 
Or  where  Maeander's  amber  waves 
In  lingering  labyrinths  creep, 
How  do  your  tuneful  echoes  languish, 
Mute  but  to  the  voice  of  anguish  ? 
Where  each  old  poetic  mountain 
Inspiration  breathed  around, 
Every  shade  and  hallowed  fountain 
Murmured  deep  a  solemn  sound, 
Till  the  sad  nine,  in  Greece's  evil  hour, 
Left  their  Parnassus  for  the  Latian  plains : 
Alike  they  scorn  the  pomp  of  tyrant  power 
And  coward  vice,  that  revels  in  her  chains, 
When  Latium  had  her  lofty  spirit  lost, 
They  sought,  oh,  Albion!  next  thy  sea-encircled 
coast. 

III.  1. 

Far  from  the  sun  and  summer  gale, 

In  thy  green  lap  was  nature's  darling!  laid, 

What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  strayed 

To  him  the  mighty  mother  did  unveil 

Her  awful  face ;  the  dauntless  child 

Stretched  forth  his  little  arms,  and  smiled. 

This  pencil  take  (she  said)  whose  colours  clear 

Richly  paint  the  vernal  year ; 

Thine  too  these  golden  keys,  immortal  boy ! 

This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  joy ; 

Of  hOrror  that,  and  thrilling  fears, 

Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  tears. 


'  Extensive  influence  of  poetic  genius  over  the  remotest  and 
most  uncivilized  nations ;  its  connexion  with  liberty,  and  the 
virtues  that  naturally  attend  on  it.  (See  the  Erse,  Norwegian, 
and  Welsh  Fragments,  the  Lapland  and  American  Songs,  &c.) 

\  Extra  anni  solisque  vias.—  Virgil. 
Tutta  lontana  dal  camin  del  sole. — Petrarch,  Cam.  2. 

J  Progress  of  poetry  from  Greece  to  Italy,  and  from  Italy  to 
England.  Chaucer  was  not  unacquainted  with  the  writings 
of  Dante  or  of  Petrarch.  The  Earl  of  Surrey  and  Sir  Thomas 
Wyatt  had  travelled  in  Italy,  and  formed  their  taste  there  : 
Spencer  imitated  the  Italian  writers,  Milton  improved  on  them : 
but  this  school  expired  soon  after  the  restoration,  and  a  new 
one  arose  on  the  French  model,  which  has  subsisted  ever  since. 

§  Rhakspeare. 


ODES. 


37 


III.  2. 

Nor  second  he*  that  rode  sublime 
Upon  the  seraph-wings  of  ecstacy, 
The  secrets  of  the  abyss  to  spy, 
He  passed  the  flaming  bounds  of  place  and  time  .-f 
The  living  throne,  the  sapphire-blaze,* 
Where  angels  tremble  while  they  gaze, 
He  saw,  but,  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 
Behold  where  Dryden's  less  presumptuous  car 
Wide -o'er  the  fields  of  glory  bear 
Two  coursers  of  ethereal  race,§ 
With  necks  in  thunder  clothedll  and  long  resound- 
ing pace. 

HI.  3. 

Hark !  his  hands  the  lyre  explore ! 

Bright-eyed  fancy,  hovering  o'er, 

Scatters  from  her  pictured  urn 

Thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burnjIT 

But  ah !  'tis  heard  no  more** — 

Oh,  lyre  divine !  what  daring  spirit 

Wakes  thee  now  7  though  he  inherit 

Nor  the  pride  nor  ample  pinion 

That  the  Theban  eagle  bear,tt 

Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 

Through  the  azure  deep  of  air, 

Yet  oft  before  his  infant  eyes  would  run 

Such  forms  as  glitter  in  the  muse's  ray 

With  orient  hues,  unborrowed  of  the  sun ; 

Yet  shall  he  mount,  and  keep  his  distant  way 

Beyond  the  limits  of  a  vulgar  fate, 

Beneath  the  good  how  far — but  far  above  the  great. 


*  Milton. 

t flammantia  moenia  mundi. — Lucretius. 

J  For  the  spirit  of  the  living  creature  was  in  the  wheels. 
And  above  the  firmament,  that  was  over  their  heads,  was  the 
likeness  of  a  throne,  as  the  appearance  of  a  sapphire  stone. — 
This  was  the  appearance  of  the  glory  of  the  Lord.— Eze- 
kiel,  i.  20,  26,  28. 

§  Meant  to  express  the  stately  march  and  sounding  energy 
of  Dryden's  rhymes. 

I  Hast  thou  clothed  his  neck  with  thunder  I—Job. 

U  Words  that  weep  and  tears  that  speak.— Cowley. 

' '  We  have  had  in  our  language  no  other  odes  of  the  su- 
blime kind  than  that  ofDryden  on  St.  Cecilia'sday;  forCow- 
ley,  who  had  his  merit,  yet  wanted  judgment,  style,  and  har- 
mony, for  such  a  task.  That  of  Pope  is  not  worthy  of  so  great 
a  man.  Mr.  Mason,  indeed,  of  late  days,  has  touched  the  true 
chords,  and,  with  a  masterly  hand,  in  some  of  his  choruBses— 
above  all,  in  the  last  of  Caractacus ; 

Hark!  heard  ye  not  yon  footstep  dread  7  &c. 

It  Pindar  compares  himself  to  that  bird,  and  his  enemies  to 
ravens  that  croak  and  clamour  in  vain  below,  while  it  pursues 
its  flight  regardless  of  their  noise. 


ODE  VI. 

THE  BARD. —  PINDARIC. 

Advertisement. 

The  following  Ode  is  founded  on  a  tradition  current  in  Wales, 
that  Edward  I.  when  he  completed  the  conquest  of  that 
country,  ordered  all  the  bards  that  fell  into  his  hands  to  be 
put  to  death. 

I.  1. 

"  RUIN  seize  thee,  ruthless  king! 
Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait ; 
Though  fanned  by  conquest's  crimson  whig, 
They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state.* 
Helm  nor  hauberk 'st  twisted  mail, 
Nor  e'en  thy  virtues,  tyrant !  shall  avail 
To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears; 
From  Cambria's  curse,  from  Cambria's  tears!" 
Such  were  the  sounds  that  o'er  the  crested  pride* 
Of  the  first  Edward  scattered  wild  dismay, 
As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shaggy  side§ 
He  wound  with  toilsome  march  his  long  array. 
Stout  Glo'sterll  stood  aghast  in  speechless  trance: 
To  arms,  cried  Mortimer  IT,  and  couched  his  quiv- 
ering lance. 

1.2. 

On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow 
Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's  foaming  flood, 
Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  wo, 
With  haggard  eyes  the  poet  stood ; 
(Loose  his  beard,  and  hoary  hair** 
Streamed  like  a  meteor  to  the  troubled  air, ft) 
And  with  a  master's  hand  and  prophet's  fire 
Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre. 


*  Mocking  the  air  with  colours  idly  spread. 

Shaksp.  King  John. 

t  The  hauberk  was  a  texture  of  steel  ringlets  or  rings  inter- 
woven, forming  a  coat  of  mail  that  sat  close  to  the  body,  and 
adapted  itself  to  every  motion. 

:  The  crested  adder's  pride.— Dryden's  Indian  Queen. 

§  Snowdon  was  a  name  given  by  the  Saxons  10  that  moun- 
tainous tract  which  the  Welsh  themselves  call  Craigian-eryri  : 
t  included  all  the  lughlands  of  Caernarvonshire  and  Merio- 
nethshire, as  far  east  as  the  river  Con  way.  R.  Hygden,  speak- 
ng  of  the  castle  of  Conway,  built  by  King  Edward  I.  says, 
Ardortum  amnis  Coninay  ad  clirum  mantis  Erery ;  and 
Matthew  of  Westminster,  (ad  un,  1283)  Apud  Aberconway 
ad  pedes  mantis  Snotcdonice  fecit  erigi  caslrum forte. 

I  Gilbert  de  Clare,  surnamed  the  Red,  Earl  of  Gloucester  and 
Hertford,  son-in-law  to  King  Edward. 

1  Edmund  de  Mortimer,  Lord  of  Wigmore»  They  both 
were  Lord  Marchers,  whose  lands  lay  on  the  borders  of  Wales, 
and  probably  accompanied  the  king  in  this  expedition. 

**  The  image  was  taken  from  a  well  known  picture  of  Ra- 
phael, representing  the  Supreme  Being  in  the  vision  of  Eze- 
tiel.  There  are  two  of  these  paintings,  both  believed  original; 
)ne  at  Florence,  the  other  at  Paris. 

ft  Shone  like  a  meteor  streaming  to  the  wind. 

Milton's  Paradise  Lost. 


38 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


"  Hark  how  each  giant  oak  and  desert  cave 

Sighs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath! 

O'er  thee,  oh  king !  their  hundred  arms  they  wave, 

Revenge  on  thee  in  hoarser  murmurs  breathe; 

Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day, 

To  high-born  HoeFs  harp  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay. 

1.3. 

"  Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue, 

That  hushed  the  stormy  main; 

Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed: 

Mountains !  ye  mourn  in  vain 

Mod  red,  whose  magic  song 

Made  huge  Plinlimmon  bow  his  cloud-topped  head. 

On  dreary  Arvon's*  shore  they  lie, 

Smeared  with  gore  and  ghastly  pale; 

Far,  far  aloof  the  affrighted  ravens  sail, " 

The  famished  eaglet  screams  and  passes  by. 

Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art, 

Deart  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes, 

Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart, 

Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  country's  cries- 

No  more  I  weep.     They  do  not  sleep : 
On  yonder  cliffs,  a  grisly  band, 
I  see  them  sit;  they  linger  yet, 
Avengers  of  their  native  land ; 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join, 
And  weave§  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of  thy 
line." 

ILL 

'  Weave  the  warp  and  weave  the  woof, 

The  winding-sheet  of  Edward's  race: 

Give  ample  room  and  verge  enough 

The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 

Mark  the  year  and  mark  the  night 

When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright 

The  shrieks  of  death  through  Berkley's  roofs  that 

ring, 

Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  king  111 
She-wolf  of  France,1T  with  unrelenting  fangs 
That  tearest  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled  mate, 
From  thee**  be  born  who  o'er  thy  country  hangs 
The  scourge  of  heaven.    What  terrors  round  him 

wait ! 


'  The  shores  of  Caernarvonshire,  opposite  to  the  isle  of  An- 
glesey. 

t  Camden  and  others  observe,  that  eagles  used  annually  to 
build  their  aerie  among  the  rocks  of  Snowdon,  which  from 
thence  (as  some  think)  were  named  by  the  Welsh,  Craigian- 
eryri,  or  the  crags  of  the  eagles.  At  this  day  (I  am  told)  the 
highest  point  of  Snowdon  is  called  The  Eagle's  Nest.  That 
bird  'is  certainly  no  stranger  to  this  island;  as  the  Scots,  and 
the  people  of  Cumberland,  Westmoreland,  &c.  can  testify :  it 
even  has  built  its  nest  in  the  Peak  of  Derbyshire.  [See  Wil- 
lougfiby's  Ornit/iol.  published  by  Ray.] 

+  As  dear  to  me  as  are  the  ruddy  drops 
That  visit  my  sad  heart.— Sliaksp.  Julius  CoDear. 

§  See  the  Norwegian  Ode  that  follows. 

B  Edward  II.  cruelly  butchered  in  Berkeley  Castle. 

n  Isabel  of  France,  Edward  TL's  adulterous  queen. 

**  Triumphs  of  Edward  I1L  in  France. 


Amazement  in  his  van,  with  flight  combined, 
And  sorrow's  faded  form,  and  solitude  behind. 

II.  2. 

'  Mighty  victor,  mighty  lord, 
Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies* 
No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford 
A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies ! 
Is  the  sable  warriort  fled  1 
Thy  son  is  gone ;  he  rests  among  the  dead. 
The  swarm  that  in  thy  noontide  beam  were  born, 
Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn : 
Fan-  laughs  the  morn,*  and  soft  the  zephyr  T)lows, 
While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm, 
In  gallant  trim'the  gilded  vessel  goes, 
Youth  on  the  prow  and  pleasure  at  the  helm, 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  whirlwind's  sway, 
That  hushed  in  grim  repose  expects  his  evening 
prey. 

II.  3. 

Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl,§ 
The  rich  repast  prepare  ; 
Reft  of  a  crowa,  he  yet  may  share  the  feast. 
Close  by  the  regal  chair 
Fell  thirst  and  famine  scowl 
A  baleful  smile  upon  the  baffled  guest. 
Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray,  II 
Lance  to  lance  and  horse  to  horse? 
Long  years  of  havoc  urge  their  destined  course, 
And  through  the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their 

way. 

Ye  towers  of  Julius  !1T  London's  lasting  shame, 
With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murder  fed, 
Revere  his  consort's**  faith,  his  father'stt  fame, 
And  spare  the  meek  usurper's +t  holy  head. 
Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow,§§ 
Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread ; 
The  bristled  Boar  111!  in  infant  gore 
Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 

Death  of  that  king,  abandoned  by  his  children,  and  even 
robbed  in  his  last  moments  by  his  courtiers  and  mistress, 
t  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  dead  some  time  before  his  father. 

I  Magnificence  of  Richard  II. 's  reign.    See  Froissard,  and 
other  contemporary  writers. 

§  Richard  n.  (as  we  are  told  by  Archbishop  Scroop,  and  the 
confederate  lords,  in  their  manifesto,  by  Thomas  of  Walsing- 
lam,  and  all  the  older  writers)  was  starved  to  death.  The 
story  of  his  assassination  by  Sir  Piers  of  Exon  is  of  mucli  later 
date. 

U  Ruinous  civil  wars  of  York  and  Lancaster. 

H  Henry  VI.,  George  Duke  of  Clarence,  Edward  V.,  Richard 
Duke  of  York,  &c.  believed  to  be  murdered  secretly  in  the 
Tower  of  London.  The  oldest  part  of  that  structure  is  vulgar- 
ly attributed  to  Julius  Caesar. 

**  Margaret  of  Anjou,  a  woman  of  heroic  spirit,  who  strug- 
gled hard  to  save  her  husband  and  her  crown. 

I 1  Henry  V. 

JJ  Henry  VL  very  near  being  canonized.  The  line  of  Lan- 
aster  had  no  right  of  inheritance  to  the  crown. 

§§  The  white  and  red  Roses,  devices  of  York  and  Lancaster. 

iill  The  silver  Boar  was  the  badge  of  Richard  III.  whence  he 
was  usually  known  in  his  dwn  time  by  the  name  of  The  Boar. 


ODES. 


39 


Now,  brothers'!  bending  o'er  the  accursed  loom, 
Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his  doom 

III.  1. 

'  Edward,  lo!  to  sudden  fate 
(Weave  we  the  woof;  the  thread  is  spun) 
Half  of  thy  heart*  we  consecrate; 
(The  web  is  wove;  the  work  is  done.') 
"  Stay,  oh  stay !  nor  thus  forlorn 
Leave  me  unblessed,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn. 
In  yon  bright  track,  that  fires  the  western  skies, 
They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 
But  oh!  what  solemn  scenes  on  Snowdon's  heigh 
Descending  slow,  their  glittering  skirts  unroll! 
Visions  of  glory !  spare  my  aching  sight, 
Ye  unborn  ages  crowd  not  on  my  soul ! 
No  more  our  long-lost  Arthurt  we  bewail : 
All  hail,  ye  genuine  kings;?  Britannia's  issue 
hail! 

JII.  2. 

M  Girt  with  many  a  baron  bold 
Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear, 
And  gorgeous  dames  and  statesmen  old 
In  bearded  majesty  appear ; 
In  the  midst  a  form  divine, 
Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-line, 
Her  lion-port,  her  awe-commanding  face,§ 
Attempered  sweet  to  virgin  grace. 
What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the  air! 
What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her  play! 
Hear  from  the  grave,  great  TaliessinJll  hear ! 
They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 
Bright  rapture  calls,  and,  soaring  as  she  sings, 
Waves  in  the  eye  of  heaven  her  many-colourec 
wings. 

III.  3. 

"  The  verse  adorn  again. 
Fierce  war,  and  faithful  love,1F 


•  Eleanor  of  Castile  died  a  few  years  after  the  conquest  of 
Wales.  The  heroic  proofs  she  gave  of  her  affection  for  her 
lord  is  well  known.  The  monuments  of  his  regret  and  sor- 
row for  the  loss  of  her  are  still  to  be  seen  at  Northampton, 
Gaddington  Waltham,  and  other  places. 

T  It  was  the  common  belief  of  the  Welsh  nation,  that  king 

Arthur  was  still  alive  in  Fairyland,  and  should  return  again 

liritain. 

liad  prophesied  that  the  Welsh 

.eir  sovereignty  over  this  island,  which  deemed 

to  be  accomplished  in  the  house  of  Tudor. 

§  Speed,  relating  an  audience  given  by  queen  Elizabeth  to 
Paul  Dzialinski,  ambassador  of  Poland,  says,  "And  thus  she, 
lion-like  rising,  daunted  the  malapert  orator  no  leas  with  her 
stately  port  and  majestical  deporture,  than  with  the  tartness 
of  her  princelie  cheekes." 

I  Taliessin,  the  chief  of  the  bards,  flourished  in  the  6th  cen- 
tury. His  works  are  still  preserved,  and  his  memory  held  in 
hieh  veneration  among  his  countrymen. 

i  Fierce  wars  and  faithful  loves  shall  moralize  my  song. 
Spenser's  Poem  to  the  Fairy  Queen. 


And  truth  severe,  by  fairy  fiction  drest. 

In  buskined  measures  move* 

Pale  grief,  and  pleasing  pain, 

With  horrror,  tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breast. 

A  voicet  as  of  the  cherub-choir 

Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear, 

And  distant  warbling*  lessen  on  my  ear, 

That  lost  in  long  futurity  expire. 

Fond  impious  man!  think'st  thou  yon  sanguine 

cloud, 

Raised  by  thy  breath,  has  quenched  the  orb  of  day  1 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood, 
And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled  ray. 
Enough  for  me:  with  joy  I  see 
The  different  doom  our  fates  assign. 
Be  thine  despair  and  sceptred  care ; 
To  triumph  and  to  die  are  mine." 
He  spoke,  and,  headlong  from  the  mountain's 

height, 
Deep  in  the  roaring  tide,  he  plunged  to  endless 

night. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  Author  once  had  thoughts  (in  concert  with  a  friend)  of 
jiving  a  history  of  English  poetry.  In  the  introduction  to  it 
he  meant  to  have  produced  some  specimens  of  the  style  that 
reigned  in  ancient  times  among  the  neighbouring  nations,  or 
those  who  had  subdued  the  greater  part  of  this  island,  and 
were  our  progenitors :  the  following  three  imitations  made  a 
>art  of  them.  He  afterwards  dropped  his  design ;  especially 
after  he  had  heard  that  it  was  already  hi  the  hands  of  a  person 
well  qualified  to  do  i  t  j  ust  ice  both  by  his  taste  and  his  research- 
es into  antiquity. 

ODE  VII. 

THE   FATAL  SISTERS. 

From  the  Norse  tongue. 

To  be  found  in  the  Orcades  of  Thcrmodus  Tor- 
focus ,  Hafnice,  1679,/oZ/o;  and  also  in  Bartho- 
linus.  Vitt  er  orpitfyrir  Valfalli.  dfc. 

PREFACE. 

IN  the  eleventh  century,  Sigurd,  Earl  of  the 
Orkney  islands,  went  with  a  fleet  of  ships,  and  a 
onsiderable  body  of  troops,  into  Ireland,  to  the 
assistance  of  Sigtryg  with  the  silken  Beard,  who 
was  then  making  war  on  his  father-in-law,  Brian, 
ting  of  Dublin.     The  carl  and  all  his  forces  were 
ut  to  pieces,  and  Sigtryg  was  in  danger  of  a  to- 
tal defeat ;  but  the  enemy  had  a  greater  loss  by 
ic  death  of  Brian,  their  king,  who  fell  in  the  ae- 
on.    On  Christmas-day  (the  day  of  the  battle)  a 
ative  of  Caithness,  in  Scotland,  saw,  at  a  dis- 
ance,  a  number  of  persons  on  horseback  riding 
ull  speed  towards  a  hill,  and  seeming  to  enter  into 


•  Shakspeare.  t  Milton. 

}  The  succession  of  the  poets  after  Milton's  time. 


40 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


it.  Curiosity  led  him  to  follow  them,  till,  looking 
through  an  opening  in  the  rock,  he  saw  twelve  gi- 
gantic figures,  resembling  women :  they  were  all 
employed  about  a  loom ;  and  as  they  wove,  they 
sung  the  following  dreadful  song,  which,  when  they 
had  finished,  they  tore  the  web  into  twelve  pieces, 
and  each  taking  her  portion,  galloped  six  to  the 
north,  and  as  many  to  the  south. 

Now  the  storm  begins  to  lower, 
(Haste,  the  loom  of  hell  prepare,) 

Iron-sleet  of  arrowy  shower* 
Hurtlest  in  the  darkened  air. 

Glittering  lances  are  the  loom 
Where  the  dusky  warp  we  strain, 

Weaving  many  a  soldier's  doom, 
Orkney's  wo  and  Randver's  bane. 

See  the  grisly  texture  grow, 
('Tis  of  human  entrails  made,) 

And  the  weights  that  play  below 
Each  a  gasping  warrior's  head. 

Shafts  for  shuttles,  dipt  in  gore, 
Shoot  the  trembling  cords  along : 

Sword,  that  once  a  monarch  bore, 
Keep  the  tissue  close  and  strong, 

Mista,  black  terrific  maid ! 

Sangrida  and  Hilda  see, 
Join  the  wayward  work  to  aid ; 

'Tis  the  woof  of  victory. 

Ere  the  ruddy  sun  be  set 
Pikes  must  shiver,  javelins  sing, 

Blade  with  clattering  buckler  meet, 
Hauberk  crash,  and  helmet  ring. 

(Weave  the  crimson  web  of  war) 

Let  us  go,  and  let  us  fly, 
Where  our  friends  the  conflict  share, 

Where  they  triumph,  where  they  die. 

As  the  paths  of  fate  we  tread, 
Wading  through  the  ensanguined  field, 

Gondula  and  Geira  spread 

O'er  the  youthful  king  your  shield. 

We  the  reins  to  slaughter  give, 
Ours  to  kill  and  ours  to  spare : 

Spite  of  danger  he  shall  live : 
(Weave  the  crimson  web  of  war.) 


JVote. — The  Valkyriur  were  female  divinities,  servants  of 
Odin  (or  Wodin)  in  the  Gothic  mythology.  Their  name  sig 
nines  choosers  of  the  slain.  They  were  mounted  on  swift 
horses,  with  drawn  swords  in  their  hands,  and  in  the  throng 
of  battle  selected  such  aa  were  destined  to  slaughter,  and  con- 
ducted them  U»  Valkalla,  (the  hall  of  Odin,  or  paradise  of  the 
brave,)  where  they  attended  the  banquet,  and  served  the  de- 
parted heroes  with  horns  of  mead  and  ale. 

*  How  quick  they  wheeled,  and  flying,  behind  them  shot 
Sharp  sleet  of  arrowy  shower. — Milt.  Par.  Reg. 

tThe  noise  of  battle  hurtled  in  the  air.— Shak.  Jul.  Cox. 


They  whom  once  the  desert  beach 
Pent  within  its  bleak  domain, 

Soon  their  ample  sway  shall  stretch 
O'er  the  plenty  of  the  plain. 

Low  the  dauntless  earl  is  laid, 
Gored  with  many  a  gaping  wound : 

Fate  demands  a  nobler  head ; 
Soon  a  king  shall  bite  the  ground. 

Long  his  loss  shall  Erin*  weep, 
Ne'er  again  his  likeness  see ; 

Long  her  strains  in  sorrow  steep, 
Strains  of  immortality ! 

Horror  covers  all  the  heath, 
Clouds  of  carnage  blot  the  sun : 

Sisters !  weave  the  web  of  death : 
Sisters !  cease,  the  work  is  done. 

Hail  the  task  and  hail  the  hands ! 

Songs  of  joy  and  triumph  sing ; 
Joy  to  the  victorious  bands, 

Triumph  to  the  younger  king. 

Mortal !  thou  that  hearest  the  tale 
Learn  the  tenor  of  our  song ; 

Scotland  through  each  winding  vale 
Far  and  wide  the  notes  prolong. 

Sisters !  hence  with  spurs  of  speed ; 

Each  her  thundering  falchion  wield ; 
Each  bestride  her  sable  steed : 

Hurry,  hurry  to  the  field. 


ODE  VIII. 

THE  DESCENT  OF  ODIN. 

From  the  Norse  tongue. 

To  be  found  in  Bartholinus,  decausis  contem- 
nendcs  mortis  Hasnice,  1689,  Qwarfo. 

Upreis  Odinn  Allda  gautr,  &c. 

UP  rose  the  king  of  men  with  speed, 
And  saddled  straight  his  coal-black  steed ; 
Down  the  yawning  steep  he  rode 
That  leads  to  Hela'st  drear  abode. 
Him  the  dog  of  darkness  spied ; 
His  shaggy  throat  he  opened  wide, 
While  from  his  jaws,  with  carnage  filled, 
Foam  and  human  gore  distilled : 
Hoarse  he  brays  with  hideous  din, 
Eyes  that  glow  and  fangs  that  grin, 


*  Ireland. 

tNiflheimr,  the  hell  of  the  Gothic  nations,  consisted  of  nine 
worlds,  to  which  were  devoted  all  such  as  died  of  sickness, 
old  age,  or  by  any  other  means  than  in  battle ;  over  it  presided 
Hcla  the  goddess  of  Death. 


ODES. 


41 


And  long  pursues  with  fruitless  yell 

The  father  of  the  {powerful  spell. 

Onward  still  his  way  he  takes, 

(The  groaning  earth  beneath  him  shakes,) 

Till  full  before  his  fearless  eyes 

The  portals  nine  of  hell  arise. 

Right  against  the  eastern  gate, 
By  the  moss-grown  pile  he  sate, 
Where  long  of  yore  to  sleep  was  laid 
The  dust  of  the  prophetic  maid. 
Facing  to  the  northern  clime, 
Thrice  he  traced  the  Runic  rhyme, 
Thrice  pronounced,  in  accents  dread, 
The  thrilling  verse  that  wakes  the  dead, 
Till  from  out  the  hollow  ground 
Slowly  breathed  a  sullen  sound. 

Proph.  What  call  unknown,  what  charms  pre- 
sume 

To  break  the  quiet  of  the  tomb  1 
Who  thus  afflicts  my  troubled  sprite, 
And  drags  me  from  the  realms  of  night? 
Long  on  these  mouldering  bones  have  beat 
The  winter's  snows,  the  summer's  heat, 
The  drenching  dews  and  driving  rain  ! 
Let  me,  let  me  sleep  again. 
Who  is  he,  with  voice  unblest, 
That  calls  me  from  the  bed  of  rest  7 

Odin.  A  traveller,  to  thee  unknown, 
Is  he  that  calls,  a  warrior's  son. 
Thou  the  deeds  of  light  shalt  know; 
Tell  me  what  is  done  beltfw, 
For  whom  yon  glittering  board  is  spread, 
Drest  for  whom  yon  golden  bed  1 

Proph.  Mantling  in  the  goblet  see 
The  pure  beverage  of  the  bee, 
O'er  it  hangs  the  shield  of  gold ; 
'Tis  the  drink  of  Balder  bold : 
Balder's  head  to  death  is  given ; 
Pain  can  reach  the  sons  of  Heaven ! 
Unwilling  I  my  lips  unclose : 
Leave  me,  leave  me  to  repose. 

Odin.  Once  again  my  call  obey : 
Prophetess  arise,  and  say, 
What  dangers  Odin's  child  await, 
Who  the  author  of  his  fate? 

Proph.  In  Hoder's  hand  the  hero's  doom; 
His  brother  sends  him  to  the  tomb. 
Now  my  weary  lips  I  close ; 
Leave  me,  leave  me  to  repose. 

Odin.  Prophetess!  my  spell  obey; 
Once  again  arise,  and  say, 
Who  the  avenger  of  his  guilt 
By  whom  shall  Hoder's  blood  be  spilt  ? 

Proph.  In  the  caverns  of  the  west, 
By  Odin's  fierce  embrace  comprest, 
A  wondrous  boy  shall  Kinda  bear, 
Who  ne'er  shall  comb  his  raven  hair, 
Nor  wash  his  visage  in  the  stream, 
Nor  tee  the  sun's  departing  beam, 


Till  he  on  Hoder's  corse  shall  smile 
Flaming  on  the  funeral  pile. 
Now  my  weary  lips  1  close ; 
Leave  me,  leave  me  to  repose. 

Odin.  Yet  a  while  my  call  obey: 
Prophetess !  awake,  and  say, 
What  virgins  these,  in  speechless  wo, 
That  bend  to  earth  their  solemn  brow, 
That  their  flaxen  tresses  tear, 
And  snowy  veils  that  float  in  air? 
Tell  me  whence  their  sorrows  rose, 
Then  I  leave  thee  to  repose. 

Proph.  Ha !  no  traveller  art  thou ; 
King  of  men,  I  know  thee  now ; 
Mightiest  of  a  mighty  line 

Odin.  No  boding  maid  of  skill  divine 
Art  thou,  no  prophetess  of  good, 
But  mother  of  the  giant-brood ! 

Proph.  Hie  thee  hence,  and  boast  at  home, 
That  never  shall  inquirer  come 
To  break  my  iron-sleep  again 
Till  Lok*  has  burst  his  tenfold  chain ; 
Never  till  substantial  night 
Has  re-assumed  her  ancient  right, 
Till  wrapped  in  flames,  in  ruin  hurled, 
Sinks  the  fabric  of  the  world. 


ODE  IX. 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  OWEN: 
A  Fragment. 

From  Mr.  Bran's  specimen  of  the  Welsh  poetry. 
London,  1764,  Quarto. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

OWEN  succeeded  his  father  Griffin  in  the  principality  of 
North  Wales,  A.  D.  1120:  this  battle  was  near  forty  years 
afterwarda. 

OWEN'S  praise  demands  my  song, 
Owen  swift  and  Owen  strong, 
Fairest  flower  of  Roderick's  stem, 
Gwyneth'st  shield  and  Britain's  gem. 
He  nor  heaps  his  brooded  stores, 
Nor  on  all  profusely  pours, 
Lord  of  every  regal  art, 
Liberal  hand  and  open  heart. 


Lok  is  the  evil  being,  who  continues  in  chains  till  the  tun- 
ight  of  the  gods  approaches,  when  he  shall  break  his  bonds; 
the  human  race,  the  stars,  the  sun,  shall  disappear,  the  earth 
sink  in  the  seas,  and  fire  consume  the  skies ;  even  Odin  him- 
self, and  his  kindred  deities,  shall  perish.  For  a  farther  ex- 
planation  of  this  mythology,  see  Introduction  a  F  Histoirc 
de  Danemare,  par  Mons.  Mattat.  1755,  4to;  or  rather  a 
translation  of  it  published  in  1770,  and  entitled  Northern  An- 
tiquities,  in  which  some  mistakes  in  the  original  are  judi- 
ciously corrected, 
t  North  Wales. 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


Big  with  hosts  of  mighty  name, 
Squadrons  three  against  him  came ; 
This  the  force  of  Eirin  hiding ; 
Side  by  side  as  proudly  riding ; 
On  her  shadow  long  and  gay 
Lochlin*  ploughs  the  watery  way; 
There  the  Norman  sails  afar, 
Catch  the  winds  and  join  the  war ; 
Black  and  huge  along  they  sweep, 
Burthens  of  the  angry  deep. 

Dauntless  on  his  native  sands 
The  dragon  sont  of  Mona  stands ; 
In  glitterring  arms  and  glory  drest, 
High  he  rears  his  ruby  crest : 
There  the  thundering  strokes  begin, 
There  the  press  and  there  the  din, 
Talymalfra's  rocky  shore 
Echoing  in  the  battle's  roar. 
Checked  by  the  torrent-tide  of  blood, 
Backward  Meinai  rolls  his  flood, 
While,  heaped  his  master's  feet  around, 
Prostrate  warriors  gnaw  the  ground. 
Where  his  glowing  eyeballs  turn, 
Thousand  banners  round  him  burn ; 
W^here  he  points  his  purple  spear. 
Hasty,  hasty  rout  is  there ; 
Marking,  with  indignant  eye, 
Fear  to  stop  and  shame  to  fly: 
There  confusion,  terror's  child, 
Conflict  fierce  and  ruin  wild, 
Agony,  that  pants  for  breath, 
Despair  and  honourable  death. 


ODE  X. 

THE  DEATH  OF  HOEL. 
From  the  Welsh  of  Aneur im,  styled  The  Monarch  of  the  Bards. 

Hejlourished  about  the  time  of  Taliessin,  A .  D.  570. 
This  Ode  is  extracted  from  the  Gododin. 

[See  Mr.  Evan's  specimens,  pp.  71, 73.] 

HAD  I  but  the  torrent's  might, 

With  headlong  rage,  and  wild  affright, 

Upon  Deira's  squadrons  hurled, 

To  rush  and  sweep  them  from  the  world ! 

Too,  too  secure  in  youthful  pride, 

By  them  my  friend,  my  Hoel,  died, 

Great  Cian's  son ;  of  Madoc  old, 

He  asked  no  heaps  of  hoarded  gold ; 

Alone  in  nature's  wealth  arrayed, 

He  asked  and  had  the  lovely  maid. 

To  Cattraeth's  vale,  in  glittering  row, 
Twice  two  hundred  warriors  go ; 


*  Denmark. 

1  The  red  Dragon  is  the  device  of  Cadwallader,  which  all 
his  descendants  bore  on  their  banners. 


Every  warrior's  manly  neck 
Chains  of  regal  honour  deck, 
Wreathed  in  many  a  golden  link : 
From  the  golden,  cup  they  drink 
Nectar  that  the  bees  produce, 
Or  the  grape's  ecstatic  juice. 
Flushed  with  mirth  and  hope  they  burn, 
But  none  from  Cattraeth's  vale  return, 
Save  Ae'ron  brave,  and  Conan  strong, 
(Bursting  through  the  bloody  throng,) 
And  I,  the  meanest  of  them  all, 
That  live  to  weep  and  sing  their  fall. 


ODE  XL 

[FOR  MUSIC.] 

Performed  in  the  Senate -house,  Cambridge,  July  1, 1769,  at 
the  installation  of  his  Grace  Augustus-Henry -Fitzroy,  Duke 
of  Grafton,  Chancellor  of  the  University. 

I. 

"  HENCE,  avaunt!  ('tis  holy  ground,) 

Comus  and  his  midnight  crew, 
And  ignorance  with  looks  profound, 

And  dreaming  sloth  of  pallid  hue, 
Mad  sedition's  cry  profane, 
Servitude  that  hugs  her  chain, 
Nor  in  these  consecrated  bowers, 
Let  painted  flattery  hide  her  serpent-train  in 

flowers, 

Nor  envy  base,  nor  creeping  gain, 
Dare  the  muse's  walk  to  stain, 
While  bright-eyed  science  watches  round : 
Hence  away !  'tis  holy  ground." 

II. 

From  yonder  realms  of  empyrean  day 

Bursts  on  my  ear  th'  indignant  lay; 

There  sit  the  sainted  sage,  the  bard  divine, 

The  few  whom  genius  gave  to  shine 

Through  every  unborn  age  and  undiscovered  clime. 

Rapt  in  celestial  transport  they, 

Yet  hither  oft  a  glance  from  high 

They  send  of  tender  sympathy 

To  bless  the  place  where  on  their  opening  soul 

First  the  genuine  ardour  stole. 

'Twas  Milton  struck  the  deep-toned  shell 

And,  as  the  choral  warblings  round  him  swell, 

Meek  Newton's  self  bends  from  his  state  sublime, 

And  nods  his  hoary  head,  and  listens  to  the  rhyme. 

III. 

(( Ye  brown  o'er-arching  groves ! 

That  contemplation  loves, 
Where  widowy  Camus  lingers  with  delight, 

Oft  at  the  blush  of  dawn 

I  trod  your  level  lawn, 
Oft  wooed  the  gleam  of  Cynthia  silver-bright 


ODES. 


43 


In  cloisters  dim,  far  from  the  haunts  of  folly, 
With  freedom  by  my  side  and  soft-eyed  raelan-  The  griiU-ful 
choly." 

IV. 

But  hark !  the  portals  sound,  in  pacing  forth, 

With  solemn  steps  and  slow, 
High  potentates,  and  dames  of  royal  birth, 

And  mitred  fathers,  in  long  order  go: 
Great  Edward,  with  the  lilies  on  his  brow* 
From  haughty  Gallia  torn, 
And  sad  Chatillon,t  on  her  bridal  morn, 
That  wept  her  bleeding  love,  and  princely  Clare,* 
And  Anjou's  heroine,§  and  the  paler  rose,ll 
The  rival  of  her  crown,  and  of  her  woes, 
And  either  Henrytf  there, 
The  murdered  saint,  and  the  majestic  lord, 
That  broke  the  bonds  of  Rome. 
(Their  tears,  their  little  triumphs  o'er, 
Their  human  passions  now  no  more, 
Save  charity,  that  glows  beyond  the  tomb) 
All  that  on  Granta's  fruitful  plain 
Rich  streams  of  regal  bounty  poured, 
And  bade  those  awful  fanes  and  turrets  rise 
To  hail  their  Fitzroy's  festal  morning  come ; 
And  thus  they  speak  in  soft  accord 
The  liquid  language  of  the  skies  : 

V. 

"JWhalis  .grandeur,  what  is  power  1 
Heavier  toil,  superior  pain, 


*  Edward  HI.  who  added  the  Fleur  de  lys  of  France  to  the 
arms  of  England.  He  founded  Trinity -College. 

t  Mary  de  Valentia,  Countess  of  Pembroke,  daughter  of  Guy 
de  Chatillon,  Comte  de  St.  Paul  in  France,  of  whom  tradition 
Bays  that  her  husband,  Audemarde  de  Valentia,  earl  of  Pem- 
broke, was  slain  at  a  tournament  on  the  day  of  his  nuptials. 
She  was  the  foundress  of  Pembroke-College,  or  Hall,  under  the 
name  of  Aula  Maria;  de  Valentia. 


t  Elizabeth  de  Burg,  countess  of  Clare,  was  wife  of  Jolin  da.  .Thyjiteady  course  of  honour  keep, 


Burn,  wn  and  heir  of  the  earl  of  Ulster,  and  daughter  of  Gil- 
ben  de  Clare,  earl  of  Gloucester,  by  Joan  of  Acres,  daughter 
of  Edward  I.  hence  the  poet  gives  her  the  epithet  of  princely. 
She  founded  Clare-hilL 

§  Margaret  of  Anjou,  wife  of  Henry  VI  foundress  of  Queen's 
College.  The  poet  has  celebrated  her  conjugal  fidelity  in  a 
former  ode. 

I  Elizabeth  Widville,  wife  of  Edward  IV.  (hence  called  the 
paler  Rose,  as  being  of  the  house  of  York.)  She  added  to  the 
foundation  of  Margaret  of  Anjou, 

!  I.  the  former  the  founder  of  King's,  the 
latter  the  greatest  banefactor  to  Trinity-College. 


What  the  bright  reward  we  gain  ? 
~  "  memory  of  the  good. 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  vernal  shower, 
The  bee's  collected  treasures  sweet, 
Sweet  music's  melting  fall,  but  sweeter  yet 
The  still  small  voice  of  gratitude." 

VI. 

Foremost,  and  leaning  from  her  golden  cloud, 

The  venerable  Margaret*  see! 
"  Welcome,  my  noble  son !"  she  cries  aloud, 

"  To  this  thy  kindred  train  and  me : 
Pleased  in  thy  lineaments  we  trace 
A  Tudor'st  fire,  a  Beaufort's  grace: 
Thy  liberal  heart,  thy  judging  eye, 
The  flower  unheeded  shall  descry, 
And  bid  it  round  heaven's  altars  shed 
The  fragrance  of  its  blushing  head ; 
Shall  raise  from  earth  the  latent  gem 
To  glitter  on  the  diadem. 

VII. 

"  Lo !  Granta  waits  to  lead  her  blooming  band ; 
Not  obvious,  not  obtrusive,  she 
No  vulgar  praise,  no  venal  incense  flings, 
Nor  dares  with  courtly  tongue  refined 
Profane  thy  inborn  royalty  of  mind: 
She  reveres  herself  and  thee. 
With  modest  pride  to  grace  thy  youthful  brow 
The  laureat  wreath*  that  Cecil  wore  she  brings, 
And  to  thy  just,  thy  gentle  hand 
Submits  the  fasces  of  her  sway ; 
While  spirits  blest  above,  and  men  below, 
Join  with  glad  voice  the  loud  symphonious  lay. 

VIII. 

"  Through  the  wild  waves,  as  they  roar, 
With  watchful  eye,  and  dauntless  mien, 


Nor  fear  the  rock  nor  seek  the  shore : 
The  star  of  Brunswick  smiles  serene, 
And  gilds  the  horrors  of  the  deep." 


•  Countess  of  Richmond  and  Derby,  the  mother  of  Henry 
VBL  foundress  of  St.  John's  and  Christ's  Colleges. 

t  The  Countess  was  a  Beaufort,  and  married  to  a  Tudor; 
hence  the  application  of  this  line  to  the  duke  of  Grafton,  who 
claims  descent  from  both  these  families. 

t  Lord  treasurer  Burleigh  was  chancellor  of  the  University 
in  the  reign  of  queen  Elizabeth. 


44 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


A  LONG  STORY. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

Mr.  Gray's  Elegy,  previous  to  its  publication,  was  handed 
about  in  MS.  and  had,  amongst  other  admirers,  the  lady  Cob- 
ham,  who  resided  in  the  mansion-house  at  Stoke-Pogeis.  The 
performance  inducing  her  to  wish  for  the  author's  acquaint- 
ance, lady  Schaub  and  Miss  Speed,  then  at  her  house,  under- 
took to  introduce  her  to  it.  These  two  ladies  waited  upon  the 
author  at  his  aunt's  solitary  habitation,  where  he  at  that  time 
resided,  and  not  finding  him  at  home,  they  left  a  card  behind 
them.  Mr.  Gray,  surprised  at  such  a  compliment,  returned 
the  visit;  and  as  the  beginning  of  this  intercourse  bore  some 
appearance  of  romance,  he  gave  the  humorous  and  lively 
account  of  it  which  the  Long  Story  contains. 

IN  Britain's  isle,  no  matter  where, 
An  ancient  pile  of  building  stands;* 

The  Huntingdons  and  Hattons  there 
Employed  the  power  of  fairy  hands. 

To  raise  the  ceilings  fretted  height, 
Each  pannel  in  achievements  clothing, 

Rich  windows  that  exclude  the  light, 
And  passages  that  lead  to  nothing. 

Full  oft  within  the  spacious  walls, 
When  he  had  fifty  winters  o'er  him, 

My  grave  lord-keepert  led  the  brawls : 
The  seal  and  maces  danced  before  him. 

His  bushy  beard  and  shoe-strings  green, 
His  high-crowned  hat  and  satin  doublet, 

Moved  the  stout  heart  of  England's  queen, 

Though  pope  and  Spaniard  could  not  trouble  it. 

What,  in  the  very  first  beginning, 

Shame  of  the  versifying  tribe ! 
Your  history  whither  are  you  spinning? 

Can  you  do  nothing  but  describe  1 

A  house  there  is  (and  that's  enough) 
From  whence  one  fatal  morning  issues 

A  brace  of  warriors,  t  not  in  buff, 

But  rustling  in  their  silks  and  tissues. 


*  The  mansion-house  at  Stoke-Pogeis,  then  in  possession  of 
viscountess  Cobham.  The  style  of  building  which  we  now 
call  queen  Elizabeth's,  is  here  admirably  described,  both  with 
regard  to  its  beauties  and  defects ;  and  the  third  and  fourth 
stanzas  delineate  the  fantastic  manners  of  her  time  with 
equal  truth  and  humour.  The  house  formerly  belonged  to 
the  earls  of  Huntingdon  and  the  family  of  Hatton. 

t  Sir  Christopher  Hatton,  promoted  by  Queen  Elizabeth  for 
his  graceful  person  and  fine  dancing.  Brawls  were  a  sort  of 
a  figure-dance  then  in  vogue,  and  probably  deemed  as  elegant 
as  our  modern  cotillions,  or  still  more  modern  quadrilles. 

{  The  reader  is  already  apprised  who  these  ladies  were ;  the 


The  first  came  cap-d-pee  from  France, 

Her  conquering  destiny  fulfilling, 
Whom  meaner  beauties  eye  askance, 

And  vainly  ape  her  art  of  killing. 

The  other  Amazon  kind  Heaven 
Had  armed  with,  spirit,  wit,  and  satire; 

But  Cobham  had  the  polish  given, 
And  tipped  her  arrows  with  good-nature. 

To  celebrate  her  eyes,  her  air — 
Coarse  panegyrics  would  but  tease  her; 

Melissa  is  her  nom  de  guerre; 
Alas !  who  would  not  wish  to  please  her ! 

With  bonnet  blue  and  capuchine. 

And  aprons  long,  they  hid  their  armour, 
And  veiled  their  weapons  bright  and  keen 

In  pity  to  the  country  farmer. 

Fame  in  the  shape  of  Mr.  P— t,* 
(By  this  time  all  the  parish  know  it) 

Had  told  that  thereabouts  there  lurked 
A  wicked  imp  they  called  a  poet. 

Who  prowled  the  country  far  and  near, 
Bewitched  the  children  of  the  peasants, 

Dried  up  the  cows  and  lamed  the  deer, 
And  sucked  the  eggs  and  killed  the  pheasants. 

My  lady  heard  their  joint  petition, 

Swore  by  her  coronet  and  ermine, 
She'd  issue  out  her  high  commission 

To  rid  the  manor  of  such  vermin. 

The  heroines  undertook  the  task ; 

Through  lanes  unknown,  o'er  stiles  they  ven- 
tured, 
Rapped  at  the  door,  nor  stayed  to  ask, 

But  bounce  into  the  parlour  entered. 

The  trembling  family  they  daunt, 

They  flirt,  they  sing,  they  laugh,  they  tattle. 

Rummage  his  mother,  pinch  his  aunt, 
And  up  stairs  in  a  whirlwind  rattle. 

Each  hole  and  cupboard  they  explore, 
Each  creek  and  cranny  of  his  chamber, 


two  descriptions  are  prettily  contrasted ;  and  nothing  can  be 
more  happily  turned  than  the  compliment  to  lady  Cobham  in 
the  eighth  stanza. 

*  I  have  been  told  that  this  gentleman,  a  neighbour  and  ac- 
qaintance  of  Mr.  Gray's  in  the  country,  was  much  displeased 
at  the  liberty  here  taken  with  his  name,  yet  surely  without 
any  great  reason. 


MISCELLANIES. 


Run  hurry  scurry  round  the  floor, 
And  o'er  the  bed  and  tester  clamber; 

Into  the  drawers  and  china  pry, 

Papers  and  books,  a  huge  imbroglio ! 

Under  a  tea-cup  he  might  lie, 
Or  creased  like  dog's  ears  in  a  folio. 

On  the  first  marching  of  the  troops, 
The  muses,  hopeless  of  his  pardon, 

Conveyed  him  underneath  their  hoops 
To  a  small  closet  in  the  garden. 

So  rumour  says,  (who  will  believe?) 
But  that  they  left  the  door  a-jar, 

Where  safe,  and  laughing  in  his  sleeve 
He  heard  the  distant  din  of  war. 

Short  was  his  joy ;  he  little  knew 
The  power  of  magic  was  no  fable ; 

Out  of  the  window  wisk  they  flew, 
But  left  a  spell  upon  the  table. 

The  words  too  eager  tq  unriddle, 
The  poet  felt  a  strange  disorder; 

Transparent  birdlime  formed  the  middle, 
And  chains  invisible  the  border. 

So  cunning  was  the  apparatus, 

The  powerful  pothooks  did  so  move  him, 
That  will  he  nill  to  the  great  house 

He  went  as  if  the  devil  drove  him. 

Yet  on  his  way  (no  sign  of  grace, 
For  folks  in  fear  are  apt  to  pray) 

To  Phoebus  he  preferred  his  case, 

And  begged  his  aid  that  dreadful  day. 

The  godhead  would  have  backed  his  quarrel: 
But  with  a  blush,  on  recollection, 

Owned  that  his  quiver  and  his  laurel 

'Gainst  four  such  eyes  were  no  protection. 

The  court  was  sat,  the  culprit  there : 

Forth  from  their  gloomy  mansions  creeping, 

The  lady  Janes  and  Jones  repair, 
And  from  the  gallery  stand  peeping ; 

Such  as  in  silence  of  the  night 

Come  (sweep)  along  some  winding  entry, 
(Styack*  has  often  seen  the  sight) 

Or  at  the  chapel-door  stand  sentry ; 

In  peaked  hoods  and  mantle  tarnished, 
Sour  visages  enough  to  scare  ye, 

High  dames  of  honour  once  that  garnished 
The  drawing-room  of  fierce  queen  Mary ! 

The  peeress  comes:  the  audience  stare, 
And  doff  their  hats  with  due  submission; 

She  courtesies,  as  she  takes  her  chair, 
To  all  the  people  of  condition. 


*  The  house-keeper. 


The  bard  with  many  an  artful  fib 

Had  in  imagination  fenced  him, 
Disproved  the  arguments  of  Squib,* 

And  all  that  Groomt  could  urge  against  him. 

But  soon  his  rhetoric  forsook  him 
When  he  the  solemn  hall  had  seen ; 

A  sudden  fit  of  ague  shook  him ; 
He  stood  as  mute  as  poor  Macleane.t 

Yet  something  he  was  heard  to  mutter, 
"  How  in  the  park,  beneath  an  old  tree, 

(Without  design  to  hurt  the  butter, 
Or  any  malice  to  the  poultry,) 

He  once  or  twice  had  penned  a  sonnet, 
Yet  hoped  that  he  might  save  his  bacon  J 

Numbers  would  give  their  oaths  upon  it, 
He  ne'er  was  for  a  conjuror  taken." 

The  ghostly  prudes,  with  hagged§  face, 
Already  had  condemned  the  sinner : 

My  lady  rose,  and  with  a  grace 

She  smiled,  and  bid  him  come  to  dinner.ll 

"  Jesu-Maria !  Madam  Bridget, 

Why,  what  can  the  viscountess  mean!" 

Cried  the  square  hoods,  in  woful  fidget ; 
"  The  times  are  altered  quite  and  clean ! 

"  Decorum's  turned  to  mere  civility ! 

Her  air  and  all  her  manners  show  it  : 
Commend  me  to  her  affability ! 

Speak  to  a  commoner  and  poet !" 
[Here  500  stanzas  are  lost.] 

And  so  God  save  our  noble  king, 
And  guard  us  from  long-winded  lubbers, 

That  to  eternity  would  sing, 
And  keep  my  lady  from  her  rubbers. 


ELEGY 
WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD. 

THE  curfew  tollsIT  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 


*  The  steward.  t  Groom  of  the  chamber. 

+  A  famous  highwayman,  hanged  the  week  before. 
§  Hagged, ».  e.  the  face  of  a  witch  or  hag.    The  epithet  hag- 
gard has  been  sometimes  mistaken  as  conveying  the  same 
idea,  but  it  means  a  very  different  thing,  viz.  wild  and  farouche, 
and  is  taken  from  an  unreclaimed  hawk  called  a  haggard. 

I  Here  the  story  finishes ;  the  exclamation  of  the  ghosts, 
which  follows,  is  characteristic  of  the  Spanish  manners  of  the 
age  when  they  are  supposed  to  have  lived ;  and  the  500  stan- 
zas said  to  be  lost,  may  be  imagined  to  contain  the  remainder 
of  their  long-winded  expostulation. 

oQuilji  di  lonuino 
Che  paia'l  giorno  pianger,  che  si  muore, 

Dante,  Purgat.  L  a 


46 


GRAY'S  WORKS. 


I 


Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tink  lings  lull  the  distant  folds ; 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield ! 
How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke. 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  dejstiny  obscure : 

Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth,  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour : 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud !  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where  thro'  the  long  drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault, 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  1 
Can  honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  flattery  sooth  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstacy  the  living  lyre. 

But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll ; 

Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 


Some  village-Hampdon,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton,  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade ;  nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined ; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife,* 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray. ; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenour  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones,  from  insult  to  protect 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture 

decked 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,their  years,spelt  by  the  unlettered  muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply, 

And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who  to  dumb  forgetful  ness  a  prey 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind  1 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
•   Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 
E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashest  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonoured  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him,  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 


*  This  part  of  the  elegy  differs  from  the  first  copy.    The 
following  stanza  was  excluded  with  the  other  alterations : 
Hark !  how  the  sacred  calm,  that  breathes  around, 

Bids  every  fierce  tumultuous  passion  cease, 
In  still  small  accents  whispering  from  the  ground, 

A  grateful  earnest  of  eternal  peace. 
T  Ch'i  veggio  nel  pensier,  dolce  mio  fuoco, 
Fredda  una  lingua,  et  due  begli  occhi  chiufi 
Rimaner  droppo  noi  pien  difaville.— Petrarch,  Son.  169. 


MISCELLANIES. 


"  There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beach, 
That  wreaths  its  old  fantastic  root  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noon-tide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  bubbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Mutterinsr  hi*  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woful  wan !  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"  One  rnorn  I  missed  him  on  the  accustomed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,"*  and  near  his  fav'rite  tree; 

Another  came ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood,  was  he : 

"  The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  churchway-path  we  saw  him 
Ixjrne : 

Approach,  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn."t 

EPITAPH. 
HERE  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth, 

A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown : 
Fair  science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 

And  melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere ; 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send ; 
He  gave  to  misery  all  he  had,  a  tear ; 
v    He  gained  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wished)  a 
friend. 

No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  reposet) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


EPITAPH. 

ON  MRS.  MARY  CLARKK§ 

Lo !  where  this  silent  marble  weeps, 
A  friend,  a  wife,  a  mother,  sleeps ; 


*  Mr.  Gray  forgot,  when  he  displaced,  by  the  preceding 
stanza,  his  beautiful  description  of  the  evening  haunt,  the 
reference  to  it  which  he  had  here  left: 

Him  have  we  seen  the  greenwood  side  along, 

While  o'er  the  heath  we  hied,  our  labour  done, 
Oft  as  the  woodlark  piped  her  farewell  song, 
With  wistful  eyes  pursue  the  setting  sun, 
t  In  the  early  editions  the  following  lines  were  added,  but 
the  parenthesis  was  thought  too  long : 

There  scattered  oft,  the  earliest  of  the  year, 

By  hands  unseen,  are  showers  of  violets  found ; 
The  redbreast  loves  to  build  and  warble  there, 
And  little  footsteps  lightly  print  the  ground. 

J Paventoea  speme.    Petrarch,  Son. 

§  This  lady,  the  wife  of  Dr.  Clarke,  physician  at  Epsom, 
died  April  27th,  1757,  and  is  buried  in  the  church  of  Becken 
ham,  Kent 


A  heart,  within  whose  sacred  cell, 

The  peaceful  virtues  loved  to  dwell: 

Affection  warm,  and  faith  sincere, 

And  soft  humanity  were  there. 

In  agony,  in  death,  resigned, 

She  felt  the  wound  she  left  behind. 

Her  infant  image  here  below 

Sits  smiling  on  a  father's  wo, 

Whom  what  awaits  while  yet  he  strays 

Along  the  lonely  vale  of  days? 

A  pang,  to  secret  sorrow  dear, 

A  sigh,  an  unavailing  tear, 

Till  time  shall  every  grief  remove 

With  life,  with  memory,  and  with  love. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  STATIUS. 

THIRD  in  the  labours  of  the  disc  came  on, 
With  sturdy  step  and  slow,  Hippomedon ; 
Artful  and  strong  he  poised  the  well-known  weight 
By  Phlegy  as  warned,  and  fired  by  Mnestheus'  fate, 
That  to  avoid,  and  this  to  emulate. 
EJis  vigorous  arm  he  tried  before  he  flung, 
3  raced  all  his  nerves  and  every  sinew  strung, 
Then  with  a  tempest's  whirl  and  wary  eye 
Pursued  his  cast,  and  hurled  the  orb  on  high ; 
The  orb  on  high,  tenacious  of  its  course, 
True  to  the  mighty  arm  that  gave  it  force, 
?ar  overleaps  all  bound,  and  joys  to  see 
[ts  ancient  lord  secure  of  victory : 
The  theatre's  green  height  and  woody  wall 
Tremble  ere  it  precipitates  its  fall ; 
The  ponderous  mass  sinks  in  the  cleaving  ground, 
While  vales  and  woods  and  echoing  hills  rebound, 
As  when  from  ./Etna's  smoking  summit  broke, 
The  eyeless  Cyclops  heaved  the  craggy  rock, 
Where  ocean  frets  beneath  the  dashing  oar, 
And  parting  surges  round  the  vessel  roar ; 
'Twas  there  he  aimed  the  meditated  harm, 
And  scarce  Ulysses  'scaped  his  giant  arm. 
A  tiger's  pride  the  victor  bore  away. 
With  native  spots  and  artful  labour  gay, 
A  shining  border  round  the  margin  rolled, 
And  calmed  the  terrors  of  his  claws  in  gold. 
Cambridge,  May  8th,  1736. 


GRAY  OF  HIMSELF. 

Too  poor  for  a  bribe,  and  too  proud  to  importune, 
He  had  not  the  method  of  making  a  fortune : 
Could  love  and  could  hate,  so  was  thought  some- 
thing odd ; 

No  very  great  wit,  he  believed  in  a  God : 
A  post  or  a  pension  he  did  not  desire, 
But  left  church  and  state  to  Charles  Townsend 
and  Squire. 


THE 


OF 


JAMES  BEATTIE,  LL.D. 


Contents* 


Life  of  Dr.  James  Seattle, 


Page. 
.       ii 


THE  MINSTREL.   Book  I.    - 
Book  IL 

POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS. 
Ode  to  Retirement,    - 

Hope,          .... 

Ode  on  Lord  Hay's  Birth  Day,  -       - 


Page. 
Pigmaeo-gerano-machia:  The  battle  of  the  Pigmies 

and  Cranes, 18 

The  Hares :  A  Fable, 20 

Elegy, 22 

Epitaph :  being  part  of  an  Inscription  for  a  monu- 
ment to  be  erected  by  a  Gentleman  to  the  memory 

ofhisLady, 23 

The  Hermit, ib. 

Epitaph  on  the  Author,  by  himself,   -       -       -       -  ib. 


ffifte  3Life  of 


SBrattie, 


DR.  JAMES  BKATTIE  was  born  at  Laurencekirk, 
in  the  county  of  Kincardine,  Scotland,  on  the  25th 
day  of  October,  1735.  His  father,  who  was  a 
farmer  of  no  considerable  rank,  is  said  to  have  had 
a  turn  for  reading  and  for  versifying :  but,  as  he 
died  in  1710.  when  his  son  James  was  only  seven 
he  could  have  had  no  great  share  in 
forming  his  mind. 

James  was  sent  early  to  the  only  school  his  birth- 
place afforded,  where  he  passed  his  time  under  the 
instruction  of  a  tutor  named  Milne,  whom  he  used 
to  represent  "  as  a  good  grammarian,  and  tolerably 
skilled  in  the  Latin  language,  but  destitute  of  taste, 
as  well  as  of  some  other  qualifications  essential  to 
a  good  teacher."  He  is  said  to  have  preferred 
Ovid  as  a  school-author,  whom  Mr.  Beattie  after- 
wards gladly  exchanged  for  Virgil.  Virgil  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  read  with  great  delight  in 
s  and  Dry  den's  translations,  as  he  did  Ho- 
mer in  that  of  Pope ;  and  these,  with  Thomson's 
Seasons  and  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  of  all  which 
he  was  very  early  fond,  probably  gave  him  that 
taste  for  poetry  which  he  afterwards  cultivated  with 
so  much  success.  He  was  already,  according  to 
his  biographer,  inclined  to  make  verses,  and  among 
his  school-fellows  went  by  the  name  of  the  Poet. 

At  this  school  he  made  great  proficiency,  by 
unremitting  diligence,  which,  he  was  sensible,  was 
the  only  stock  he  could  command  ;  and  he  appear- 
ed to  much  advantage  on  his  entering  Marischal 
•College,  Aberdeen,  in  1749,  where  he  obtained  the 
first  of  those  bursaries  left  for  the  use  of  students, 
whose  parents  are  unable  to  support  the  entire 
expenses  of  academical  education.  Here  he  first 
studied  Greek  under  principal  Thomas  Blackwell, 
author  of  the  Inquiry  into  the  Life  and  Writings 
of  Homer;  Letters  concerning  Mythology;  and 
i  rs  of  the  Court  of  Augustus ;  a  teacher, 
who,  with  much  of  the  austerity  of  pedantry,  was 
kind  to  his  diligent  scholars,  and  found  in  Mr. 
Beattie  a -disposition  worthy  of  cultivation  and  of 
patronage.  The  other  professor,  with  whom  Mr. 
Beattie  was  particularly  connected,  was  Dr.  Alex- 
ander Gerard,  author  of  the  Genius  and  Eviden- 
ces of  Christianity ;  Essays  on  Taste  and  Genius ; 
and  other  works.  Under  these  gentlemen,  his 
proficiency,  both  at  college  and  during  the  vaca- 
;nplary,  and  he  accumulated  a 
much  more  vtriou*  st(-  k  of  general  knowledge 
than  is  usual  with  young  men  whose  destination 


is  the  church.  The  delicacy  of  his  health  requir- 
ing amusement,  he  found,  as  he  supposed,  all  that 
amusement  can  give  in  cultivating  his  musical  ta- 
lent?, which  were  very  considerable.  But  there 
is  reason  to  think  that  his  hours  of  relaxation  were 
too  few,  and  that  the  earnestness  with  which  he 
dissuaded  his  son  from  excessive  study,  arose  from 
his  repenting  that  he  had  not  paid  more  attention 
to  the  exercises  which  promote  health. 

The  only  science  in  which  he  made  no  extraor- 
dinary proficiency,  and  to  which  he  even  seemed 
to  have  a  dislike,  was  mathematics.  In  this,  in- 
deed, he  performed  the  requisite  tasks,  but  was 
eager  to  return  to  subjects  of  taste  or  general  lite- 
rature. In  every  other  branch  of  academical  stu- 
dy, he  never  was  satisfied  with  what  he  learned 
within  the  walls  of  the  college. 

In  1753,  having  gone  through  every  preparatory 
course  of  study,  he  took  the  degree  of  master  of 
arts,  the  only  one  attainable  by  students  (except 
of  medicine)  in  any  of  the  universities  of  Scotland. 
The  first  degree  of  bachelor  is  not  known,  and 
that  of  doctor  of  laws  or  divinity  is  usually  be- 
stowed on  application,  at  any  tune  of  life  after 
leaving  college,  without  the  necessity  of  keeping 
terms.  Mr.  Beattie,  therefore,  at  this  time  tech- 
nically finished  his  education,  and  had  a  profession 
to  seek.  He  had  hitherto  been  supported  by  the 
generous  kindness  of  an  elder  brother ;  but  he  was 
anxious  to  exonerate  his  family  from  any  farther 
burden.  With  this  laudable  view,  there  being  a 
vacancy  for  the  office  of  schoolmaster  and  parish- 
clerk,  to  the  parish  of  Fordoun,  adjoining  to  Lau- 
rencekirk,  he  accepted  the  appointment  August  6, 
1753.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  performed 
the  duties  of  this  situation  with  punctuality,  but  it 
was  neither  suited  to  his  disposition,  nor  advan- 
tageous to  his  progress  in  life.  The  emoluments 
were  very  scanty,  the  site  remote  and  obscure ;  and 
there  was  nothing  in  it  to  excite  emulation  or  gra- 
tify the  ambition  which  a  young  man,  conscious  as 
he  must  have  been  of  superior  powers  and  know- 
ledge, might  indulge  without  presumption.  He 
obtained  in  this  place,  however,  a  few  friends,  par- 
ticularly Lord  Gardenstown,  and  Lord  Monbod- 
do,  who  distinguished  him  with  encouraging  no- 
tice ;  and  his  imagination  was  delighted  by  the 
beautiful  and  sublime  scenery  of  the  place,  which 
he  appears  to  have  contemplated  with  the  eye  of  a 
poet.  His  leisure  hours  he  employed  on 


IV 


LIFE  OF  DR.  JAMES  BEATTIE. 


poetical  attempts,  which,  as  they  were  published  in 
the  Scots  Magazine,  with  his  initials,  and  some- 
times with  his  place  of  abode,  must  have  contri- 
buted to  make  him  yet  more  known  and  respected. 

The  church  of  Scotland  was  at  this  time  the 
usual  resource  of  well  educated  young  men,  arid 
with  their  academical  stores  in  full  memory,  there 
were  few  difficulties  to  be  surmounted  before  their 
entrance  on  the  sacred  office.  Although  this 
church  presents  no  temptations  to  ambition,  Mr. 
Beattie  appears  to  have  regarded  it  as  the  only 
means  by  which  he  could  obtain  an  independent 
rank  in  life ;  and  with  his  diligence,  was  confident 
that  the  transition  from  the  studies  of  philosophy 
and  ethics  to  that  of  divinity,  would  be  easy.  He 
returned,  therefore,  during  the  winter  to  Marischal 
College,  and  attended  the  divinity  lectures  of  Dr. 
Robert  Pollock,  of  that  college,  and  of  professor 
John  Lumsden,  of  King's,  and  performed  the  ex- 
ercises required  by  the  rules  of  both.  One  of  his 
fellow-students  informed  Sir  William  Forbes,  that 
during  their  attendance  at  the  divinity-hall,  he 
heard  Mr.  Beattie  deliver  a  discourse,  which  met 
with  much  commendation,  but  of  which  it  was  re- 
marked by  the  audience,  that  he  spoke  poetry  in 
prose. 

While  the  church  seemed  his  only  prospect,  and 
one  which  he  never  contemplated  with  satisfaction, 
although  few  young  men  lived  a  more  pious  and 
regular  life,  there  occurred,  in  1757,  a  vacancy  for 
one  of  the  masters  of  the  grammar-school  of  Aber- 
deen, a  situation  of  considerable  importance  in  all 
respects.  The  school,  which  is  a  public  founda- 
tion, is  conducted  by  a  rector,  or  head  master,  and 
three  subordinate  masters;  the  whole  is  in  the 
patronage  of  the  magistrates  of  the  city,  who  are, 
however,  governed  in  their  choice  by  the  issue  of 
a  very  severe  trial  of  the  candidate's  ability,  car- 
ried on  by  the  professors  of  the  university.  On 
this  occasion,  Mr.  Beattie  was  advised  to  become 
a  candidate ;  but  he  was  diffident  of  his  qualifica- 
tions, and  did  not  think  himself  so  fully  possessed 
of  the  grammatical  niceties  of  the  Latin  language, 
as  to  be  able  to  answer  readily,  any  question  that 
might  be  put  to  him  by  older  and  more  experienced 
judges.  In  every  part  of  his  life,  it  may  be  here 
observed,  Beattie  appears  to  have  formed  an  exact 
estimate  of  his  own  talents;  and  in  the  present 
instance  he  failed  just  where  he  expected  to  fail, 
rather  in  the  circumstantial  than  the  essential  re- 
quisites for  the  situation  to  which  he  aspired.  The 
other  candidate  was  accordingly  preferred.  But 
Beattie's  attempt  was  attended  with  so  little  loss 
of  reputation,  that  a  second  vacancy  occurring  a 
few  months  after,  and  two  candidates  appearing, 
both  unqualified  for  the  office,  it  was  presented  to 
him  by  the  magistrates  in  the  most  handsome  man- 
ner, without  the  form  of  a  trial,  and  he  immedi- 
ately entered  upon  it  in  June,  1758.  He  was  now 


in  the  midst  of  literary  society,  and  had  easy  ac- 
cess to  books,  and  his  colloquial  talents  daily  in- 
creased the  number  of  his  friends.  His  emolu- 
ments were  not  great,  but  his  situation  had  a  con- 
sequence in  the  opinion  of  the  public,  which  to  so 
young  a  man  was  not  a  little  flattering. 

He  had  not  long  been  an  usher  at  this  school  be- 
fore he  published  a  volume  of  poems.  An  author's 
first  appearance  is  always  an  important  era.  Mr. 
Beattie's  was  certainly  attended  with  circumstances 
that  are  not  now  common.  This  volume  was  an- 
nounced to  the  public  in  a  more  humble  manner 
than  the  present  state  of  literature  is  thought  to 
demand  in  similar  cases.  On  the  10th  of  March, 
1760,  not  the  volume  itself,  but  Proposals  for  print- 
ing original  Poems  and  Translations  were  issued. 
The  poems  appeared  accordingly  on  the  16th  of 
February,  1761,  and  were  published  both  in  Lon- 
don and  Edinburgh.  They  consisted  partly  of 
original  composition,  and  partly  of  the  pieces  for- 
merly printed  in  the  Scots  Magazine,  but  altered 
and  corrected;  a  practice  which  Beattie  carried 
almost  to  excess  in  all  his  poetical  works. 

The  praise  bestowed  on  this  volume  was  very 
flattering.  T  he  English  critics  who  then  dispensed 
the  rewards  of  literature,  considered  it  as  an  ac- 
quisition to  the  republic  of  letters,  and  pronounced 
that,  since  Mr.  Gray  (whom  in  their  opinion  Mr. 
Beattie  had  chosen  for  his  model)  they  had  not  met 
with  a  poet  of  more  harmonious  numbers,  more 
pleasing  imagination,  or  more  spirited  expression. 
This  verdict  they  endeavoured  to  confirm  by  ex- 
tracts from  the  Ode  to  Peace,  and  the  Triumph  of 
Melancholy.  But  notwithstanding  praises  which 
so  evidently  tended  to  give  a  currency  to  the  poems, 
and  which  were  probably  repeated  with  eager- 
ness by  the  friends  who  had  encouraged  the  pub- 
lication, the  author,  upon  more  serious  considera- 
tion, was  so  dissatisfied  with  this  volume  as  to 
destroy  every  copy  he  could  procure.  Nor  was 
this  a  sudden  or  splenetic  humour  in  Beattie. 
Some  years  after,  when  his  taste  and  judgment 
became  fully  matured,  he  refused  to  acknowledge 
above  four  of  them;  namely,  Retirement,  Ode  to 
Hope,  Elegy  on  a  Lady,  and  the  Hares,  and  these 
he  almost  re-wrote  before  he  would  permit  them 
to  be  printed  with  the  Minstrel. 

But  notwithstanding  the  lowly  opinion  of  the 
author,  these  poems,  during  their  first  circulation, 
which  was  chiefly  in  manuscript,  contributed  so 
much  to  the  general  reputation  he  acquired,  that 
he  was  considered  as  an  honour  to  his  country, 
and  deserving  of  a  higher  rank  among  her  fa- 
voured sons.  Accordingly  a  vacancy  happening 
in  Marischal  College,  his  friends  made  such  earn- 
est applications  in  his  behalf,  that  in  September, 
1760,  he  was  appointed  by  the  royal  patent  pro- 
fessor of  philosophy.  His  department  in  this  ho- 
nourable office  extended  to  moral  philosophy  and 


LIFE  OF  DR.  JAMES  BEATTIE. 


logic;  and  it  added,  in  his  mind,  a  very  affecting 
importance  to  it,  that  his  was  the  last  course  of  in- 
struction previous  to  the  students  leaving  college, 
and  dispersing  themselves  in  the  world. 

This  promotion  was  sudden  and  unexpected; 
and  it  may  be  supposed  that  a  youth  of  twenty- 
live  must  have  been  ill  prepared  to  give  a  course 
of  lectures,  and  a  train  of  instructions  on  subjects 
which  had  been  but  imperfectly  treated  by  veteran 
philosophers.  Yet  it  is  evident  from  his  printed 
works,  that  most  of  the  subjects  which  belong  to 
his  province,  had  been  familiarized  to  him  by  a  long 
course  of  reading  and  thinking,  and  that  he  had 
rly  accustomed  himself  to  composition ;  and 
it  is  highly  probable  that  he  brought  into  the  pro- 
-  chair,  such  a  mass  of  materials,  as  could 
with  verv  little  trouble  be  moulded  into  shape  for 
his  immediate  purpose.  It  is  certain,  however, 
that  such  was  his  diligence,  and  such  his  love  of 
those  studies,  that  within  a  few  years  he  was  not 
only  enabled  to  deliver  an  admirable  course  of  lec- 
tures on  moral  philosophy  and  logic,  but  also  to 
prepare  for  the  press  those  works  on  which  his 
fame  rests;  all  of  which,  there  is  some  reason  to 
think,  wi-re  written,  or  nearly  written,  before  he 
ie  world  the  result  of  his  philosophical  stu- 
the  celebrated  Essay  on  Truth.  It  may  be 
added  likewise,  that  the  rank  he  had  at  this  time 
attained  in  the  university  entitled  him  to  associate 
more  on  a  level  with  Reid  and  with  Campbell,  with 
(it-nml  and  with  Gregory,  men  whose  opinions 
were  in  many  points  congenial,  and  who  have  all 
been  hailed  by  the  sister  country  among  the  revi- 
vers of  Scotch  literature.  With  the  gentlemen 
already  mentioned,  and  a  few  others,  he  formed  a 
society,  or  club,  for  the  discussion  of  literary  and 
philosophical  subjects.  A  part  of  their  entertain- 
ment was  the  reading  a  short  essay,  composed  by 
each  member  in  his  turn.  It  is  supposed  that  the 
works  of  Reid,  Campbell,  Beattie,  Gregory,  and 
Gerard,  or  at  least  the  outlines  of  them,  were  first 
•  I  in  this  society,  either  in  the  form  of  es- 
r  of  a  question  for  familiar  conversation. 

In  17«5.">.  Mr.  Beattie  published  the  Judgment 
of  Paris,  a  poem,  in  4to.  Its  design  was  to  prove 
that  virtue  alone  is  capable  of  affording  a  gratifica- 
tion mlequate  to  our  whole  nature;  the  pursuits 
of  ambition  or  sensuality  promising  only  partial 
happiness,  as  being  adapted  not  to  our  whole  con- 
stitution, but  only  to  a  part  of  it.  The  reception 
of  this  poem,  however,  was  unfavourable,  and  al- 
though he  added  it  to  a  new  addition  of  his  poems 
in  17i)6,  yet  it  was  never  again  reprinted,  and  even 
his  biographer  has  declined  reviving  ils  memory 
by  an  extract. 

Although  he  had  acquired  a  station  in  which 

his  talents  were  displayed  with  great  advantage, 

and  commanded  a  very  high  degree  of  respect,  the 

publication  of  the  Essay  on  Truth  was  the  great 

31 


era  of  his  life;  for  this  work  carried  his  fame  far 
beyond  all  local  bounds  and  local  partialities.  It  is 
not,  however,  necessary  to  enter  minutely  into  the 
history  of  a  work  so  well  known. 

When  this  work  was  completed,  so  many  diffi- 
culties occurred  in  procuring  it  to  be  published, 
that  his  friends,  Sir  William  Forbes  and  Mr.  Ar- 
buthnot,  were  obliged  to  become  the  purchasers, 
unknown  to  him,  at  a  price  with  which  they 
thought  he  would  be  satisfied.  Sir  William  ac- 
cordingly wrote  to  him  that  the  manuscript  was 
sold  for  fifty  guineas,  as  the  price  of  the  first  edi- 
tion. In  a  very  grateful  letter  addressed  to  his 
friends,  he  answered  that  "  the  price  really  ex- 
ceeded his  warmest  expectations." 

The  first  edition  of  this  essay  was  published  in 
an  octavo  volume,  in  1770,  and  bought  up  with 
such  avidity  that  a  second  was  called  for,  and  pub- 
lished in  the  following  year.  The  interval  was 
short,  but  as  the  work  had  excited  the  public  at- 
tention in  an  extraordinary  degree,  the  result  of 
the  public  opinion  had  reached  the  author's  ear, 
and  to  this  second  edition  he  added  a  postscript,  in 
vindication  of  a  certain  degree  of  warmth  of  which 
he  had  been  accused. 

The  Essay  on  Truth,  whatever  objections  were 
made  to  it,  (and  it  met  with  very  few  public  oppo- 
nents.) had  a  more  extensive  circulation  than  pro- 
bably any  work  of  the  kind  ever  published.  This 
may  be  partly  attributed  to  the  charms  of  that 
popular  style  in  which  the  author  conveyed  his 
sentiments  on  subjects  which  his  adversaries  had 
artfully  disguised  in  a  metaphysical  jargon,  the 
meaning  of  which  they  could  vary  at  pleasure;  but 
the  eagerness  with  which  it  was  sought  arose 
chiefly  from  the  just  praise  bestowed  upon  it  by 
the  most  distinguished  friends  of  religion  and  learn- 
ing in  Great  Britain.  With  many  of  these,  of 
high  rank,  both  in  church  and  state,  the  author 
had  the  satisfaction  of  dating  his  acquaintance 
from  the  publication  of  this  work.  There  appear- 
ed, indeed,  in  the  public  in  general,  an  honourable 
wish  to  grace  the  triumph  of  sound  reasoning  over 
pernicious  sophistry.  Hence,  in  less  than  four 
years,  five  large  editions  of  the  Essay  were  sold. 
It  wus  translated  into  several  foreign  languages, 
and  attracted  the  notice  of  many  eminent  persons 
in  France,  Germany,  Holland,  Italy,  and  other 
parts  of  the  continent. 

Among  other  marks  of  respect,  the  University 
of  Oxford  conferred  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws 
on  the  author ;  and  on  his  second  arrival  in  Lon- 
don, he  was  graciously  received  by  the  king,  who 
bestowed  a  pension  on  him,  and  admitted  him  to 
a  private  conference.  It  was  in  July,  1771,  that 
Dr.  Beattie  first  visited  London,  and  commenced 
a  personal  acquaintance  with  men  of  the  highest 
eminence,  with  Lord  Mansfield  and  Lord  Lyttel- 
ton,  Drs.  Hurd,  Porteus,  Johnson,  Mr.  Burke, 


VI 


LIFE  OF  DR.  JAMES  BEATTIE. 


and,  indeed,  the  whole  of  the  literary  society, 
whose  conversations  have  been  so  pleasantly  de- 
tailed by  Mr.  Boswell.  He  returned  to  Scotland 
with  a  mind  elevated  and  cheered  by  the  praise, 
the  kindness,  and  the  patronage  of  the  good  and 
great. 

Soon  after  his  visit  to  London,  he  was  solicited, 
by  a  very  flattering  proposal,  sent  through  the 
hands  of  Dr.  Porteus.  to  enter  into  the  church  of 
England.  A  similar  offer  had  been  made  some 
time  before,  by  the  Archbishop  of  York,  but  de- 
clined. It  was  now  renewed  with  more  importu- 
nity, and  produced  from  him  the  important  reasons 
which  obliged  him  still  to  decline  an  offer  which 
he  could  not  but  consider  as  "  great  and  generous." 
By  these  reasons,  communicated  in  a  letter  to  Dr. 
Porteus,  we  find  that  he  was  apprehensive  of  the 
injury  that  might  be  done  to  the  cause  he  had  es- 
poused, if  his  enemies  should  have  any  ground  for 
asserting  that  he  had  written  his  Essay  on  Truth, 
with  a  view  to  promotion :  and  he  was  likewise 
of  opinion  that  it  might  have  the  appearance  of 
levity  and  insincerity,  and  even  of  want  of  princi- 
ple, were  he  to  quit,  without  any  other  apparent 
motive  than  that  of  bettering  his  circumstances, 
the  church  of  which  he  had  uniformly  been  a 
member.  Other  reasons  he  assigned,  on  this  oc- 
casion, of  some,  but  less  weight,  all  which  pre- 
vailed on  his  friends  to  desist  from  farther  solicita- 
tion, while  they  honoured  the  motives  by  which 
he  was  influenced.  In  the  same  year  he  refused 
the  offer  of  a  professor's  chair  in  the  University 
of  Edinburgh,  considering  his  present  situation  as 
best  adapted  to  his  habits  and  to  his  usefulness, 
and  apprehending  that  the  formation  of  a  new  so- 
ciety of  friends  might  not  be  so  easy  or  agreeable 
in  a  place  where  the  enemies  of  his  principles  were 
numerous.  To  some  of  his  friends,  however,  these 
reasons  did  not  appear  very  sound. 

Although  Mr.  Bcattie  had  seemingly  withdrawn 
his  claims  as  a  poet,  by  canceling  as  many  copies 
of  his  juvenile  attempts  as  he  could  procure,  he 
was  not  so  unconscious  of  his  talents,  as  to  relin- 
quish what  was  an  early  and  favourite  pursuit, 
and  in  which  he  had  probably  passed  some  of  his 
most  delightful  hours.  A  few  months  after  the 
appearance  of  the  Essay  on  Truth,  he  published 
the  first  book  of  the  Minstrel,  in  4to,  but  without 
his  name.  In  consequence  of  this  omission,  the 
poem  was  examined  with  all  that  rigour  of  criticism 
which  may  be  expected  in  the  case  of  a  work,  for 
which  the  author's  name  can  neither  afford  protec- 
tion nor  apology.  He  was  praised  for  having 
adopted  the  measure  of  Spenser,  because  he  had 
the  happy  enthusiasm  of  that  writer  to  support 
and  render  it  agreeable ;  but  objections  were  made 
to  the  limitation  of  his  plan  to  the  profession  of  the 
Minstrel,  when  so  much  superior  interest  might 
be  excited  by  carrying  him  on  through  the  prac-1 


tice  of  it.  It  was  objected,  also,  that  the  senti- 
ment of  the  first  stanza  appeared  too  close  a  copy 
from  a  passage  in  Gray's  celebrated  elegy;  and  se- 
veral lines  were  pointed  out  as  unequal,  and  in- 
consistent with  the  general  measure,  or  with  the 
dignity  of  the  subject.  These  objections  appear 
to  have  coincided  with  the  author's  reconsideration : 
and  he  not  only  adopted  various  alterations  re- 
commended by  his  friends,  particularly  by  Mr. 
Gray,  but  introduced  others,  which  made  the  sub- 
sequent editions  of  his  poems  far  more  perfect  than 
the  first. 

The  Minstrel,  however,  in  its  first  form,  con- 
tained so  many  passages  of  genuine  poetry,  the 
poetry  of  nature  and  of  feeling,  and  was  so  eagerly 
applauded  by  those  whose  right  of  opinion  was  in- 
contestable, that  it  soon  ran  through  four  editions ; 
and  in  1774,  the  author  produced  the  second  book. 
This,  although  of  a  more  philosophical  cast,  and 
less  rich  in  those  descriptions  which  appeal  to 
every  heart,  yet  contained  imagery  so  noble,  and 
so  many  proofs  of  the  "  lively,  plastic  imagination," 
as  to  place  the  author  in  the  first  ranks  of  modern 
poetry.  As  the  success  of  the  second  book  was 
not  inferior  to  that  of  the  first,  it  was  the  general 
wish  that  the  author  would  fulfil  his  promise  by 
completing  the  interesting  subject;  but  the  in- 
creasing business  of  education,  the  cares  of  a 
family,  and  the  state  of  his  health,  originally  deli- 
cate, and  never  robust,  deprived  him  of  the  time 
and  thought  which  he  considered  as  requisite.  In 
1777,  however,  he  was  induced  to  publish  the  two 
parts  of  the  Minstrel  together,  and  to  add  a  few 
of  his  juvenile  poems.  In  his  advertisement  he 
informs  us,  that  "  they  are  all  of  which  he  is  will- 
ing to  be  considered  as  the  author."  About  this 
time  some  poems  were  ascribed  to  him  which  he 
never  wrote ;  and  those  pieces  which  he  wished  to 
consign  to  oblivion,  were  published  by  persons  who 
hoped  to  profit  by  the  established  fame  of  the 
author. 

During  the  preceding  year,  (1776)  he  prepared 
for  the  press  a  new  edition  of  the  Essay  on  Truth, 
in  a  more  elegant  form  than  it  had  hitherto  worn, 
and  attended  with  circumstances  of  public  esteem 
which  were  very  flattering.  The  subscription  mo- 
ney was  a  guinea,  but  we  are  not  certain  that  sub- 
scribers were  limited  to  that  sura.  The  list  of  sub- 
scribers amounted  to  four  hundred  and  seventy- 
six  names,  of  men  and  women  of  the  first  rank  in 
life,  and  of  all  the  distinguished  literary  characters 
of  the  time.  The  copies  subscribed  for  amounted 
to  seven  hundred  and  thirty-two,  so  that  no  incon- 
siderable sum  must  have  accrued  in  this  delicate 
manner  to  the  author.  Dr.  Beattie  was  by  no 
means  rich;  his  pension  was  only  two  hundred 
pounds,  and  the  annual  amount  of  his  professor- 
ship never  reached  that  sum. 

The  Essays  added  to  this  volume,  and  which 


LIFE  OF  DR.  JAMES  BEATTIE, 


VU 


he  afterwards  printed  separately  in  octavo,  were 
on  Poetry  and  Music:  on  L  1  Ludi- 

crous Composition  ;  and  on  the  Utility  of  < 
Learning.  The  first,  which  was  written  in  1760, 
when  the  author  had  only  reached  his  twenty- 
seventh  year,  evinces  a  great  fund  of  reading,  and 
such  acquaintance  with  ancient  and  modern  litera- 
ture, and  such  discrimination  in  objects  of  criticism, 
as  are  rarely  found  in  persons  of  that  age. 

During  a  visit  to  the  metropolis,  in  1784,  Dr. 
submitted  to  the  Bishop  of  London,  with 
whose  friendship  he  had  long  been  honoured,  a 
part  of  a  work  which  at  that  prelate's  desire  he 
published  in  1760,  entitled,  Evidences  of  the  Chris- 
tian Religion  briefly  and  plainly  stated,  2  vols. 
This  likewise   formed  part  of  his  con- 
cluding lectures  to  his  class,  and  he  generally  dic- 
tated an  abstract  of  it  to  them  in  the  course  of  the 
session. 

In  the  preface  to  his  Dissertations,  he  intimated 
a  design  of  publishing  the  whole  of  his  Lectures 
on  Moral  Science,  but  from  this  he  was  diverted. 
He  was  encouraged,  however,  to  present  to  the 
public,  in  a  correct  and  somewhat  enlarged  form, 
the  abstract  which  he  used  to  dictate  to  his  scho- 
lars. Accordingly,  in  1790,  he  published  his  Ele- 
ments of  Moral  Science,  vol.  i.  8vo. 

In  vol.  ii.  there  occurs  a  dissertation  against  the 
slave  trade,  which  the  author  informs  us  he  wrote 
in  1773,  with  a  view  to  a  separate  publication. 
He  exposed  the  weak  defences  set  up  for  that 
abominable  traffic  with  great  acuteness,  and  thus 
had  the  honour  to  contribute  to  that  mass  of  con- 
viction, which  at  length  became  irresistible,  and 
delivered  the  British  nation  from  her  greatest  re- 
proach. 

To  the  second  volume  of  the  Transactions  of 
the  Royal  Society  of  Edinburgh,  published  in  1790, 
he  contributed  Remarks  on  some  Passages  of  the 
Sixth  Book  of  the  JEneid.  This  was,  in  fact,  a 
dissertation  on  the  Mythology,  of  the  Romans,  as 
poetically  described  by  Virgil,  in  the  episode  of 
-cent  of  ./Eneas  into  hell;  and  his  object 
was  to  vindicate  his  favourite  poet  from  the  charge 
of  impiety,  &c.  brought  against  him  by  Warburton 
and  others.  In  the  same  year  he  is  said  to  have 
superintended  an  edition  of  Addison's  periodical 
papers,  published  at  Edinburgh,  in  4  vols.  8vo. 
In  this,  however,  he  contributed  only  a  few  notes 
to  Tickell's  Life  of  Addison,  and  to  Dr.  Johnson's 
remarks.  It  were  to  be  wished  he  had  done  more; 
AddLson  never  had  a  warmer  admirer,  nor  a  more 
iul  imitator.  He  always  recommended 
Addison's  style  to  his  pupils,  and  it  is  evident 
from  the  whole  of  his  works  that  it  was  his  own 
model. 

In  1794,  appeared  the  last  work  our  author  com- 
posed, and  its  history  requires  some  notice  of  his 
family.  In  1767,  he  married  Miss  Mary  Dun, 


daughter  of  Dr.  James  Dun,  rector  or  head  master 
of  the  grammar  school  of  Aberdeen,  a  man  of 
great  personal  worth,  and  an  excellent  classical 
scholar. 

With  this  lady  Dr.  Beattie  enjoyed  for  many 
years  as  much  felicity  as  the  married  state  can  af- 
ford ;  and  when  she  visited  London  with  him,  she 
shared  amply  in  the  respect  paid  to  him,  and  in 
the  esteem  of  his  illustrious  friends.  By  her  he 
had  two  sons,  James  Hay,  so  named  from  the  Earl 
of  Errol,  one  of  his  old  and  steady  friends;  and 
Montague,  from  the  celebrated  Mrs.  Montague,  in 
whose  house  Dr.  Beattie  frequently  resided  when 
in  London.  While  these  children  were  very 
young,  Mrs.  Beattie  was  seized  with  an  indisposi- 
tion, which,  in  spite  of  all  care  and  skill,  termi- 
nated in  the  painful  necessity  of  separation  from 
her  husband.  The  care  of  the  children  now  de- 
volved on  the  father,  whose  sensibility  received 
such  a  shock  from  the  melancholy  insanity  alluded 
to,  as  could  only  be  aggravated  by  an  apprehen- 
sion that  the  consequences  of  Mrs.  Beattie's  dis- 
order might  not  be  confined  to  herself.  This 
alarm,  which  often  preyed  on  his  spirits,  proved 
happily  without  foundation.  His  children  grew 
up  without  the  smallest  appearance  of  hereditary 
evil;  but  when  they  had  just  begun  to  repay  his 
care  by  a  display  of  early  genius,  sweetness  of  tem- 
per and  filial  affection,  he  was  compelled  to  re- 
sign them  both  to  an  untimely  grave.  His  eldest 
son  died  November  19,  1790,  in  his  twenty-second 
year;  and  his  youngest  March  14,  1796,  in  his 
eighteenth  year.  The  death  of  the  latter  was  oc- 
casioned by  a  rapid  fever.  The  suddenness  of  the 
shock  made  it  more  deeply  felt  by  the  father,  as 
he  had  not  yet  recovered  from  the  loss  of  the  eld- 
est, who  was  taken  from  him  by  the  slow  process 
of  consumption. 

Soon  after  the  death  of  James  Hay,  his  father 
drew  up  an  account  of  his  Life  and  Character ;  to 
which  were  added,  Essays  and  Fragments,  written 
by  this  extraordinary  youth.  Dr.  Beattie  was  af- 
terwards induced  to  permit  the  Life  and  some  of 
the  Essays  and  Fragments  to  be  printed  for  pub- 
lication. The  Life  is  a  most  interesting  and  af- 
fecting narrative.  It  is  impossible,  indeed,  to  con- 
template without  emotion  the  exquisite  tenderness 
of  an  affectionate  and  mourning  parent,  soothing 
himself  by  the  remembrance  of  filial  piety  and 
departed  excellence,  and  humbly,  yet  fondly,  en- 
deavouring to  engage  the  sympathies  of  the  world 
of  a  genius  that  might  have  proved  one  of  its 
brightest  ornaments. 

After  the  loss  of  this  amiable  youth,  who  in 
1787  had  been  appointed  successor  to  his  father,  and 
had  occasionally  lectured  in  the  professor's  chair, 
Dr.  Beattie  resumed  that  employment  himself,  and 
continued  it,  although  with  intervals  of  sir 
and  depression,  until  the  unexpected  death  of  his 


Vili 


LIFE  OP  0ft.  JAMES  BEATTIE. 


second  and  last  child,  in  1796.  His  hopes  of  a 
successor  of  his  name  and  family,  had  probably 
been  revived  in  this  youth,  who  exhibited  many 
proofs  of  early  genius,  and  for  some  time  before  hi 
death  had  prosecuted  his  studies  with  great  assi- 
duity. But  here  too  he  was  compelled  again  to 
subscribe  to  the  uncertainty  of  all  human  pros- 
pects. Great,  however,  as  the  affliction  was,  it 
would  be  pleasing  to  be  .able  to  add  that  he  ac- 
quiesced with  pious  resignation,  and  laid  hold  on 
the  hopes  he  knew  so  well  how  to  recommend,  and 
which  yet  might  have  cheered,  if  not  gladdened 
his  declining  life.  But  from  this  period  he  began 
to  withdraw  from  society,  and  brooded  over  the 
sorrows  of  his  family,  until  they  overpowered  his 
feelings,  and  abstracted  him  from  all  the  comforts 
of  friendship  and  all  powers  of  consolation.  Of 
the  state  of  his  mind,  Sir  William  Forbes  has 
given  an  instance  so  touching,  that  no  apology 
can  be  necessary  for  introducing  it  here. 

"  The  death  of  his  only  surviving  child  com- 
pletely .unhinged  the  mind  of  Dr.  Beattie,  the  first 
symptoms  of  which,  ere  many  days  had  elapsed, 
was  a  temporary  but  almost  total  loss  of  memory, 
respecting  his  son.  Many  times  he  could  not  re- 
collect what  had  become  of  him:  and  after  search- 
ing in  every  room  in  the  house,  he  would  say  to 
his  neicej  Mrs.  Glennie, '  You  may  think  it  strange, 
but  I  must  ask  you  if  I  have  a  son,  and  where  he 
is!"  She  then  felt  herself  under  the  painful  ne- 
cessity of  bringing  to  his  recollection  his  son  Mon- 
tague's sufferings,  which  always  restored  him  to 
reason.  And  he  would  often,  with  many  tears, 
express  his  thankfulness  that  he  had  no  child,  say- 
ing, '  How  could  I  have  borne  to  see  their  elegant 
minds  mangled  with  madness !"  When  he  looked 
for  the  last  time,  on  the  dead  body  of  his  son,  he 
said  '  I  have  now  done  with  the  world:'  he  ever 
after  seemed  to  act  as  if  he  thought  so." 

The  last  three  years  of  his  life  were  passed  in 
hopeless  solitude,  and  he  even  relinquished  his 
correspondence  with  many  of  those  remote  friends 
with  whom  he  had  long  enjoyed  the  soothing  in- 
terchange of  elegant  sentiment  and  friendly  at- 
tachment. His  health,  in  this  voluntary  confine- 
ment, gradually  decayed,  and  extreme  and  pre- 
mature debility,  occasioned  by  two  paralytic 
strokes,  terminated  his  good  and  useful  life  on  the 
18th  day  of  August,  1803.  His  reputation  was  so 
well  founded  and  so  extensive,  that  he  was  uni- 
versally lamented  as  a  loss  to  the  republic  of  let- 
ters, and  particularly  to  the  University  to  which 
he  had  been  so  long  a  public  benefactor  and  an 
honour. 

Of  his  general  character  a  fair  estimate  maybe 
formed  from  his  works,  and  it  is  no  small  praise 
that  his  life  and  writings  were  in  strict  conformity 
with  each  other. 

Whatever  reputation  Dr.  Beattie  enjoyed  from 


his  philosophical  and  critical  works,  his  praise  was 
yet  higher  in  all  the  personal  relations  of  public 
and  private  life.  His  excellence  as  an  instructor 
may  be  gathered  from  his  printed  works ;  but  it  re- 
mains to  be  added,  that  few  men  have  exceeded 
him  in  anxious  and  kind  attentions  to  his  pupils. 
It  was  his  practice,  while  they  were  under  his  care, 
to  invite  them  by  small  parties  to  his  house,  and 
unbend  his  mind  in  gay  conversation,  encouraging 
them  to  speak  with  familiarity  on  common  topics, 
and  to  express  their  doubts  with  freedom  on  any 
subjects  connected  with  their  studies. 

None  were  more  affected  by  his  melancholy  re- 
treat from  society,  than  those  who  could  recollect 
him  in  his  happier  days  of  health  and  hope.  He 
had  a  keen  relish  for  social  intercourse,  and  was 
remarkably  cheerful  and  communicative.  It  has 
not  yet  been  mentioned,  but  it  may  be  observed 
from  various  parts  of  his  writings,  that  he  had  a 
turn  for  humour,  and  a  quick  sense  of  the  ridicu- 
lous. This,  however,  was  so  chastened  by  the  ele- 
gance of  his  taste,  and  the  benevolence  of  his  dis- 
position, that  whatever  fell  from  him  of  that  kind 
was  devoid  of  coarseness  or  asperity.  In  conver- 
sation he  never  endeavoured  to  gain  superiority, 
or  to  compel  attention,  but  contrived  to  take  his 
just  share,  without  seeming  to  interrupt  the  loqua- 
city of  others.  He  had,  however,  what  most  men 
have  who  are  jealous  of  their  reputation,  a  degree 
of  reserve  in  promiscuous  company, 'which  he  en- 
tirely discarded  among  those  whom  he  loved  and 
in  whom  he  confided. 

In  London  it  is  yet  remembered  that  his  collo- 
quial talents  were  much  admired,  and  no  doubt 
procured  him  a  long  continuance  of  those  friend- 
ships with  men  of  rank,  which  are  rarely  to  be 
preserved  without  something  more  than  the  mere 
possession  of  genius.  His  modest  and  engaging 
manners  rendered  him  equally  acceptable  to  the 
courtly  and  elegant  Mansfield,  and  to  the  rough 
and  unbending  Johnson.  To  Mrs.  Montague's 
literary  parties  he  was  ever  most  acceptable ;  and 
he  lived  with  the  then  bishop  of  London,  with  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  and  with  Mr.  Burke,  on  terms 
of  the  easiest  intimacy.  If  flattery  could  have 
spoiled  him,  he  had  enough;  as  in  England,  for 
whatever  reason,  his  character  always  stood  high- 
er even  than  in  his  own  country. 

Dr.  Beattie's  person  was  rather  above  the  mid- 
dle size.  His  countenance  was  very  mild,  and  his 
smile  uncommonly  placid  and  benign.  His  eyes 
were  remarkably  piercing  and  expressive,  and 
;here  was  a  general  composure  in  his  features 
which  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  has  given  admirably 
n  the  picture,  which  has  been  engraven  for  his 
ife  by  Sir  William  Forbes. 

His  frame  was  apparently  stout,  and  even  ro- 
bust, but  this  certainly  was  not  the  case.  Its  ori- 
ginal conformation  may  have  been  that  of  strength 


LIFE  OF  DR.  JAMES  BEATTIE. 


IX 


and  vigour;  but  lie  had  frequent  interruptions 
from  sickness,  at  a  very  early  period  of  life.  As 
be  advanced  he  discovered  all  the  delicate  and  va- 
letudinary temperament  of  genius.  At  the  age 
of  forty-five  he  had  the  walk  and  manner  and  pre- 
cautions that  are  usually  observable  at  sixty,  and 
was  much  afflicted  with  head-ache,  and  other 
symptoms  that  are  commonly  called  nervous. 


The  Life  of  Dr.  Beattie  published  by  Sir  Wil- 
liam Forbes,  exhibits  him  in  the  character  of  an 
epistolary  writer.  His  letters  embrace  a  very  large 
portion  of  the  literary  history  of  his  time,  but  it 
may  be  doubted  whether  they  have  always  the  ease 
and  vivacity  which  are  expected  in  this  department 
of  composition. 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  GENIUS. 


PREFACE. 

THE  design  was,  to  trace  the  progress  of  a  poeti 
cal  genius,  born  in  a  rude  age,  from  the  first  dawn- 
ing of  fancy  and  reason,  till  that  period  at  which 
he  may  be  supposed  capable  of  appearing  in  the 
world  as  a  Minstrel,  that  is,  an  itinerant  Poet  and 
Musician: — a  character  which,  according  to  the 
notions  of  our  forefathers,  was  not  only  respecta- 
ble, but  sacred. 

I  have  endeavoured  to  imitate  Spenser  in  the 
re  of  his  verse,  and  in  the  harmony,  simpli- 
city, and  variety  of  his  composition.  Antique  ex- 
ns  I  have  avoided;  admitting,  however, 
some  old  words,  where  they  seemed  to  suit  the 
subject :  but  I  hope  none  will  be  found  that  are 
now  obsolete,  or  in  any  degree  not  intelligible  to 
<h  poetry. 

To  those  who  may  be  disposed  to  ask,  what 
could  induce  me  to  write  in  so  difficult  a  mea- 
sure, I  can  only  answer,  that  it  pleases  my  ear, 
nnd  seems,  from  its  Gothic  structure  and  original, 
to  bear  some  relation  to  the  subject  and  spirit  of 
the  Poem.  It  admits  both  simplicity  and  magnifi- 
cence of  sound  and  of  language,  beyond  any  other 
stanza  that  I  am  acquainted  with.  It  allows  the 
sententiousness  of  the  couplet,  as  well  as  the  more 
complex  modulation  of  blank  verse.  What  some 
critics  have  remarked,  of  its  uniformity  growing 
at  last  tiresome  to  the  ear,  will  be  found  to  hold 
true  only  when  the  poetry  is  faulty  in  other  re- 


THE  MINSTREL. 

Me  vero  primum  dulcee  ante  omnia  Musae, 
Quorum  sacra  fero,  ingeti  perculsusamore, 
Accipiant.—  Virg. 

BOOK  I. 
I. 

AH  !  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 
The  steep  where  Fame's  proud  temple  shines 

afar; 

Ah !  who  can  tell  how  many  a  soul  sublime 
Has  felt  the  influence  of  malignant  star, 
And  waged  with  Fortune  an  eternal  war 
Checked  by  the  scoff  of  Pride,  by  Envy's  frown, 
And  Poverty's  unconquerable  bar, 
In  life's  low  vale  remote  has  pined  alone, 
Then  drop'd  into  the  grave,  unpitied  and  unknown! 

II. 

And  yet,  the  languor  of  inglorious  days 
Not  equally  oppressive  is  to  all : 
Him,  who  ne'er  listened  to  the  voice  of  praise, 
The  silence  of  neglect  can  ne'er  appal. 
There  are,  who  deaf  to  mad  Ambition's  call, 
Would  shrink  to  hear  the  obstreperous  trump  of 

Fame; 

Supremely  blessed,  if  to  their  portion  fall 
Health,  competence,  and  peace.  Nor  higher  aim 
FJad  he  whose  simple  tale  these  artless  linns  pro 

claim. 


BEATTIE'S  WORKS. 


III. 

The  rolls  of  fame  I  will  not  now  explore; 
Nor  need  I  here  describe  in  learned  lay, 
How  forth  the  minstrel  fared  in  days  of  yore, 
Right  glad  of  heart,  though  homely  in  array; 
His  waving  locks  and  beard  all  hoary  gray: 
While,  from  his  bending  shoulder,  decent  hung 
His  harp,  the  sole  companion  of  his  way, 
Which  to  the  whistling  wind  responsive  rung; 
And  ever,  as  he  went,  some  merry  lay  he  sung. 

IV. 

Fret  not  thyself,  thou  glittering  child  of  pride, 
That  a  poor  villager  inspires  my  strain; 
With  thee  let  Pageantry  and  Power  abide: 
The  gentle  Muses  haunt  the  sylvan  reign; 
Where  through  wild  groves  at  eve  the  lonely 

swain 

Enraptured  roams,  to  gaze  on  Nature's  charms : 
They  hate  the  sensual,  and  scorn  the  vain, 
The  parasite  their  influence  never  warms, 
Nor  him  whose  sordid  soul  the  love  of  gold  alarms. 

V. 

Though  richest    hues   the   peacock's   plumes 

adorn, 

Yet  horror  screams  from  his  discordant  throat. 
Rise,  sons  of  harmony,  and  hail  the  morn, 
While  warbling  larks  on  russet  pinions  float ; 
Or  seek  at  noon  the  woodland  scene  remote, 
Where  the  gray  linnets  carol  from  the  hill : 
O  let  them  ne'er,  with  artificial  note, 
To  please  a  tyrant,  strain  the  little  bill, 
But  sing  what  heaven  inspires,  and  wander  where 
they  will. 

VI. 

Liberal,  not  lavish,  is  kind  Nature's  hand; 
Nor  was  perfection  made  for  man  below : 
Yet  all  her  schemes  with  nicest  art  are  planned, 
Good  counteracting  ill,  and  gladness  wo. 
With  gold  and  gems  of  Chilian  mountains  glow; 
If  bleak  and  barren  Scotia's  hills  arise: 
There  plague  and  poison,  lust  and  rapine  grow: 
Here  peaceful  are  the  vales,  and  pure  the  skies, 
And  freedom  fires  the  soul,  and  sparkles  in  the 
eyes.  ^ 

VII. 

Then  grieve  not  thou,  to  whom  the  indulgent 

Muse 

Vouchsafes  a  portion  of  celestial  fire; 
Nor  blame  the  partial  Fates,  if  they  -refuse 
The  imperial  banquet,  and  the  rich  attire: 
Know  thine  own  worth,  and  reverence  the  lyre. 
Wilt  thou  debase  the  heart  which  God  refined  1 
No;  let  thy  heaven-taught  soul  to  heaven  aspire, 
To  fancy,  freedom,  harmony,  resigned  ; 
Ambition's  groveling  crew  for  ever  left  behind. 


VIII. 

Canst  thou  forego  the  pure  ethereal  soul 
In  each  fine  sense  so  exquisitely  keen, 
On  the  dull  couch  of  Luxury  to  loll, 
Stung  with  disease  and  stupified  with  spleen; 
Fain  to  implore  the  aid  of  Flattery's  screen, 
E'en  from  thyself  thy  loathsome  heart  to  hide, 
(The  mansion  then  no  more  of  joy  serene) 
Where  Fear,  Distrust,  Malevolence,  abide, 
And  impotent  Desire,  and  disappointed  Pride ! 

IX. 

O,  how  canst  thou  renounce  the  boundless  store 
Of  charms  which  Nature  to  her  votary  yields ! 
The  warbling  woodland,  the  resounding  shore, 
The  pomp  of  groves,  and  garniture  of  fields; 
All  that  the  genial  ray  of  morning  gilds, 
And  all  that  echoes  to  the  song  of  even, 
All  that  the  mountain's  sheltering  bosom  shields, 
And  all  the  dread  magnificence  of  heaven, 
O  how  canst  thou  renounce,  and  hope  to  be  for- 
given! 

X. 

These  charms  shall  work  thy  soul's  eternal  health, 
And  love,  and  gentleness,  and  joy,  impart: 
But  these  thou  must  renounce,  if  lust  of  wealth 
E'er  wins  its  way  to  thy  corrupted  heart; 
For,  ah!  it  poisons  like  a  scorpion's  dart; 
Prompting   the   ungenerous  wish,   the  selfish 

scheme, 

The  stern  resolve,  unmoved  by  pity's  smart, 
The  troublous  day,  and  long  distressful  dream- 
Return,  my  roving  Muse,  resume  thy  purposed 

theme. 

XI. 

There  lived  in  gothic  days,  as  legends  tell, 
A  shepherd-swain,  a  man  of  low  degree : 
Whose  sires,  perchance,   in  fairy-land  might 

dwell, 

Sicilian  groves,  or  vales  of  Arcady. 
But  he,  I  ween,  was  of  the  north  countrie:* 
A  nation  famed  for  song,  and  beauty's  charms; 
Zealous,  yet  modest;  innocent, though  free; 
Patient  of  toil;  serene,  amidst  alarms; 
Inflexible  in  faith ;  invincible  in  arms. 

XII. 

The  shepherd-swain  of  whom  I  mention  made, 
On  Scotia's  mountains  fed  his  little  flock; 
The  sickle,  scythe,  or  plough,  he  never  swayed ; 
An  honest  heart  was  almost  all  his  stock ; 


*  There  is  hardly  an  ancient  ballad,  or  romance,  wherein 
a  minstrel  or  harper  appears,  but  he  is  characterized,  by  way 
of  eminence,  to  have  been  "  of  the  north  countrie."  It  is  pro- 
bable, that  under  this  appellation  were  formerly  comprehend- 
ed all  the  provinces  to  the  north  of  the  Trent. — See  Percy's 
Essay  on  the.  English  Minstrels. 


THE  MINSTREL. 


•ink  the  living  water  from  the  rock: 
The  milky  <lam>  supplied  his  board,  and  lent 
Their  kindly  lleece  to  baffle  winter's  shock; 
And  he,  though  oft  with  dust  and  sweat  be- 
sprent, 

Did  guide  and  guard  their  wanderings,  wheresoe'er 
they  went. 

XIII. 

From  labour  health,  from  health  contentment 

springs, 

Contentment  opes  the  source  of  every  joy: 
He  envied  not,  he  never  thought  of,  kings; 
Nor  from  those  appetites  sustained  annoy, 
That  chance  may  frustrate,  or  indulgence 

cloy : 

Nor  Fate  his  calm  and  humble  hopes  beguiled ; 
He  mourned  no  recreant  friend,  nor  mistress 

coy, 

For  on  his  vows  the  blameless  Phoebe  smiled, 
And  her  alone  he  loved,  and  loved  her  from  a  child. 

XIV. 

No  jealousy  their  dawn  of  love  o'ercast, 
Nor  blasted  were  their  wedded  days  with  strife; 
Each  season  looked  delightful  as  it  past, 
To  the  fond  husband  and  the  faithful  wife: 
Beyond  the  lowly  vale  of  shepherd-life 
They  never  roamed;  secure  beneath  the  storm 
Which  in  ambition's  lofty  land  is  rife, 
Where   peace  and   love  are  cankered  by  the 

worm 
Of  pride,  each  bud  of  joy  industrious  to  deform. 

XV. 

The  wight,  whose  tales  these  artless  lines  unfold, 
Was  all  the  offspring  of  this  humble  pair  : 
His  birth  no  oracle  or  seer  foretold : 
No  prodigy  appeared  in  earth  or  air, 
Nor  aught  that  might  a  strange  event  declare. 
You  guess  each  circumstance  of  Edwin's  birth; 
The  parent's  transport,  and  the  parent's  care; 
The  gossip's  prayer  for  wealth,  and  wit,  and 

worth ; 
And  one  long  summer-day  of  indolence  and 

mirth. 

XVI. 

And  yet  poor  Edwin  was  no  vulgar  boy; 
Deep  thought  oft  seemed  to  fix  his  infant  eye: 
1  );iinties  ho  hooded  not,  nor  gaude  nor  toy, 
one  short  pipe  of  rudest  minstrelsy, 
r.  when  glad;  affectionate,  though  shy; 
And  now  his  look  was  most  demurely  sad, 
And  now  he  laughed  aloud,  yet  none  knew  why; 
The  neighbours  stared  and  sighed,  yet  blessed 

the  lad ; 

So  mo  deemed  him  wondrous  wise,  and  some  be- 
him  mad. 


XVII. 

But  why  should  I  his  childish  feats  display? 
Concourse,  and  noise,  and  toil,  he  ever  fled ; 
Nor  cared  to  mingle  in  the  clamorous  fray 
Of  squabbling  imps,  but  to  the  forest  sped, 
Or  roamed  at  large  the  lonely  mountain's  head ; 
Or,  where  the  maze  of  some  bewildered  stream 
To  deep  untrodden  groves  his  footsteps  led, 
There  would  he  wander  wild,  till  Phoebus'  beam, 
Shot  from  the  western  cliff,  released  the  weary  team. 

XVIII. 

The'  exploit  of  strength,  dexterity,  or  speed, 

To  him  nor  vanity  nor  joy  could  bring: 

His  heart,  from  cruel  sport  estranged,  would 

bleed 

To  work  the  wo  of  any  living  thing, 
By  trap  or  net ;  by  arrow  or  by  sling ; 
These  he  detested,  those  he  scorned  to  wield: 
He  wished  to  be  the  guardian,  not  the  king, 
Tyrant  far  less,  or  traitor  of  the  field : 
And  sure  the  sylvan  reign  unbloody  joy  might 

yield. 

XIX. 

Lo !  where  the  stripling,  wrapt  in  wonder,  roves 
Beneath  the  precipice  o'erhung  with  pine ; 
And  sees,  on  high,  amid  the'  encircling  groves, 
From  cliff  to  cliff  the  foaming  torrents  shine  : 
While  waters,  woods,  and  winds,  in  concert  join, 
And  Echo  swells  the  chorus  to  the  skies. 
Would  Edwin  this  majestic  scene  resign 
For  aught  the  huntsman's  puny  craft  supplies'? 
Ah !  no :  he  better  knows  great  Nature's  charms 
to  prize. 

XX. 

And  oft  he  traced  the  uplands,  to  survey, 
When  o'er  the  sky  advanced  the  kindling  dawn, 
The  crimson  cloud,  blue  main,  and  mountain 

gray, 

And  lake,  dim  gleaming  on  the  smoky  lawn ; 
Far  to  the  west  the  long  long  vale  withdrawn, 
Where  twilight  loves  to  linger  for  a  while; 
And  now  he  faintly  kens  the  bounding  fawn, 
A  villager  abroad  at  early  toil. — 
But  lo!  the  sun  appears!  and  heaven,  earth,  ocean, 

smile. 

XXI. 

And  oft  the  craggy  cliff  he  loved  to  climb, 
When  all  in  mist  the  world  below  was  lost: 
What  dreadful  pleasure!  there  to  stand  sublime, 
Like  shipwrecked  mariner  on  desert  coast, 
And  view  the'  enormous  waste  of  vapour  tost 
In  billows,  lengthening  to  the'  horizon  round, 
Now  scooped  in  gulfs,  with  mountains  now  em- 
bossed! 


BEATTIE'S- WORKS. 


And  hear  the  voice  of  mirth  and  song  rebound 
Flocks,  herds,  and  waterfalls,  along  the  hoar  pro- 
found! 

XXII. 

In  truth  he  was  a  strange  and  wayward  wight, 
Fond  of  each  gentle,  and  each  dreadful  scene: 
In  darkness,  and  in  storm,  he  found  delight; 
Nor  less,  than  when  on  ocean-wave  serene 
The  southern  sun  diffused  his  dazzling  shene. 
E'en  sad  vicissitude  amused  his  soul : 
And  if  a  sigh  would  sometimes  intervene, 
And  down  his  cheek  a  tear  of  pity  roll, 
A  sigh,  a  tear,  so  sweet,  he  wished  not  to  control. 

XXIII. 

"  O  ye  wild  groves,  O  where  is  now  your  bloom  ?" 
(The  Muse  interprets  thus  his  tender  thought) 
"  Your  flowers,  your  verdure,  and  your  balmy 

gloom, 

Of  late  so  grateful  in  the  hour  of  drought? 
Why  do  the  birds,  that  song  and  rapture  brought 
To  all  your  bowers,  their  mansions  now  forsake? 
Ah !  why  has  fickle  chance  this  ruin  wrought  ? 
For  now  the  storm  howls  mournful  through  the 

brake, 
And  the  dead  foliage  flies  in  many  a  shapeless  flake. 

XXIV. 

"  Where  now  the  rill,  melodious,  pure,  and  cool, 
And  meads,  with  life,  and  mirth,  and  beauty 

crowned! 

Ah!  see,  the'  unsightly  slime,  and  sluggish  pool, 
Have  all  the  solitary  vale  imbrowned ; 
Fled  each  fair  form,  and  mute  each  melting 

sound, 

The  raven  croaks  forlorn  on  naked  spray: 
And,  hark !  the  river,  bursting  every  mound, 
Down  the  vale  thunders;  and  with  wasteful 

sway, 
Uproots  the  grove,  and  rolls  the  shattered  rocks 

away. 

XXV. 

"  Yet  such  the  destiny  of  all  on  earth ; 
So  flourishes  and  fades  majestic  Man ! 
Fair  is  the  bud  his  vernal  morn  brings  forth, 
And  fostering  gales  a  while  the  nursling  fan: 
O  smile,  ye  heavens,  serene;  ye  mildews  wan, 
Ye  blighting  whirlwinds,  spare  his  balmy  prime, 
Nor  lessen  of  his  life  the  little  span: 
Borne  on  the  swift,  though  silent,  wings  of  Time, 
Old  age  comes  on  apace  to  ravage  all  the  clime. 

XXVJ. 

"  And  be  it  so.     Let  those  deplore  their  doom, 
Whose  hope  still  grovels  in  this  dark  sojourn : 
But  lofty  souls,  who  look  beyond  the  tomb, 
Can  smile  at  Fate,  and  wonder  how  they  mourn. 


Shall  spring  to  these  sad  scenes  no  more  return? 
Is  yonder  wave  the  sun's  eternal  bed  ? — 
Soon  shall  the  orient  with  new  lustre  burn, 
And  spring  shall  soon  her  vital  influence  shed, 
Again  attune  the  grove,  again  adorn  the  mead. 

XXVII. 

"  Shall  I  be  left  abandoned  in  the  dust, 
When  Fate,  relenting,  lets  the  flower  revive 
Shall  Nature's  voice,  to  man  alone  unjust, 
Bid  him,  though  doomed  to  perish,  hope  to  live  ? 
It  is  for  this  fair  Virtue  oft  must  strive 
With  disappointment,  penury,  and  pain  ? — 
No:  Heaven's  immortal  spring  shall  yet  arrive 
And  man's  majestic  beauty  bloom  again, 
Bright  through  the'  eternal  year  of  Love's  triumph- 
ant reign." 

XXVIII. 

This  truth  sublime  his  simple  sire  had  taught, 
In  sooth,  'twas  almost  all  the  shepherd  knew, 
No  subtle  nor  superfluous  lore  he  sought, 
Nor  ever  wished  his  Edwin  to  pursue : — 
"  Let  man's  own  sphere,"  (quoth  he)  "  confine 

his  view ; 

Be  man's  peculiar  work  his  sole  delight." 
And  much,  and  oft,  he  warned  him  to  eschew 
Falsehood  and  guile,  and  aye  maintain  the  right, 
By  pleasure  unseduced,  unawed  by  lawless  might. 

XXIX. 

"And  from  the  prayer  of  Want,  and  plaint  of  Wo, 
O  never,  never  turn  away  thine  ear ; 
Forlorn  in  this  bleak  wilderness  below, 
Ah !  what  were  man,  should  Heaven  refuse  to 

hear1! 

To  others  do  (the  law  is  not  severe) 
What  to  thyself  thou  wishest  to  be  done : 
Forgive  thy  foes ;  and  love  thy  parents  dear, 
And  friends,  and  native  land ;  nor  those  alone  ; 
All  human  weal  and  wo  learn  thou  to  make  thine 


XXX. 

See  in  the  rear  of  the  warm  sunny  shower, 
The  visionary  boy  from  shelter  fly ! 
For  now  the  storm  of  summer-rain  is  o'er, 
And  cool,  and  fresh,  and  fragrant,  is  the  sky ! 
And,  lo!  in  the  dark  east,  expanded  high, 
The  rainbow  brightens  to  the  setting  sun : 
Fond  fool,  that  deem'st  the  streaming  glory  nigh, 
How  vain  the  chase  thine  ardour  has  begun ! 
Tis  fled  afar,  ere  half  thy  purposed  race  be  run. 

XXXI. 

Yet  couldst  thou  learn,  that  thus  it  fares  with 

age, 
When  pleasure,  wealth,  or  power,  the  bosom 

warm, 


THE  MINSTREL. 


This  baffled  hojx;  might  tame  thy  manhood'b 

And  disappointment  of  her  sting  disarm. — 
But  why  should  foresight  thy  fond  heart  alarm 
Perish  the  lore  that  deadens  young  desire ! 
Pursue,  poor  imp,  th'  imaginary  charm, 
Indulge  gay  Hope,  and  Fancy's  pleasing  fire : 
Fancy  and  Hope  too  soon  shall  of  themselves  ex- 
pire. 

XXXII. 

When  the  long-sounding  curfew  from  afar 
Loaded  with  loud  lament  the  lonely  gale, 
Young  Edwin,  lighted  by  the  evening  star, 
Lingering  and  listening,  wandered  down  the 

vale: 

There  would  he  dream  of  graves,  and  corses  pale 
And  ghosts,  that  to  the  charnel-dungeon  throng 
And  drag  a  length  of  clanking  chain,  and  wail, 
Till  silenced  by  the  owl's  terrific  song, 
Or  blasts  that  shrieks  by  fits  the  shuddering  isles 

along. 

XXXIII. 

Or,  when  the  setting  moon,  in  crimson  dyed, 
Hung  o'er  the  dark  and  melancholy  deep, 
To  haunted  stream,  remote  from  man  he  hied, 
Where  fays  of  yore  their  revels  wont  to  keep  ; 
And  there  let  Fancy  roam  at  large,  till  sleep 
A  vision  brought  to  his  intranced  sight : 
And  first,  a  wildly-murmuring  wind  'gan  creep 
Shrill  to  his  ringing  ear ;  then  tapers  bright, 
With  instantaneous  gleam,  illumed  the  vault  of 
Night. 

XXXIV. 

Anon,  in  view  a  portal's  blazoned  arch 
Arose ;  the  trumpet  bids  the  valves  unfold  ; 
And  forth  an  host  of  little  warriors  march, 
Grasping  the  diamond  lance,  and  targe  of  gold 
Their  look  was  treat  le,  their  demeanor  bold, 
And  green  their  hrlnis,  and  green  thrir  silk  attire; 
And  here  and  then-,  right  venerably  old, 
The  long  robed  minstrels  wake  the  warbling 

wire, 
And  some  with  mellow  breath  the  martial  pipe 

inspire. 

XXXV. 

With  merriment,  and  song,  and  timbrels  clear, 
A  troop  of  dames  from  myrtle-bowers  advance ; 
The  little  warriors  doll' the  targe  and  spear, 
And  loud  enlivening  strains  provoke  the  dance: 
They  meet,  they  dart  away,  they  wheel  askance ; 
To  right,  to  left,  they  thrid  the  flying  maze ; 
Now  bound  aloll  with   vigorous  spring,  then 

glance 

Rapid  along :  with  many-coloured  rays 
Of  tapers,  gems,  and  gold,  the  echoing  forests  blaze. 


XXXVI. 

The  dream  is  fled.     Proud  harbinger  of  day, 
Who  scar'dst  the  vision  with  thy  clarion  shrill, 
Fell  chanticleer !  who  oft  has  reft  away 
My  fancied  good,  and  brought  substantial  ill'. 
O  to  thy  cursed  scream,  discordant  still, 
Let  Harmony  aye  shut  her  gentle  ear, 
Thy  boastful  mirth,  let  jealous  rivals  spill, 
Insult  thy  crest,  and  glossy  pinions  tear, 
And  ever  in  thy  dreams  the  ruthless  fox  appear. 

XXXVII. 

Forbear,  my  Muse.    Let  Love  attune  thy  line. 
Revoke  the  spell.    Thine  Edwin  frets  not  so : — 
For  how  should  he  at  wicked  chance  repine, 
Who  feels  from  every  chance  amusement  flow  7 
E'en  now  his  eyes  with  smiles  of  rapture  glow, 
As  on  he  wanders  through  the  scenes  of  morn, 
Where  the  fresh  flowers  in  living  lustre  blow, 
Where  thousand  pearls  the  dewy  lawns  adorn, 
A  thousand  notes  of  joy  in  every  breeze  are  born. 

XXXVIII. 

But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell? 

The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain 

side; 

The  lowing  herd ;  the  sheepfold's  simple  bell ; 
The  pipe  of  early  shepherd  dim  descried 
In  the  lone  valley;  echoing  far  and  wide 
The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above ; 
The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean-tide ; 
The  hum  of  bees,  and  linnet's  lay  of  love, 
And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal  grove. 

XXXIX. 

The  cqttage-curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark ; 
Crowned  with  her  pail  the  tripping  milkmaid 


The  whistling  ploughman  stalks  afield ;  and, 

hark! 
Down  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  wagon 

rings; 
Through    rustling  corn  the  hare   astonished 

springs ; 

Slow  tolls  the  village  clock  the  drowsy  hour ; 
The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whirring  wings ; 
Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequestered  bower, 
And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial  tour. 

XL. 

O  Nature,  how  in  every  charm  supreme ! 
Whose  votaries  feast  on  raptures  ever  new  ! 
O  for  the  voice  and  fire  of  seraphim, 
To  sing  thy  glories  with  devotion  due ! 
Bless'd  be  the  day  I  "scaped  the  wrangling  crew, 
From  Pyrrho's  maze,  and  Epicurus'  sty ; 
And  held  high  converse  with  the  godlike  few, 
Who  to  th'  enraptured  heart,  and  ear,  and  eye, 
Teach  beauty,  virtue,  truth,  and  love,  and  melody. 


BEATTIE'S  WORKS. 


XLI. 

Hence!  ye,  who  snare  and  stupefy  the  mind, 
Sophists,  of  beauty,  virtue,  joy,  the  bane ! 
Greedy  and  fell,  though  impotent  and  blind, 
Who  spread  your  filthy  nets  in  Truth's  fair  fane. 
And  ever  ply  your  venomed  fangs  amain ! 
Hence   to  dark  Error's  den,  whose  rankling 

slime 
First  gave  you  form,  hence !  lest  the  muse  should 

deign, 
(Though  loth  on  theme  so  mean  to  waste  a 

rhyme) 
With  vengeance  to  pursue  your  sacrilegious  crime. 

XLII. 

But  hail,  ye  mighty  masters  of  the  lay, 
Nature's  true  sons,  the  friends  of  man  and  truth! 
Whose  song,  sublimely  sweet,  serenely  gay, 
Amused  my  childhood,  and  informed  my  youth. 
O  let  your  spirit  still  my  bosom  sooth ; 
Inspire  my  dreams,  and  my  wild  wanderings 

guide ! 

Your  voice  each  rugged  path  of  life  can  smooth; 
For  well  I  know,  wherever  ye  reside, 
There  harmony  and  peace  and  innocence  abide. 

XLIII. 

Ah  me !  abandoned  on  the  lonesome  plain, 
As  yet  poor  Edwin  never  knew' your  lore, 
Save  when  against  the  winter's  drenching  rain, 
And  driving  snow,  the  cottage  shut  the  door : 
Then,  as  instructed  by  tradition  hoar, 
Her  legends  when  the  Beldam  'gan  impart, 
Or  chaunt  the  old  heroic  ditty  o'er, 
Wonder  and  joy  ran  thrilling  to  his  heart; 
Much  he  the  tale  admired,  but  more  the  tuneful 
art. 

XLIV. 

Various  and  strange  was  the  long-winded  tale; 
And  halls,  and  knights,  and  feats  of  arms,  dis- 
played ; 

Or  merry  swains,  who  quaff  the  nut-brown  ale, 
And  sing,  enamoured  of  the  nut-brown  maid; 
The  moonlight  revel  of  the  fairy  glade; 
Or  hags,  that  suckle  an  infernal  brood, 
And  ply  in  caves  the'  unutterable  trade,* 
Midst  fiends  and  sceptres,  queench  the  moon  in 

blood, 

Yell  in  the  midnight  storm,  or  ride  the  infuriate 
flood. 

XLV. 

But  when  to  horror  his  amazement  rose, 
A  gentler  strain  the  Beldam  would  rehearse, 
A  tale  of  rural  life,  a  tale  of  woes, 


*  Allusion  to  Shakspcaro :  "  A  deed  without  a  name." 

Macbeth,  Act  4,  Scene  1. 


The  orphan-babes,*  and  guardian-uncle  fierce:  — 
O  cruel !  will  no  pang  of  pity  pierce 
That  heart,  by  lust  of  lucre  seared  to  stone! 
For  sure,  if  aught  of  virtue  last,  or  verse, 
To  latest  times  shall  tender  souls  bemoan 
Those  helpless  orphan-babes,  by  thy  fell  arts  un- 
done. 

XLVI. 

Behold,  with  berries  smeared,  with  brambles 

torn,* 

The  babes,  now  famished,  lay  them  down  to  die, 
Midst  the  wild  howl  of  darksome  woods  forlorn, 
Folded  in  one  another's  arms  they  lie; 
Nor  friend,  nor  stranger,  hears  their  dying  cry; 
"  For  from  the  town  the  man  returns  no  more." 
But  thou,  who  Heaven's  just  vengeance  dar'st 

defy, 

This  deed  with  fruitless  tears  shall  soon  deplore, 
When  Death  lays  waste  thy  house,  and  flames  con- 
sume thy  store. 

XLVII. 

A  stifled  smile  of  stern  vindictive  joy 
Brightened  one  moment  Edwin's  startling  tear. — 
"  But  why  should  gold  man's  feeble  mind  decoy 
And  Innocence  thus  die  by  doom  severe  7" 
O  Edwin !  while  thy  heart  is  yet  sincere, 
The'  assaults  of  discontent  and  doubt  repel : 
Dark,  e'en  at  noontide,  is  our  mortal  sphere ; 

But  let  us  hope; to  doubt,  is  to  rebel; 

Let  us  exult  in  hope,  that  all  shall  yet  be  well. 

XL  VIII. 

Nor  be  thy  generous  indignation  checked, 
Nor  checked  the  tender  tear  to  Misery  given: 
From  Guilt's  contagious  power  shall  that  pro- 
tect, 

This  soften  and  refine  the  soul  for  Heaven. 
But  dreadful  is  their  doom,  whom  doubt  has 

driven 

To  censure  Fate,  and  pious  Hope  forego: 
Like  yonder  blasted  boughs  by  lightning  riven, 
Perfection,  beauty,  life,  they  never  know, 
But  frown  on  all  that  pass,  a  monument  of  wo. 

XLIX. 

Shall  he,  whose  birth,  maturity,  and  age, 
Scarce  fill  the  circle  of  one  summer  day; 
Shall  the  poor  gnat  with  discontent  and  rage 
Exclaim,  that  "  Nature  hastens  to  decay;" 
If  but  a  cloud  obstruct  the  solar  ray, 
If  but  a  momentary  shower  descend  1 
Or  shall  frail  man  Heaven's  dread  decree  gain- 
say, 

Which  bade  the  series  of  events  extend, 
Wide  through  unnumbered  worlds,  and  ages  with- 
out end  1 


•  See  the  fine  old  ballad,  called  "  the  Children  in  the  Wood/ 


THE  MINSTREL. 


One  part,  one  little  part,  we  dimly  scan 
Through  the  dark  medium  of  life's  feverish 
dream; 

lare  arraign  the  whole  stupendous  plan, 
If  but  that  little  part  incongruous  seem. 

is  that  part,  perhaps,  what  mo'rtals  deem ; 
Oft  from  apparent  ill  our  blessings  rise. 
O,  then  renounce  that  impious  self-esteem, 
That  aims  to  trace  the  secrets  of  the  skies: 
For  thou  art  but  of  dust;  be  humble  and  be  wise ! 

LI. 

Thus  Heaven  enlarged  his  soul  in  riper  years. 
For  Nature  gave  him  strength  and  fire,  to  soar 
On  Fancy's  wing  above  this  vale  of  tears; 
Where  dark  cold-hearted  sceptics,  creeping,  pore 
Through  microscope  of  metaphysic  lore : 
And  much  they  grope  for  truth,  but  never  hit. 
For  why?  their  powers,  inadequate  before, 
This  art  preposterous  renders  more  unfit ; 
Yet  deem  they  darkness  light,  and  their  vain  blun- 
ders wit. 

LII. 

Nor  was  this  ancient  dame  a  foe  to  mirth : 
Her  ballad,  jest,  and  riddle's  quaint  device, 
Oft  cheered  the  shepherds  round  their  social 

hearth ; 

Whom  levity  or  spleen  could  ne'er  entice 
To  purchase  chat  or  laughter,  at  the  price 
Of  decency.     Nor  let  it  faith  exceed, 
That  Nature  forms  a  rustic  taste  so  nice : — 
Ah !  had  they  been  of  court  or  city  breed, 
Such  delicacy  were  right  marvellous  indeed. 

LIII. 

Oft  when  the  winter-storm  had  ceased  to  rave, 
He  roamed  the  snowy  waste  at  even,  to  view 
The  cloud  stupendous,  from  the  Atlantic  wave 
High  towering,  sail  along  the  horizon  blue : 
Where  midst  the  changeful  scenery,  ever  new, 
Fancy  a  thousand  wondrous  forms  descries 
More  wildly  great  than  ever  pencil  drew, 
Rocks,  torrents,  gulfs,  and  shapes  of  giant  size, 
And  glittering  cliffs  on  cliffs,  and  fiery  ramparts  rise. 

LIV. 

Thence  musing  onward  to  the  sounding  shore, 
The  lone  enthusiast  oft  would  take  his  way, 
Listening  with  pleasing  dread  to  the  deep  roar 
Of  the  wide-weltering  waves.     In  black  array 
When  sulphurous  clouds  rolled  on  the  vernal  day, 
:  then  he  hastened  from  the  haunt  of  man, 
Along  the  trembling  wilderness  to  stray, 
What  time  the  lightning's  fierce  career  began, 
And  o'er  Heaven's  rending  arch  the  rattling  thun- 
•  dcr  ran. 


LV. 

Responsive  to  the  sprightly  pipe,  when  all 
In  sprightly  dance  the  village-youth  were  joined, 
Edwin,  of  melody  aye  held  in  thrall, 
From  the  rude  gambol  far  remote  reclined, 
Soothed  with  the  soft  notes  warbling  in  the  Tvind. 
Ah  then,  all  jollity  seemed  noise  and  folly: 
To  the  pure  soul  by  Fancy's  fire  refined, 
Ah,  what  is  mirth  but  turbulence  unholy, 
When  with  the  charm  compared  of  heavenly  me- 
lancholy! 

LVI. 

Is  there  a  heart  that  music  can  not  melt  ? 

Alas !  how  is  that  rugged  heart  forlorn ! 

Is  there,  who  ne'er  those  mystic  transports  felt 

Of  soli tude  and  melancholy  born  1 

He  needs  not  woo  the  Muse ;  he  is  her  scorn. 

The  sophist's  rope  of  cobweb  he  shall  twine ; 

Mope  o'er  the  schoolman's  peevish  page;  or 

mourn, 

And  delve  for  life  in  Mammon's  dirty  mine ; 
Sneak  with  the  scoundrel  fox,  or  grunt  with  glut- 
ton swine. 

LVII. 

For  Edwin  fate  a  nobler  doom  had  planned; 
Song  was  his  favourite  and  first  pursuit: 
The  wild  harp  rang  to  his  advent'rous  hand, 
And  languished  to  his  breath  the  plaintive  flute. 
His  infant  muse,  though  artless,  was  not  mute : 
Of  elegance  as  yet  he  took  no  care ; 
For  this  of  time  and  culture  is  the  fruit ; 
And  Edwin  gained  at  last  this  fruit  so  rare : 
As  in  some  future  verse  I  purpose  to  declare. 

LVIII. 

Meanwhile,  whate'er  of  beautiful  or  new, 
Sublime  or  dreadful,  in  earth,  sea,  or  sky, 
By  chance,  or  search,  was  offered  to  his  view, 
He  scanned  with  curious  and  romantic  eye. 
Whate'er  of  lore  tradition  could  supply 
From  gothic  tale,  or  song,  or  fable  old, 
Roused  him,  still  keen  to  listen  and  to  pry. 
At  last,  though  long  by  Penury  controlled, 
And  Solitude,  his  soul  her  graces  'gan  unfold. 

LIX. 

Thus  on  the  chill  Lapponian's  dreary  land, 
For  many  a  long  month  lost  in  snow  profound, 
When  Sol  from  Cancer  sends  the  season  bland, 
And  in  their  northern  cave  the  Storms  are  bound; 
From  silent  mountains,  straight,  with  startling 

sound, 

Torrents  are  hurled ;  green  hills  emerge ;  and  lo, 
The  trees  with  foliage,  cliffs;  with  flowers  are 

crowned ; 


8 


BEATTIE'S  WORKS. 


Pure  rills  through  vales  of  verdure  warbling  go ; 
And  wonder,  love,  and  joy,  the  peasant's  heart 
o'erflow* 

LX. 

Here  pause,  my  gothic  lyre,  a  little  while; 
The  leisure  hour  is  all  that  thou  canst  claim : 
But  if  Arbuthnott  on  this  labour  smile, 
New  strains  ere  long  shall  animate  thy  frame, 
And  his  applause  to  me  is  more  than  fame ; 
For  still  with  truth  accords  his  taste  refined. 
At  lucre  or  renown  let  others  aim, 
I  only  wish  to  please  the  gentle  mind, 
Whom  Nature's  charms  inspire,  and  love  of  hu- 
man-kind. 


BOOK  II. 


Doctrina  sed  vim  promovet  insitam, 
Rectique  cultus  pectora  roborant. 


I. 


HOT 


OF  chance  or  change  O  let  not  man  complain ; 
Else  shall  he  never  never  cease  to  wail : 
For,  from  the  imperial  dome,  to  where  the  swain 
Rears  the  lone  cottage  in  the  silent  dale, 
All  feel  the  assault  of  fortune's  fickle  gale , 
Art,  empire,  earth  itself,  to  change  are  doomed; 
Earthquakes  have  .raised  to  heaven  the  humble 

vale, 

And  gulfs  the   mountain's  mighty  mass   en- 
tombed, 

And  where  the  Atlantic  rolls  wide  continents  have 
bloomed.t 

II. 

But  sure  to  foreign  climes  we  need  not  range, 
Nor  search  the  ancient  records  of  our  race, 
To  learn  the  dire  effects  of  time  and  change, 
Which  in  ourselves,  alas !  we  daily  trace. 
Yet  at  the  darkened  eye,  the  withered  face, 
Or  hoary  hair,  I  never  will  repine : 
But  spare,  O  Time !  whate'er  of  mental  grace, 
Of  candour,  love,  or  sympathy  divine, 
Whate'er  of  fancy's  ray,  or  friendship's  flame  is 


III. 

So  I,  obsequious  to  Truth's  dread  command, 
Shall  here  without  reluctance  change  my  lay, 


*  Spring  and  Autumn  are  hardly  known  to  the  Laplanders. 
About  the  time  the  sun  enters  Cancer,  their  fields,  which  a 
week  before  were  covered  with  snow,  appear  on  a  sudden  full 
of  grass  and  flowers. — Schemer's  History  of  Lapland,  p.  16. 

1  Robert  Arbuthnot,  Esq.  a  near  relation  of  the  celebrated 
Dr.  Arbuthnot,  and  one  of  the  most  intimate  associates  of  Dr. 
Deattie. 

J  See  Plato's  Timeus. 


And  smite  the  gothic  lyre  with  harsher  hand ; 
Now  when  I  leave  that  flowery  path  for  aye 
Of  childhood,  where  I  sported  many  a  day, 
Warbling  and  sauntering  carelessly  along ; 
Where  every  face  was  innocent  and  gay, 
Each  vale  romantic,  tuneful  every  tongue, 
Sweet,  wild,  and  artless  all,  as  Edwin's  infant  song. 

IV. 

"  Perish  the  lore  that  deadens  young  desire,"* 
Is  the  soft  tenor  of  my  song  no  more. 
Edwin,  though  loved  of  Heaven,  must  not  aspire 
To  bliss,  which  mortals  never  knew  before. 
On  trembling  wings  let  youthful  fancy  soar, 
Nor  always  haunt  the  sunny  realms  of  joy ; 
But  now  and  then  the  shades  of  life  explore ; 
Though  many  a  sound  and  sight  of  wo  annoy, 
And  many  a  qualm  of  care  his  rising  hopes  destroy. 

y. 

Vigour  from  toil,  from  trouble  patience  grows : 
The  weakly  blossom,  warm  in  summer-bower, 
Some  tints  of  transient  beauty  may  disclose ; 
But  ah !  it  withers  in  the  chilling  hour. 
Mark,  yonder  oaks,  superior  to  the  power 
Of  all  the  warring  winds  of  Heaven  they  rise, 
And  from  the  stormy  promontory  tower, 
And  toss  their  giant  arms  amid  the  skies, 
While  each  assailing  blast  increase  of  strength 
supplies. 

VI. 

And  now  the  downy  cheek  and  deepened  voice 
Gave  dignity  to  Edwin's  blooming  prime ; 
And  walks  of  wider  circuit  were  his  choice, 
And  vales  more  wild,  and  mountains  more  sub- 
lime. 

One  evening,  as  he  framed  the  careless  rhyme, 
It  was  his  chance  to  wander  far  abroad, 
And  o'er  a  lonely  eminence  to  climb, 
Which  heretofore  his  foot  had  never  trode ; 
A  vale  appeared  below,  a  deep  retired  abode. 

VII. 

Thither  he  hied,  enamoured  of  the  scene  : 
For  rocks  on  rocks  piled,  as  by  magic  spell, 
Here  scorched  with  lightning,  there  with  ivy 

green 

Fenced  from  the  north  and  east  this  savage  dell ; 
Southward,  a  mountain  rose  with  easy  swell, 
Whose  long  long  groves  eternal  murmur  made; 
And  toward  the  western  sun  a  streamlet  fell, 
Where,  through  the  cliils,  the  eye  remote  sur- 
veyed 

Blue  hills,  and  glittering  waves,  and  skies  in  gold 
arrayed. 


See  Book  I.  Stanza  XXXI. 


THE  MINSTREL. 


VIII. 

Along  this  narrow  valley  you  might  see 
The  wild  deer  sporting  on  the  meadow  ground ; 
And,  here  and  there,  a  solitary  tree 
Or  mossy  stone,  or  rock  with  woodbine  crowned: 
Oft  did  the  dill's  reverberate  the  sound 
Of  parted  fragments  tumbling  from  on  high ; 
And  from  the  summit  of  that  craggy  mound 
The  perching  eagle  oft  was  heard  to  cry, 
Or  on  resounding  wings  to  shoot  athwart  the  sky. 

IX. 

One  cultivated  spot  there  was,  that  spread 
Its  flowery  bosom  to  the  noonday  beam, 
Where  many  a  rose-bud  rears  its  blushing  head, 
And  herbs  for  food  with  future  plenty  teem. 
Soothed  by  the  lulling  sound  of  grove  and  stream 
Romantic  visions  swarm  on  Edwin's  soul : 
He  minded  not  the  sun's  last  trembling  gleam, 
For  heard  from  far  the  twilight  curfew  toll ; 
When  slowly  on  his  ear  these  moving  accents 
stole:— 


"  Hail,  awful  scenes,  that  calm  the  troubled 

breast, 

And  woo  the  weary  to  profound  repose ; 
Can  Passion's  wildest  uproar  lay  to  rest, 
And  whisper  comfort  to  the  man  of  woes  ! 
Here  Innocence  rnay  wander,  safe  from  foes, 
And  Contemplation  soar  on  seraph-wings. 
O  Solitude !  the  man  who  thee  foregoes, 
When  lucre  lures  him,  or  ambition  stings, 
Shall  never  know  the  source  whence  real  grandeur 

springs. 

XL 

"  Vain  man,  is  grandeur  given  to  gay  attire? 
Then  let  the  butterfly  thy  pride  upbraid  : — 
To  friends,  attendants,  armies,  bought  with  hire! 
It  is  thy  weakness  that  requires  their  aid : — 
To  palaces,  with  gold  and  gems  inlaid? 
They  fear  the  thief,  and  tremble  in  the  storm: — 
To  hosts,  through  carnage  who  to   conquest 

'wade  1 

Behold  the  victor  vanquished  by  the  worm  ! 
Behold,  what  deeds  of  wo  the  locust  can  perform! 

XII. 

"  True  dignity  is  his,  whose  tranquil  mind 
Virtu«  above  the  things  below, 

Who,  every  hope  and  fear  to  Heaven  resigned, 
Shrinks  not,  though  Fortune  aim  her  deadliest 

blow." 
—This  strain  from  midst  the  rocks  was  heard 

to  flow 


In  solemn  sounds.    Now  beamed  the  evening 

star; 

And  from  embattled  clouds  emerging  slow, 
Cynthia  came  riding  on  her  silver  car ; 
And  hoary  mountain-clifls  shone  faintly  from  afar. 

XIII. 

Soon  did  the  solemn  voice  its  theme  renew ; 
(While  Edwin,  wrapt  in  wonder,  listening  stood) 
"Ye  tools  and  toys  of  tyranny,  adieu, 
Scorned  by  the  wise,  and  hated  by  the  good ! 
Ye  only  can  engage  the  servile  brood 
Of  Levity  and  Lust,  who,  all  their  days, 
Ashamed  of  truth  and  liberty,  have  woo'd, 
And  hugged  the  chain,  that  glittering  on  their 

gaze 
Seems  to  outshine  the  pomp  of  Heaven's  empyreal 

blaze. 

XIV. 

"  Like  them,  abandoned  to  Ambition's  sway, 
I  sought  for  glory  in  the  paths  of  guile; 
And  fawned  and  smiled,  to  plunder  and  be- 
tray, 

Myself  betrayed  and  plundered  all  the  while ; 
So  gnawed  the  viper  the  corroding  file: 
But  now  with  pangs  of  keen  remorse  I  rue 
Those  years  of  trouble  and  debasement  vile : — 
Yet  why  should  I  this  cruel  theme  pursue  1 
Fly,  fly,  detested  thoughts  for  ever  from  my  view. 

XV. 

"  The  gusts  of  appetite,  the  clouds  of  care, 
And  storms  of  disappointment,  all  o'erpast ; 
Henceforth  no  earthly  hope  with  Heaven  shall 

share 
This  heart,  where  peace  serenely  shines  at 

last. 

And  if  for  me  no  treasure  be  amassed, 
And  if  no  future  age  shall  hear  my  name, 
I  lurk  the  more  secure  from  Fortune's  blast, 
And  with  more  leisure  feed  this  pious  flame, 
Whose  rapture  far  transcends  the  fairest  hopes 

of  fame. 

XVI. 

"  The  end  and  the  reward  of  toil  is  rest. 
Be  all  my  prayer  for  virtue  and  for  peace! 
Of  wealth  and  fame,  of  pomp  and  power  pos- 
sessed, 

Who  ever  felt  his  weight  of  wo  decrease? 
Ah !  what  avails  the  lore  of  Rome  or  Greece, 
The    lay  heaven-prompted,    and    harmonious 

string, 

The  dust  of  Ophir,  or  the  Tyrian  fleece, 
All  that  art,  fortune,  enterprise,  can  bring, 
If  envy,  scorn,  remorse,  or  pride,  the  bosom  wring ! 


10 


BEATTIE'S  WORKS. 


XVII. 

"  Let  Vanity  adorn  the  marble  tomb 
With  trophies,  rhymes,  and  scutcheons  of  re- 
nown, 

In  the  deep  dungeon  of  some  gothic  dome, 
Where  night  and  desolation  ever  frown. 
Mine  be  the  breezy  hill  that  skirts  the  down ; 
Where  the  green  grassy  turf  is  all  I  crave, 
With  here  and  there  a  violet  bestrewn, 
Fast  by  a  brook,  or  fountain's  murmuring  wave ; 
And  many  an  evening  sun  shine  sweetly  on  my 
grave. 

XVIII. 

"  And  thither  let  the  village  swain  repair; 
And,  light  of  heart,  the  village  maiden  gay, 
To  deck  with  flowers  her  half-disheveled  hair, 
And  celebrate  the  merry  morn  of  May. 
There  let  the  shepherd's  pipe  the  live-long  day 
Fill  all  the  grove  with  love's  bewitching  wo ; 
And  when  mild  Evening  comes  with  mantle 

gray, 

Let  not  the  blooming  band  make  haste  to  go, 
No  ghost  nor  spell  my  long  and  last  abode  shall 

know. 

XIX. 

"  For  though  I  fly  to  'scape  from  Fortune's  rage, 
And  bear  the  scars  of  envy,  spite,  and  scorn ; 
Yet  with  mankind  no  horrid  war  I  wage, 
Yet  with  no  impious  spleen  my  breast  is  torn : 
For  virtue  lost,  and  ruined  man,  I  mourn. 
O  man!    Creation's  pride,   Heaven's  darling 

child, 

Whom  Nature's  best,  divinest  gifts  adorn, 
Why  from  thy  home  are  truth  and  joy  exiled, 
And  all  thy  favourite  haunts  with  blood  and  tears 

defiled  1 

XX. 

"  Along  yon  glittering  sky  what  glory  streams! 
What  majesty  attends  night's  lovely  queen ! 
Fair  laugh  our  valleys  in  the  vernal  beams ; 
And  mountains  rise,  and  oceans  roll  between, 
And  all  conspire  to  beautify  the  scene: 
But,  in  the  mental  world  what  chaos  drear ! 
What  forms  of  mournful,  loathsome,  furious 

mien! 

O  when  shall  that  Eternal  Morn  appear, 
These  dreadful  forms  to  chase,  this  chaos  dark  to 

clear? 

XXI. 

"  O  Thou,  at  whose  creative  smile,  yon  heaven, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  beauty,  life,  and  light, 
Rose  from  the'  abyss:  when  dark  Confusion, 

driven 
Down  down  the  bottomless  profound  of  night, 


Fled,  where  he  ever  flies  thy  piercing  sight! 
O  glance  on  these  sad  shades  one  pitying  ray 
To  blast  the  fury  of  oppressive  might, 
Melt  the  hard  heart  to  Love  and  Mercy's  sway, 
And  cheer  the  wandering  soul,  and  light  him  on 
the  way  1" 

XXII. 

Silence  ensued:  and  Edwin  raised  his  eyes 
In  tears,  for  grief  lay  heavy  at  his  heart: 
"  And  is  it  thus  in  courtly  life,  (he  cries) 
That  man  to  man  acts  a  betrayer's  part  ? 
And  dares  he  thus  the  gifts  of  Heaven  pervert, 
Each  social  instinct,  and  sublime  desire  1 — 
Hail,  Poverty !  if  honour,  wealth,  and  art, 
If  what  the  great  pursue,  and  learned  admire, 
Thus  dissipate  and  quench  the  soul's  ethereal  fire!" 

XXIII. 

He  said,  and  turned  away ;  nor  did  the  Sage 
O'erhear,  in  silent  orisons  employed. 
The  Youth,  his  rising  sorrow  to  assuage, 
Home  as  he  hied,  the  evening  scene  enjoyed: 
For  now  no  cloud  obscures  the  starry  void ; 
The  yellow  moonlight  sleeps  on  all  the  hills; 
Nor  is  the  mind  with  startling  sounds  annoyed, 
A  soothing  murmur  the  lone  region  fills 
Of  groves,  and  dying  gales,  and  melancholy  rills. 

XXIV. 

But  he  from  day  to  day  more  anxious  grew: — 
The  voice  still  seemed  to  vibrate  on  his  ear, 
Nor  durst  he  hope  the  hermit's  talc  untrue ; 
For  Man  he  seemed  to  love,  and  Heaven  to  fear, 
And  none  speaks  false,  where  there  is  none  to 

hear. 

"  Yet,  can  man's  gentle  heart  become  so  fell  7 
No  more  in  vain  conjecture  let  me  wear 
My  hours  away,  but  seek  the  hermit's  cell ; 
'Tis  he  my  doubt  can  clear,  perhaps  my  care  dis- 

pel." 

XXV. 

At  early  dawn  the  Youth  his  journey  took, 
And  many  a  mountain  passed  and  valley  wide, 
Then  reached  the  wild;  where  in  a  flowery  nook, 
And  seated  on  a  mossy  stone,  he  spied 
An  ancient  man :  his  harp  lay  him  beside : 
A  stag  sprang  from  the  pasture  at  his  call, 
And,  kneeling,  licked  the  withered  hand  that  tied 
A  wreath  of  woodbine  round  his  antlers  tall, 
And  hung  his  lofty  neck  with  many  a  floweret 
small. 

XXVI. 

And  now  the  hoary  Sage  arose,  and  saw 
The  wanderer  approaching :  innocence 
Smiled  on  his  glowing  cheek,  but  modest  awe 
Depressed  his  eye,  that  feared  to  give  offence : 


THE  MINSTREL. 


11 


"  Who  art  thou,  courteous  stranger?  and  from 

whence? 

Why  roam  thy  steps  to  this  abandoned  dale  T' 
"  A  shepherd  boy  (the  Youth  replied)  far  hence 
My  habitation ;  hear  my  artless  tale ; 
Nor  levity  nor  falsehood  shall  thine  ear  assail. 

XXVII. 

"  Late  as  I  roamed,  intent  on  nature's  charms, 
I  reached  at  eve  this  wilderness  profound ; 
And  leaning  where  yon  oak  expands  her  arms, 
Heard  these  rude  cliffs  tliine  awful  voice  re- 
bound, 

(For  in  thy  speech  I  recognise  the  sound :) 
You  mourned  for  ruined  man,  and  virtue  lost, 
And  seemed  to  feel  of  keen  remorse  the  wound, 
Pondering  on  former  days,  by  guilt  engrossed, 
Or  in  the  giddy  storm  of  dissipation  tossed. 

XXVIII. 

"But  say,  in  courtly  life  can  craft  be  learned, 
Where  knowledge  opens,  and  exalts  the  soul  1 
Where  fortune  lavishes  her  gifts  unearned, 
Can  selfishness  the  liberal  heart  control  1 
Is  glory  there  achieved  by  arts,  as  foul 
As  those  which  felons,  fiends,  and  furies  plan  1 
Spiders  ensnare,  snakes  poison,  tigers  prowl ; 
Love  is  the  godlike  attribute  of  man : 
O  teach  a  simple  Youth  this  mystery  to  scan  ! 

XXIX. 

"  Or  else  the  lamentable  strain  disclaim, 
And  give  me  back  the  calm,  contented  mind  ; 
Which,  late,  exulting,  viewed  in  Nature's  frame, 
Goodness  untainted,  wisdom  unconfined, 
Grace,  grandeur,  and  utility  combined ; 
Restore  those  tranquil  days,  that  saw  me  still 
Well  pleased  with  all,  but  most  with  humankind, 
When  Fancy  roamed  through  Nature's  works 

at  will," 
Unchecked  by  cold  distrust,  and  uninformed  of  ill." 

XXX. 

"  Wouldst  thou  (the  Sage  replied)  in  peace  re- 
turn 

To  the  gay  dreams  of  fond  romantic  youth, 
Leave  me  to  hide,  in  this  remote  sojourn, 
From  every  gentle  ear  the  dreadful  truth : 
For  if  my  desultory  strain  with  ruth 
And  indignation  make  thine  eyes  o'erflow, 
Alas !  what  comfort  could  thy  anguish  sooth, 
Shouldst  thou  the  extent  of  human  folly  know. 
Be  ignorance  thy  choice,  where  knowledge  leads 
to  wo. 

XXXI. 

!'  But  let  untender  thoughts  afar  be  driven ; 
Nor  venture  to  arraign  the  dread  deem 
For  know,  to  man,  as  candidate  for  Heaven, 
32 


The  voice  of  the  Eternal  said,  be  free; 
And  this  divine  prerogative  to  thee 
Does  Virtue,  Happiness,  and  Heaven  convey; 
Nor  Virtue  is  the  child  of  Liberty, 
And  Happiness  of  Virtue ;  nor  can  they 
Be  free  to  keep  the  path  who  are  not  free  to  stray. 

XXXII. 

"  Yet  leave  me  not.     I  would  allay  that  grief, 
Which  else  might  thy  young  virtue  overpower ; 
And  in  thy  converse  I  shall  find  relief, 
When  the  dark  shades  of  melancholy  lour ; 
For  solitude  has  many  a  dreary  hour, 
Ev'n  when  exempt  from  grief,  remorse  and  pain : 
Come  often  then ;  for,  haply,  in  my  bower, 
Amusement,  knowledge,  wisdom  thou  may'st 

gain. 
If  I  one  soul  improve,  I  have  not  lived  in  vain." 

XXXIII. 

And  now,  at  length  to  Edwin's  ardent  gaze 
The  Muse  of  history  unrolls  her  page : 
But  few,  alas !  the  scenes  her  art  displays, 
To  charm  his  fancy,  or  his  heart  engage. 
Here  Chiefs  their  thirst  of  power  in  blood  as- 
suage, 
And  straight  their  flames  with  tenfold  fierceness 

burn; 

Here  smiling  Virtue  prompts  the  patriot's  rage, 
But  lo,  ere  long,  is  left  alone  to  mourn, 
And  languish  in  the  dust,  and  class  the  abandoned 
urn. 

XXXIV. 

"  Ah,  what  avails  (he  said)  to  trace  the  springs 
That  whirl  of  empire  the  stupendous  wheel! 
Ah,  what  have  I  to  do  with  conquering  kings, 
Hands  drenched  in  blood,  and  breasts  begirt  with 

steel  ? 

To  those  whom  Nature  taught  to  think  and  feel, 
Heroes,  alas !  are  things  of  small  concern : 
Could  History  man's  secret  heart  reveal, 
And  what  imports  a  heaven-born  mind  to  learn, 
Her  transcripts  to  explore  what  bosom  would  not 

yearn! 

XXXV. 

"  This  praise,  O  Cheronean  Sage,*  is  thine : 
(Why  should  this  praise  to  thee  alone  belong  ?) 
All  else  from  Nature's  moral  path  decline, 
Lured  by  the  toys  that  captivate  the  throng ; 
To  herd  in  cabinets  and  camps,  among 
Spoil,  carnage,  and  the  cruel  pomp  of  pride ; 
Or  chaunt  of  heraldry  the  drowsy  song, 
How  tyrant  blood,  o'er  many  a  region  wide, 
Rolls  to  a  thousand  thrones  its  execrable  tide. 


Plutarch. 


12 


BEATTIE'S  WORKS. 


XXXVI 

"  Oh,  who  of  man  the  story  will  unfold, 
Ere  victory  and  empire  wrought  annoy, 
In  that  elysian  age  (misnamed  of  gold) 
The  age  of  love,  and  innocence,  and  joy, 
When  all  were  great  and  free!  man's  sole  em- 
ploy 

To  deck  the  bosom  of  his  parent  earth ; 
Or  toward  his  bower  the  murmuring  stream  de- 
coy, 

To  aid  the  floweret's  long-expected  birth, 
And  lull  the  bed  of  peace,  and  crown  the  board 
of  mirth. 

XXXVII. 

11  Sweet  were  your  shades,  O  ye  primeval  groves, 
Whose  boughs  to  man  his  food  and  shelter  lent, 
Pure  in  his  pleasures,  happy  in  his  loves, 
His  eye  still  smiling,  and  his  heart  content : 
Then,  hand  in  hand,  Health,  Sport,  and  La- 
bour went ; 

Nature  supplied  the  wish  she  taught  to  crave ; 
None  prowled  for  prey,  none  watched  to  circum- 
vent: 

To  all  an  equal  lot  Heaven's  bounty  gave; 
No  vassal  feared  his  lord,  no  tyrant  feared  his 
slave. 

XXXVIII. 

"  But  ah !  th'  historic  Muse  has  never  dared 
To  pierce  those  hallowed  bowers :  'tis  Fancy's 

beam 

Poured  on  the  vision  of  th'  enraptured  Bard, 
That  paints  the  charms  of  that  delicious  theme. 
Then  hail,  sweet  Fancy's  ray !  and  hail  the  dream 
That  weans  the  weary  soul  from  guilt  and  wo ! 
Careless  what  others  of  my  choice  may  deem, 
I  long  where  Love  and  Fancy  lead  to  go, 
And  meditate  on   Heaven ;   enough  of  earth  I 
know."— 

XXXIX. 

"  I  can  not  blame  thy  choice,  (the  Sage  replied) 
For  soft  and  smooth  are  Fancy's  flowery  ways: 
And  yet,  e'en  there,  if  left  without  a  guide, 
The  young  adventurer  unsafely  plays. 
Eyes  dazzled  long  by  Fiction's  gaudy  rays, 
In  modest  Truth  no  light  nor  beauty  find : 
And  who,  my  child,  would  trust  the  meteor-blaze, 
That  soon  must  fail,  and  leave  the  wanderer  blind, 
More  dark  and  helpless  far,  than  if  it  ne'er  had 
shined'? 

XL. 

"  Fancy  enervates,  while  it  sooths,  the  heart, 
And,  while  it  dazzles,  wounds  the  mental  sight: 


To  joy  each  heightening  charm  it  can  impart, 

But  wraps  the  hour  of  wo  in  tenfold  night. 

And  often,  when  no  real  ills  affright, 

Its  visionary  fiends,  an  endless  train, 

Assail  with  equal  or  superior  might, 

And  through  the  throbbing  heart,  and  dizzy 

brain, 

And  shivering  nerves,  shoot  stings  of  more  than 
mortal  pain. 

XLI. 

"  And  yet,  alas !  the  real  ills  of  life 
Claim  the  full  vigour  of  a  mind  prepared, 
Prepared  for  patient,  long,  laborious  strife, 
Its  guide  Experience,  and  Truth  its  guard. 
We  fare  on  earth  as  other  men  have  fared : 
Were  they  successful?  Let  not  us  despair. 
Was  disappointment  oft  their  sole  reward1? 
Yet  shall  their  tale  instruct,  if  it  declare 
How  they  have  borne  the  load  ourselves  are  doomed 
to  bear. 

XLII. 

"  What  charms  th'  historic  Muse  adorn,  from 

spoils, 
And  blood,  and  tyrants,  when  she  wings  her 

flight, 

To  hail  the  patriot  Prince,  whose  pious  toils 
Sacred  to  science,  liberty,  and  right, 
And  peace,  through  every  age  divinely  bright, 
Shall  shine  the  boast  and  wonder  of  mankind ! 
Sees  yonder  sun,  from  his  meridian  height, 
A  lovelier  scene  than  Virtue  thus  enshrined 
In  power,  and  man  with  man  for  mutual  aid  com- 
bined"? 

XLIII. 

"  Hail,  sacred  Polity,  by  Freedom  reared  I 
Hail,  sacred  Freedom,  when  by  Law  restrained ! 
Without  you,  what  were  manl  A  groveling  herd 
In  darkness,  wretchedness,  and  want  enchained. 
Sublimed  by  you,  the  Greek  and  Roman  reigned 
In  arts  unrivalled :  Oh,  to  latest  days, 
In  Albion  may  your  influence,  unprofaned, 
To  godlike  worth  the  generous  bosom  raise ; 
And  prompt  the  Sage's  lore,  and  fire  the  Poet's 
lays! 

XLIV. 

"  But  now  let  other  themes  our  care  engage. 
For  lo,  with  modest  yet  majestic  grace, 
To  curb  Imagination's  lawless  rage, 
And  from  within  the  cherished  heart  to  brace, 
Philosophy  appears.     The  gloomy  race 
By  Indolence  and  moping  Fancy  bred, 
Fear,  Discontent,  Solicitude  give  place, 
And  Hope  and  Courage  brighten  in  their  stead, 
While  on  the  kindling  soul  her  vital  beams  are  shed. 


THE  MINSTREL. 


13 


XLV. 

11  Then  waken  from  long  lethargy  to  life* 
The  seeds  of  happiness,  and  powers  of  thought 
Then  jarring  appetites  forego  their  strife, 
A  strife  by  ignorance  to  madness  wrought. 
Pleasure  by  savage  man  is  dearly  bought 
With  fell  revenge,  lust  that  defies  control, 
With  gluttony  and  death.   The  mind  untaught 
Is  a  dark  waste,  where  fiends  and  tempests  howl: 
As  Phoebus  to  the  world,  is  Science  to  the  soul. 

XLIV; 

"And  Reason  now  through  Number,  Tune, 

and  Space, 

Darts  the  keen  lustre  of  her  serious  eye, 
And  learns  from  facts  compared,  the  laws  to  trace, 
Whose  long  progression  leads  to  Deity. 
Can  mortal  strength  presume  to  soar  so  high? 
Can  mortal  sight,  so  oft  bedimmed  with  tears, 
Such  glory  bear? — forlo,  the  shadows  fly 
From  Nature's  face ;  Confusion  disappears, 
And  order  charms  the  eyes,  and  harmony  the  ears. 

XL  VII. 

"  In  the  deep  windings  of  the  grove,  no  more 
The  hag  obscene,  and  grisly  phantom  dwell; 
Nor  in  the  fall  of  mountain-stream,  or  roar 
Of  winds,  is  heard  the  angry  spirit's  yell ; 
No  wizard  mutters  the  tremendous  spell, 
Nor  sinks  convulsive  in  prophetic  swoon ; 
Nor  bids  the  noise  of  drums  and  trumpets  swell, 
To  ease  of  fancied  pangs  the  labouring  moon, 
Or  chase  the  shade  that  blots  the  blazing  orb  of 
noon. 

XLVIII. 

'•  Many  a  long-lingering  year,  in  lonely  isle, 
Stun'd  with  th'  eternal  turbulence  of  waves, 
Lo,  with  dim  eyes,  that  never  learned  to  smile, 
And  trembling  hands,  the  famished  native  craves 
Of  Heaven  his  wretched  fare :  shivering  in  caves, 
Or  scorched  on  rocks,  he  pines  from  day  to  day; 
But  Science  gives  the  word ;  and  lo,  he  braves 
The  surge  and  tempest,  lighted  by  her  ray, 
And  to  a  happier  land  wafts  merrily  away. 

XLIX. 

"  And  e'en  where  Nature  loads  the  teeming  plain 
With  the  full  pomp  of  vegetable  store, 
Her  bounty,  unimproved,  is  deadly  bane : 
Dark  woods  and  rankling  wilds,  from  shore  to 
shore 


*  The  influence  of  the  philosophic  Spirit,  in  humanizins 
the  mind,  and  preparing  it  for  intellectual  exertion,  and  deli- 
cate pleasure ;— in  exploring,  by  the  help  of  geometry,  the 
system  of  the  universe;  in  banishing  superstition ;  in  promot- 
ing navigation,  agriculture,  medicine,  and  moral  and  political 
science :  from  Stanza  XLV.  to  Stanza  LV. 


Stretch  their  enormous  gloom ;  which  to  explore 
E'en  Fancy  trembles  in  her  sprightliest  mood ; 
For  there  each  eyeball  gleams  with  lust  of  gore, 
Nestles  each  murderous  and  each  monstrous 

brood, 
Plague  lurks  in  every  shade,  and  steams  from  every 

flood. 


"  'Twas  from  Philosophy  man  learned  to  tame 
The  soil  by  plenty  to  intemperance  fed. 
Lo,  from  the  echoing  axe,  and  thundering  flame, 
Poison  and  plague  and  yelling  rage  are  fled : 
The  waters,  bursting  from  their  slimy  bed, 
Bring  health  and  melody  to  every  vale : 
And,  from  the  breezy  main,  and  mountain's  head, 
Ceres  and  Flora,  to  the  sunny  dale, 
To  fan  their  glowing  charms,  invite  the  fluttering 
gale. 

LI. 

"  What  dire  necessities  on  every  hand 
Our  art,  our  strength,  our  fortitude  require ! 
Of  foes  intestine  with  a  numerous  band 
Against  this  little  throb  of  life  conspire ! 
Yet  Science  can  elude  their  fatal  ire 
Awhile,  and  turn  aside  Death's  leveled  dart, 
Sooth  the  sharp  pang,  allay  the  fever's  fire, 
And  brace  the  nerves  once  more,  and  cheer  the 

heart, 
And  yet  a  few  soft  nights  and  balmy  days  impart. 

LII. 

"  Nor  less  to  regulate  man's  moral  frame 
Science  exerts  her  all-composing  sway. 
Flutters  thy  breast  with  fear,  or  pants  for  fame, 
Or  pines  to  Indolence  and  Spleen  a  prey, 
Or  Avarice,  a  fiend  more  fierce  than  they  1 
Flee  to  the  shade  of  Academus'  grove ; 
Where  cares  molest  not,  discord  melts  away 
In  harmony,  and  the  pure  passions  prove 
How  sweet  the  words  of  truth  breathed  from  the 
lips  of  Love. 

LIII. 

"  What  can  not  Art  and  Industry  perform, 
When  Science  plans  the  progress  of  their  toil  ? 
They  smile  at  penury,  disease,  and  storm ; 
And  oceans  from  their  mighty  mounds  recoil. 
When  tyrants  scourge,  or  demagogues  embroil 
A  land,  or  when  the  rabble's  headlong  rage 
Order  transforms  to  anarchy  and  spoil, 
Deep-versed  in  man  the  philosophic  Sage 
Prepares  with  lenient  hand  their  frenzy  to  assuage. 

LIV. 

"  'Tis  he  alone,  whose  comprehensive  mind, 
From  situation,  temper,  soil,  and  clime 


14 


BEATTIE'S  WORKS. 


Explored,  a  nation's  various  powers  can  bind 
And  various  orders,  in  one  form  sublime 
Of  polity,  that,  midst  the  wrecks  of  time, 
Secure  shall  lift  its  head  on  high,  nor  fear 
The  assault  of  foreign  or  domestic  crime, 
While  public  faith,  and  public  love  sincere, 
And  Industry  and  Law  maintain  their  ways  se- 
vere." 

LV. 

Enraptured  by  the  Hermit's  strain,  the  Youth 
Proceeds  the  path  of  Science  to  explore ; 
And  now,  expanding  to  the  beams  of  Truth, 
New  energies,  and  charms  unknown  before, 
His  mind  discloses :  Fancy  now  no  more 
Wantons  on  fickle  pinion  through  the  skies ; 
But  fixed  in  aim,  and  conscious  of  her  power, 
Sublime  from  cause  to  cause  exults  to  rise, 
Creation's  blended  stores  arranging  as  she  flies. 

LVI. 

Nor  love  of  novelty  alone  inspires, 
Their  laws  and  nice  dependencies  to  scan ; 
For  mindful  of  the  aids  that  life  requires, 
And  of  the  services  man  owes  to  man, 
He  meditates  new  arts  on  Nature's  plan ; 
The  cold  desponding  breast  of  Sloth  to  warm, 
The  flame  of  Industry  and  Genius  fan, 
And  Emulation's  noble  rage  alarm, 
And  the  long  hours  of  Toil  and  Solitude  to  charm. 

LVII. 

But  she,  who  set  on  fire  his  infant  heart, 
And  all  his  dreams  and  all  his  wanderings  shared 
And  blessed,  the  Muse  and  her  celestial  art, 
Still  claim  the  enthusiast's  fond  and  first  regard. 
From  Nature's  beauties  variously  compared 
And  variously  combined,  he  learns  to  frame 
Those  forms  of  bright  perfection,  which  the  Bard, 
While  boundless  hopes  and  boundless  views  in- 
flame, 
Enamoured  consecrates  to  never-dying  fame. 

LVIII. 

Of  late,  with  cumbersome,  though  pompous  show, 
Edwin  would  oft  his  flowery  rhyme  deface, 
Through  ardour  to  adorn ;  but  Nature  now 
To  his  experienced  eye  a  modest  grace 
Presents,  where  Ornament  the  second  place 
Holds,  to  intrinsic  worth  and  just  design 
Subservient  still.     Simplicity  apace 
Tempers  his  rage :  he  owns  her  charm  divine, 
And  clears  the  ambiguous  phrase,  and  lops  the 
unwieldy  line. 

LIX. 

Fain  would  I  sing  (much  yet  unsung  remains) 
What  sweet  delirium  o'er  his  bosom  stole, 


When  the  great  Shepherd  of  the  Mantuan  plains* 

His  deep  majestic  melody  'gan  roll : 

Fain  would  I  sing,  what  transport  stormed  his 

soul, 

How  the  red  current  throbbed  his  veins  along, 
When,  like  Pelides,  bold  beyond  control. 
Gracefully  terrible,  sublimely  strong, 
Homer  raised  high  to  heaven,  the  loud,  the  impe- 
tuous song. 

LX. 

And  how  his  lyre,  though  rude  her  first  essays, 
Now  skilled  to  sooth,  to  triumph,  to  complain, 
Warbling  at  will  through  each  harmonious  maze, 
Was  taught  to  modulate  the  artful  strain, 
I  fain  would  sing : — but  ah !  I  strive  in  vain. 
Sighs  from  a  breaking  heart  my  voice  confound. 
With  trembling  step,  to  join  yon  weeping  train 
I  haste,  where  gleams  funereal  glare  around, 
And,  mixed  with  shrieks  of  wo,  the  knells  of  death 
resound. 

LXI. 

Adieu,  ye  lays  that  Fancy's  flowers  adorn, 
The  soft  amusement  of  the  vacant  mind ! 
He  sleeps  in  dust,  and  all  the  Muses  mourn. 
He,  whom  each  Virtue  fired,  each  Grace  refined, 
Friend,  teacher,  pattern,  darling  of  mankind ! — 
He  sleeps  in  dust. — Ah,  how  should  I  pursue 
My  theme'? — To  heart-consuming  grief  resigned, 
Here  on  his  recent  grave  I  fix  my  view, 
And  pour  my  bitter  tears. — Ye  flowery  lays,  adieu ! 

LXII. 

Art  thou,  my  Gregory ,t  for  ever  fled  1 

And  am  I  left  to  unavailing  wo  ? 

When  fortune's  storms  assail  this  weary  head, 

Where  cares  long  since  have  shed  untimely 

snow, 

Ah,  now  for  comfort  whither  shall  I  go? 
No  more  thy  soothing  voice  my  anguish  cheers : 
Thy  placid  eyes  with  smiles  no  longer  glow, 
My  hopes  to  cherish,  and  allay  my  fears. — 
'Tis  meet  that  I  should  mourn: — flow  forth  afresh, 

my  tears ! 


*  Virgil. 

I  This  excellent  person  died  suddenly,  on  the  10th  of  Febru- 
ary, 1773.  The  conclusion  of  the  poem  was  written  a  few  days 
after.  Dr.  Gregory,  who  is  here  lamented,  has  made  his  me- 
mory beloved  by  almost  every  class  of  readers  from  his  beau- 
tiful and  affecting  address  to  his  daughters,  published  after  his 
death,  with  the  title  of  "A  Father's  Legacy."  He  published 
in  his  life-time  "  A  comparative  View  of  the  State  and  Facul- 
ties of  Man,  with  those  of  the  Animal  World ;"  and  "  Lectures 
on  the  Duties  and  Offices  of  a  Physician."  He  was  Professor 
of  Medicine  in  the  University  of  Aberdeen,  and  afterwards  of 
Edinburgh,  held  the  medical  rank  of  first  physician  to  his 
Majesty  for  Scotland,  and  arrived  at  high  eminence  in  the 
practice  of  his  profession.  See  a  further  and  very  interesting 
account  of  him  in  Sir  W.  Forbes'  Life  of  Dr.  Beattie. 


POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS. 


15 


on  Several  ©cessions. 


RETIREMENT. 

ANODE. 

WHEN  in  the  crimson  cloud  of  Even 
The  lingering  light  decays, 
And  Hesper  on  the  front  of  heaven 
His  glittering  gem  displays ; 
Deep  in  the  silent  vale  unseen, 
Beside  a  lulling  stream, 
A  pensive  Youth,  of  placid  mien, 
Indulged  this  tender  theme. 

"  Ye  cliffs,  in  hoary  grandeur  piled 

High  o'er  the  glimmering  dale ; 

Ye  woods,  along  whose  windings  wild 

Murmurs  the  solemn  gale ; 

Where  Melancholy  strays  forlorn, 

And  Wo  retires  to  weep, 

What  time  the  wan  moon's  yellow  horn 

Gleams  on  the  western  deep : 

"  To  you,  ye  wastes,  whose  artless  charms 

Ne'er  drew  Abition's  eye, 

'Scaped  a  tumultuous  world's  alarms, 

To  your  retreats  I  fly: 

Deep  in  your  most  sequestered  bower 

Let  me  at  last  recline, 

Where  Solitude,  mild,  modest  power! 

Leans  on  her  ivied  shrine. 

"How  shall  I  woo  thee,  matchless  Fair! 

Thy  heavenly  smile  how  win"? 

Thy  smile,  that  smooths  the  brow  of  Care, 

And  stills  the  storm  within. 

O  wilt  thou  to  thy  favourite  grove 

Thine  ardent  votary  bring, 

And  bless  his  hours',  and  bid  them  move 

Serene,  on  silent  wing  1 

"  Oft  let  remembrance  sooth  his  mind 
With  dreams  of  former  days, 
When,  in  the  lap  of  Peace  reclined, 
He  framed  his  infant  lays ; 
When  Fancy  roved  at  large,  nor  Care 
Nor  cold  Distrust  alarmed ; 
Nor  Envy,  with  malignant  glare, 
1  iis  simple  youth  had  harmed. 

<•'  'Twas  then,  O  Solitude !  to  thce 
His  early  vows  were  paid, 
•  From  heart  sincere,  and  warm,  and  free, 
Devoted  to  the  shade. 


Ah,  why  did  Fate  his  steps  decoy 
In  stormy  paths  to  roam, 
Remote  from  all  congenial  joy  1 — 
O  take  the  Wanderer  home. 

"  Thy  shades,  thy  silence,  now  be  mine, 
Thy  charms  my  only  theme ; 
My  haunt  the  hollow  cliff,  whose  pine 
Waves  o'er  the  gloomy  stream, 
Whence  the  scared  owl  on  pinions  gray 
Breaks  from  the  rustling  boughs, 
And  down  the  lone  vale  sails  away 
To  more  profound  repose. 

"  O  while  to  thee  the  woodland  pours 

Its  wildly  warbling  song, 

And  balmy  from  the  bank  of  flowers 

The  zephyr  breathes  along; 

Let  no  rude  sound  invade  from  far, 

No  vagrant  foot  be  nigh, 

No  ray  from  Grandeur's  gilded  car 

Flash  on  the  startled  eye. 

"  But  if  some  pilgrim  through  the  glade 

Thy  hallowed  bowers  explore, 

O  guard  from  harm  his  hoary  head, 

And  listen  to  his  lore ; 

For  he  of  joys  divine  shall  tell 

That  wean  from  earthly  wo, 

And  triumph  o'er  the  mighty  spell 

That  chains  this  heart  below. 

"  For  me  no  more  the  path  invites 

Ambition  loves  to  tread ; 

No  more  I  climb  those  toilsome  heights 

By  guileful  Hope  misled; 

Leaps  my  fond  flattering  heart  no  more 

To  Mirth's  enlivening  strain ; 

For  present  pleasure  soon  is  o'er, 

And  all  the  past  in  vain." 


ODE  TO  HOPE, 

I.  1. 

O  THOU,  who  glad'st  the  pensive  soul, 

More  than  Aurora's  smiles  the  swain  forlorn, 

Left  all  nightlong  to  mourn 

Where  desolation  frowns,  and  tempests  howl ; 

And  shrieks  of  wo,  as  intermits  the  storm, 

Far  o'er  the  monstrous  wilderness  resound, 

And  cross  the  gloom  darts  many  a  shapeless  form, 

And  many  a  fire-eyed  visage  glares  around, 


16 


BEATTIE'S  WORKS. 


O  come,  and  be  once  more  my  guest: 

Come,  for  thou  oft  thy  suppliant's  vow  hast  heard, 

And  oft  with  smiles  indulgent  cheered 

And  soothed  him  into  rest. 

I.  2. 

Smit  by  thy  rapture-beaming  eye 

Deep  flashing  through  the  midnight  of  their  mind, 

The  sable  bands  combined, 

Where  Fear's  black  banner  bloats  the  troubled  sky, 

Appalled  retire.     Suspicion  hides  her  head, 

Nor  dares  th'  obliquely  gleaming  eyeball  raise ; 

Despair,  with  gorgon-figured  veil  o'erspread, 

Speeds  to  dark  Phlegethon's  detested  maze. 

Lo,  startled  at  the  heavenly  ray, 

With  speed  unwonted  Indolence  upsprings, 

And,  heaving,  lifts  her  leaden  wings, 

And  sullen  glides  away: 

I.  3. 

Ten  thousand  forms,  by  pining  fancy  viewed, 

Dissolve. — Above  the  sparkling  flood 

When  Phoebus  rears  his  awful  brow, 

From  lengthening  lawn  and  valley  low, 

The  troops  of  fen-born  mists  retire. 

Along  the  plain 

The  joyous  swain 

Eyes  the  gay  villages  again, 

And  gold-illumined  spire ; 

While  on  the  billowy  ether  borne 

Floats  the  loose  lay's  jovial  measure ; 

And  light  along  the  fairy  Pleasure, 

Her  green  robes  glittering  to  the  morn, 

Wantons  on  silken  wing.     And  goblins  all 

To  the  damp  dungeon  shrink,  or  hoary  hall, 

Or  westward,  with  impetuous  flight, 

Shoot  to  the  desert  realms  of  their  congenial  Night. 

II.  1. 

When  first  on  Childhood's  eager  gaze 

Life's  varied  landscape,  stretched  immense  around, 

Starts  out  of  night  profound, 

Thy  voice  incites  to  tempt  th'  untrodden  maze. 

Fond  he  surveys  thy  mild  maternal  face, 

His  bashful  eye  still  kindling  as  he  views, 

And,  while  thy  lenient  arm  supports  his  pace, 

With  beating  heart  the  upland  path  pursues : 

The  path  that  leads,  where  hung  sublime, 

And  seen  afar,  youth's  gallant  trophies,  bright 

In  Fancy's  rainbow-ray,  invite 

His  wingy  nerves  to  climb. 

II.  2. 
Pursue  thy  pleasurable  way, 

Safe  in  the  guidance  of  thy  heavenly  guard, 
While  melting  airs  are  heard, 
And  soft-eyed  cherub  forms  around  thee  play : 
Simplicity,  in  careless  flowers  arrayed, 
Prattling  amusive  in  his  accent  meek; 


And  Modesty,  half  turning,  as  afraid, 

The  smile  just  dimpling  on  his  glowing  cheek! 

Content  and  Leisure  hand  in  hand 

With  Innocence  and  Peace,  advance  and  sing; 

And  Mirth,  in  many  a  mazy  ring, 

Frisks  o'er  the  flowery  land. 

II.  3. 

Frail  man,  how  various  is  thy  lot  below! 

To-day  though  gales  propitious  blow, 

And  Peace,  soft  gliding  down  the  sky, 

Lead  Love  along  and  Harmony, 

To-morrow  the  gay  scene  deforms: 

Then  all  around 

The  thunder's  sound 

Rolls  rattling  on  through  heaven's  profound, 

And  down  rush  all  the  storms. 

Ye  days,  that  balmy  influence  shed, 

When  sweet  Childhood,  ever  sprightly, 

In  paths  of  pleasure  sported  lightly, 

Whither,  ah  whither  are  ye  fled  1 

Ye  cherub-train,  that  brought  him  on  his  way, 

O  leave  him  not  midst  tumult  and  dismay ; 

For  now  youth's  eminence  he  gains : 

But  what  a  weary  length  of  lingering  toil  remains ! 

III.  1. 

They  shrink,  they  vanish  into  air. 

Now  Slander  taints  with  pestilence  the  gale; 

And  mingling  cries  assail, 

The  wail  of  Wo,  and  groan  of  dim  Despair. 

Lo,  wizard  Envy  from  his  serpent  eye 

Darts  quick  destruction  in  each  baleful  glance 

Pride  smiling  stern,  and  yellow  Jealousy, 

Frowning  Disdain,  and  haggard  Hate  advance ; 

Behold,  amidst  the  dire  array, 

Pale  withered  Care  his  giant  stature  rears, 

And  lo,  his  iron  hand  prepares 

To  grasp  its  feeble  prey. 

III.  2. 

Who  now  will  guard  bewildered  youth 

Safe  from  the  fierce  assault  of  hostile  rage? 

Such  war  can  Virtue  wage, 

Virtue,  that  bears  the  sacred  shield  of  Truth  ! 

Alas!  full  oft  on  Guilt's  victorious  car 

The  spoils  of  Virtue  are  in  triumph  borne ; 

While  the  fair  captive,  marked  with  many  a  scar, 

In  lone  obscurity,  oppressed,  forlorn, 

Resigns  to  tears  her  angel  form. 

Ill-fated  youth,  then  whither  wilt  thou  fly  1 

No  friend,  no  shelter  now  is  nigh : 

And  onward  rolls  the  storm. 

III.  3. 

But  whence  the  sudden  beam  that  shoots  along? 
Why  shrink  aghast  the  hostile  throng  ? 
Lo,  from  amidst  Affliction's  night, 
Hope  bursts  all  radiant  on  the  sight: 


POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS. 


17 


Her  words  the  troubled  bosom  sooth : — 

"  Why  thus  dismayed  1 

Though  foes  invade, 

Hope  ne'er  is  wanting  to  their  aid, 

Who  tread  the  path  of  truth. 

'Tis  I,  who  smooth  the  rugged  way, 

I,  who  close  the  eyes  of  Sorrow, 

And  with  glad  visions  of  to-morrow 

Repair  the  weary  soul's  decay. 

When  Death's  cold  touch  thrills  to  the  freezing 

heart, 

Dreams  of  heaven's  opening  glories  I  impart, 
Till  the  freed  spirit  springs  on  high 
In  rapture  too  severe  for  weak  mortality." 


ODE. 

ON  LORD  HAY'S  BIRTH-DAY. 

A  MUSE,  unskilled  in  venal  praise, 
Unstained  with  flattery's  art; 
Who  loves  simplicity  of  lays 
Breathed  ardent  from  the  heart ; 
While  gratitude  and  joy  inspire, 
Resumes  the  long  unpractised  lyre, 
To  hail,  O  Hay,  thy  natal  morn: 
No  gaudy  wreath  of  flowers  she  weaves, 
But  twines  with  oak  the  laurel  leaves, 
Thy  cradle  to  adorn. 

For  not  on  beds  of  gaudy  flowers 

Thine  ancestors  reclined, 

Where  Sloth  dissolves,  and  Spleen  devours 

All  energy  of  mind. 

To  hurl  the  dart,  to  ride  the  car, 

To  stem  the  deluges  of  war, 

And  snatch  from  fate  a  sinking  land; 

Trample  the  invader's  lofty  crest, 

And  from  his  grasp  the  dagger  wrest, 

And  desolating  brand : 

'Twas  this,  that  raised  thy  illustrious  line 

To  match  the  first  in  fame ! 

A  thousand  years  have  seen  it  shine 

With  unabated  flame ; 

Have  seen  thy  mighty  sires  appear 

Foremost  in  Glory's  high  career, 

The  pride  and  pattern  of  the  brave : 

Yet  pure  from  lust  of  blood  their  fire, 

And  from  Ambition's  wild  desire, 

They  triumphed  but  to  save. 

The  Muse  with  joy  attends  their  way 
The  vale  of  peace  along; 
There  to  its  lord  the  village  gay 
Renews  the  grateful  song. 
Yon  castle's  glittering  towers  contain 
No  pit  of  wo,  nor  clanking  chain, 
Nor  to  the  suppliant's  wail  resound; 
The  open  doors  the  needy  bless, 
Th'  unfriended  hail  their  calm  recess, 
And  gladness  smiles  around. 


There  to  the  sympathetic  heart 
Life's  best  delights  belong, 
To  mitigate  the  mourner's  smart, 
To  guard  the  weak  from  wrong. 
Ye  sons  of  Luxury  be  wise : 
Know,  happiness  for  ever  flies 
The  cold  and  solitary  breast ; 
Then  let  the  social  instinct  glow, 
And  learn  to  feel  another's  wo, 
And  in  his  joy  be  blessed. 

O  yet,  ere  Pleasure  plants  her  snare 

For  unsuspecting  youth : 

Ere  Flattery  her  song  prepare 

To  check  the  voice  of  Truth ; 

O  may  his  country's  guardian  power 

Attend  the  slumbering  Infant's  bower. 

And  bright  inspiring  dreams  impart ; 

To  rouse  the  hereditary  fire, 

To  kindle  each  sublime  desire, 

Exalt  and  warm  the  heart. 

Swift  to  reward  a  Parent's  fears, 
A  Parent's  hopes  to  crown, 
Roll  on  in  peace  ye  blooming  years, 
That  rear  him  to  renown ; 
When  in  his  finished  form  and  face 
Admiring  multitudes  shall  trace 
Each  patrimonial  charm  combined, 
The  courteous  yet  majestic  mien, 
The  liberal  smile,  the  look  serene, 
The  great  and  gentle  mind. 

Yet,  though  thou  draw  a  nation's  eyes, 

And  win  a  nation's  love  ; 

Let  not  thy  towering  mind  despise 

The  village  and  the  grove. 

No  slander  there  shall  wound  thy  fame, 

No  ruffian  take  his  deadly  aim, 

No  rival  weave  the  secret  snare : 

For  Innocence,  with  angel  smile, 

Simplicity,  that  knows  no  guile, 

And  Love  and  Peace  are  there. 

When  winds  the  mountain-oak  assail, 
And  lay  its  glories  waste; 
Content  may  slumber  in  the  vale, 
Unconscious  of  the  blast. 
Through  scenes  of  tumult  while  we  roam, 
The  heart,  alas!  is  ne'er  at  home, 
It  hopes  in  time  to  roam  no  more; 
The  mariner,  not  vainly  brave, 
Combats  the  storm,  and  rides  the  wave, 
To  rest  at  last  on  shore. 

Ye  proud,  ye  selfish,  ye  severe, 
How  vain  your  mask  of  state! 
The  good  alone  have  joy  sincere, 
The  good  alone  are  great ; 
Great,  when  amid  the  vale  of  peace 
They  bid  the  plaint  of  sorrow  cease, 


18 


BEATTIE'S  WORKS. 


And  hear  the  voice  of  artless  praise ; 
As,  when  along  the  trophied  plain 
Sublime  they  lead  the  victor's  train, 
While  shouting  nations  gaze. 


PIGM&  O-  GERANOMA  CHI  A  : 

THE  BATTLE  OP 

THE  PIGMIES  AND  CRANES, 

\From  tlve  Latin  of  Addison,  1762.] 

THE  pigmy  people,  and  the  feathered  train, 
Mingling  in  mortal  combat  on  the  plain, 
I  sing.    Ye  muses  favour  my  designs, 
Lead  on  my  squadrons,  and  arrange  the  lines; 
The  flashing  swords  and  fluttering  wings  display, 
And  long  bills  nibbling  in  the  bloody  fray : 
Cranes  darting  with  disdain  on  tiny  foes, 
Conflicting  birds  and  men,  and  war's  unnumbered 


The  wars  and  woes  of  heroes  six  feet  long 
Have  oft  resounded  in  Pierian  song. 
Who  has  not  heard  of  Colchos'  golden  fleece. 
And  Argo  manned  with  all  the  flower  of  Greece  1 
Of  Thebes'  fell  brethren,  Theseus  stern  of  face, 
And  Peleus'  son  unrivaled  in  the  race, 
^Eneas  founder  of  the  Roman  line, 
And  William  glorious  on  the  banks  of  Boyne  1 
Who  has  not  learned  to  weep  at  Pompey's  woes, 
And  over  Blackmore's  epic  page  to  doze  1 
'Tis  I,  who  dare  attempt  unusual  strains, 
Of  hosts  unsung,  and  unfrequented  plains ; 
Of  small  shrill  trump,  and  chiefs  of  little  size, 
And  armies  rushing  down  the  darkened  skies. 

Where  India  reddens  to  the  early  dawn, 
Winds  a  deep  vale  from  vulgar  eye  withdrawn : 
Bosomed  in  groves  the  lowly  region  lies, 
And  rocky  mountains  round  the  border  rise. 
Here,  till  the  doom  of  Fate  its  fall  decreed, 
The  empire  flourished  of  the  pigmy-breed ; 
Here  Industry  performed,  and  Genius  planned, 
And  busy  multitudes  o'erspread  the  land. 
But  now  to  these  lone  bounds  if  pilgrim  stray, 
Tempting  through  craggy  cliffs  the  desperate  way, 
He  finds  the  puny  mansion  fallen  to  earth, 
Its  godlings  mouldering  on  the  abandoned  hearth; 
And  starts,  where  small  white  bones  are  spread 

around, 

"  Or  little  footsteps  lightly  print  the  ground ;" 
While  the  proud  crane  her  nest  securely  builds, 
Chattering  amid  the  desolated  fields. 

But  different  fates  befel  her  hostile  rage, 
While  reigned,  invincible  through  many  an  age, 
The  dreaded  pigmy  :  roused  by  war's  alarms 
Forth  rushed  the  madding  mannikin  to  arms. 
Fierce  to  the  field  of  death  the  hero  flies ; 
The  faint  crane  fluttering  flaps  the  ground,  anc 
dies; 


And  by  the  victor  borne  (o'erwhelming  load !) 
With  bloody  bill  loose  dangling  marks  the  road: 
And  oft  the  wily  dwarf  in  ambush  lay, 
And  often  made  the  callow  young  his  prey; 
With  slaughtered  victims  heaped  his  board,  and 

smiled 

To  avenge  the  parent's  trespass  on  the  child. 
Oft,  where  his  feathered  foe  had  reared  her  nest, 
And  laid  her  eggs  and  household  gods  to  rest, 
Burning  for  blood,  in  terrible  array, 
The  eighteen-inch  militia  burst  their  way ; 
All  went  to  wreck ;  the  infant  foemen  fell, 
When  scarce  his  chirping  bill  had  broke  the  shell. 

Loud  uproar  hence,  and  rage  of  arms  arose, 
And  the  fell  rancour  of  encountering  foes ; 
3ence  dwarfs  and   cranes   one   general   havoc 

whelms, 

And  Death's  grim  visage  scares  the  pigmy  realms. 
Sot  half  so  furious  blazed  the  warlike  fire 
Of  Mice,  high  theme  of  the  Mseonian  lyre ; 
When  bold  to  battle  marched  th'  accoutred  frogs, 
And  the  deep  tumult  thundered  through  the  bogs. 
Pierced  by  the  javelin-bulrush,  on  the  shore 
Eere  agonizing  rolled  the  mouse  in  gore ; 
And  there  the  frog  (a  scene  full  sad  to  see !) 
Shorn  of  one  leg,  slow  sprawled  along  on  three ; 
He  vaults  no  more  with  vigorous  hopes  on  high, 
But  mourns  in  coarsest  croaks  his  destiny. 
And  now  the  day  of  wo  drew  on  apace, 
A  day  of  wo  to  all  the  pigmy  race, 
When  dwarfs  were  doomed  (but  penitence  was 

vain) 

To  rue  each  broken  egg,  and  chicken  slain. 
For  roused  to  vengeance  by  repeated  wrong, 
From  distant  climes  the  long-billed  regions  throng: 
From  Strymon's  lake,  and  Cayster's  plashy  meads, 
And  fens  of  Scythia,  green  with  rustling  reeds ; 
From  where  the  Danube  winds  through  many  a 

land, 

And  Mareotis  laves  th'  Egyptian  strand, 
To  rendezvous  they  waft  on  eager  wing, 
And  wait  assembled  the  returning  Spring. 
Meanwhile  they  trim  their  plumes  for  length  of 

flight, 
Whet  their  keen  beaks,  and  twisting  claws,  for 

fight; 

Each  crane  the  pigmy  power  in  thought  o'erturns, 
And  every  bosom  for  the  battle  burns. 

When  genial  gales  the  frozen  air  unbind, 
The  screaming  legions  wheel,  and  mount  the  wind. 
Far  in  the  sky  they  form  their  long  array, 
And  land  and  ocean  stretched  immense  survey 
Deep,  deep  beneath;  and,  triumphing  in  pride, 
With  clouds  and  winds  commixed,  innumeroug 

ride ; 

'Tis  wild  obstreperous  clangor  all,  and  heaven 
Whirls,  in  tempestuous  undulation  driven. 

Nor  less  th'  alarm  that  shook  the  world  below, 
Where  marched  in  pomp  of  warth'  embattled  foe; 


POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS. 


19 


Where  mannikins  with  haughty  step  advance, 
And  grasp  the  shield,  and  couch  the  quivering 

lance ; 

To  right  and  left  the  lengthening  lines  they  form, 
And  ranked  in  deep  array  await  the  storm. 

High  in  the  midst  the  chieftain  dwarf  was  seen, 
Of  giant  stature,  and  imperial  mien. 
Full  twenty  inches  tall  he  strode  along, 
And  viewed  with  lofty  eye  the  wondering  throng ; 
And,  while  with  many  a  scar  his  visage  frowned, 
Bared  his  broad  bosom,  rough  with  many  a  wound 
Of  beaks  and  claws,  disclosing  to  their  sight 
The  glorious  meed  of  high  heroic  might. 
For  \\ith  insatiate  vengeance  he  pursued, 
And  never-ending  hate,  the  feathery  brood. 
Unhappy  they,  confiding  in  the  length 
Of  horny  beak,  or  talons'  crooked  strength, 
Who  durst  abide  his  rage  ;  the  blade  descends, 
And  from  the  panting  trunk  the  pinion  rends: 
Laid  low  in  dust  the  pinion  waves  no  more, 
The  trunk,  disfigured,  stiffens  in  its  gore. 
What  hosts  of  heroes  fell  beneath  his  force ! 
What  heaps  of  chicken  carnage  marked  his  course! 
How  oft,  O  Strymon,  thy  lone  banks  along, 
Did  wailing  echo  waft  the  funeral  song ! 

And  now  from  far  the  mingling  clamours  rise, 
Loud  and  more  loud  rebounding  through  the  skies. 
From  skirt  to  skirt  of  heaven,  with  stormy  sway, 
A  cloud  rolls  on,  and  darkens  all  the  day. 
Near  and  more  near  descends  the  dreadful  shade, 
And  now  in  battailous  array  displayed, 
On  sounding  wings,  and  screaming  in  their  ire, 
The  cranes  rush  onward,  and  the  fight  require. 

The  pigmy  warriors  eye,  with  fearless  glare, 
The  host  thick  swarming  o'er  the  burthened  air ; 
Thick  swarming  now,  but  to  their  native  land 

Doomed  to  return  a  scanty  straggling  band. 

When  sudden,  darting  down  the  depth  of  heaven, 
•  >n  th'  expecting  foe  the  cranes  were  driven, 
The  kindling  frenzy  every  bosom  warms, 
The  region  echoes  to  the  clash  of  arms: 
Loose  feathers  from  th'  encountering  armies  fly, 
And  in  careering  whirlwinds  mount  the  sky. 
To  breathe  from  toil,  upsprings  the  panting  crane, 
Then  with  fresh  vigour  downward  darts  again. 
Success  in  equal  balance  hovering  hangs. 

•n  the  sharp  spear,  mad  with  mortal  pangs, 
The  bird  transfixed  in  bloody  vortex  whirls, 
Yet  fierce  in  death  the  threatening  talon  curls ; 
There,   while    the    life-blood   bubbles   from   his 

wound, " 

With  little  feet  the  pigmy  beats  the  ground ; 
Deep  from  his  breast  the  short  short  sob  he  draws, 
And,  dyiii-j.  curses  the  keen-pointed  claws. 
Trembles  the  thundering  field,  thick  covered  o'er 
With  falchions,  mangled  wings,  and  streaming 

gore, 

And  pigmy  arms,  and  beaks  of  ample  size, 
And  here  a  claw,  and  there  a  finger  lies. 


Encompassed  round  with  heaps  of  slaughtered 

foes, 

All  grim  in  blood  the  pigmy  champion  glows. 
And  on  th'  assailing  host  impetuous  springs, 
Careless  of  nibbling  bills,  and  flapping  wings ; 
And  midst  the  tumult  wheresoe'er  he  turns, 
The  battle  with  redoubled  fury  burns ; 
From  every  side  th'  avenging  cranes  amain 
Throng,  to  o'erwhelm  this  terror  of  the  plain. 
When  suddenly  (for  such  the  will  of  Jove) 
A  fowl  enormous,  sousing  from  above, 
The  gallant  chieftain  clutched,  and,  soaring  high, 
(Sad  chance  of  battle !)  bore  him  up  the  sky. 
The  cranes  pursue,  and  clustering  in  a  ring, 
Chatter  triumphant  round  the  captive-king. 
But  ah !  what  pangs  each  pigmy  bosom  wrung, 
When,  now  to  cranes  a  prey,  on  talons  hung, 
High  in  the  clouds  they  saw  their  helpless  lord, 
His  wriggling  form  still  lessening  as  he  soared. 

Lo,  yet  again  with  unabated  rage     . 
In  mortal  strife  the  mingling  hosts  engage. 
The  crane  with  darted  bill  assaults  the  foe, 
Hovering,  then  wheels  aloft  to  'scape  the  blow : 
The  dwarf  in  anguish  aims  the  vengeful  wound ; 
But  whirls  in  empty  air  the  falchion  round. 

Such  was  the  scene,  when  midst  the  loud  alarms 
Sublime  th'  eternal  Thunderer  rose  in  arms, 
When  Briareus,  by  mad  ambition  driven, 
Heaved  Pelion  huge,  and  hurled  it  high  at  heaven: 
Jove  rolled  redoubling  thunders  from  on  high, 
Mountains  and  bolts  encountered  in  the  sky ; 
Till  one  stupendous  ruin  whelmed  the  crew, 
Their  vast  limbs  weltering  wide  in  brimstone  blue. 

But  now  at  length  the  pigmy  legions  yield, 
And  winged  with  terror  fly  the  fatal  field. 
They  raise  a  weak  and  melancholy  wail, 
All  in  distraction  scattering  o'er  the  vale. 
Prone  on  their  routed  rear  the  cranes  descend ; 
Their  bills  bite  furious,  and  their  talons  rend : 
With  unrelenting  ire  they  urge  the  chase, 
Sworn  to  exterminate  the  hated  race. 

'Twas  thus  the  pigmy  name,  once  great  in  war, 
For  spoils  of  conquered  cranes  renowned  afar, 
Perished.     For,  by  the  dread  decree  of  heaven, 
Short  is  the  date  to  earthly  grandeur  given ; 
And  vain  are  all  attempts  to  roam  beyond 
Where  Fate  has  fixed  the  everlasting  bound. 
Fallen  are  the  trophies  of  Assyrian  power, 
And  Persia's  proud  dominion  is  no  more; 
Yea,  though  to  both  superior  far  in  fame, 
Thine  empire,  Latium,  is  an  empty  name. 

And  now  with  lofty  chiefs  of  ancient  time 
The  pigmy  heroes  roam  the  Elysian  clime. 
Or,  if  belief  to  matron-tales  be  due, 
Full  oft,  in  the  belated  shepherd's  view, 
Their  frisking  forms,  in  gentle  green  arrayed, 
Gambol  secure  amid  the  moonlight  glade. 
Secure,  for  no  alarming  cranes  molest, 
And  all  their  woes  in  long  oblivion  rest: 


20 


BEATTIE'S  WORKS. 


Down  the  deep  dale,  and  narrow  winding  way, 
They  foot  it  featly,  ranged  in  ringlets  gay : 
'Tis  joy  and  frolic  all,  where'er  they  rove, 
And  Fairy  people  is  the  name  they  love. 


THE  HARES. 

A  FABLE. 

YES,  yes,  I  grant  the  sons  of  earth 
Are  doomed  to  trouble  from  their  birth. 
We  all  of  sorrow  have  our  share ; 
But  say,  is  yours  without  compare? 
Look  round  the  world ;  perhaps  you'll  find 
Each  individual  of  our  kind 
Pressed  with  an  equal  load  of  ill, 
Equal  at  least:— Look  further  still. 
And  own  your  lamentable  case 
Is  little  short  of  happiness. 
In  yonder  hut  that  stands  alone 
Attend  to  Famine's  feeble  moan; 
Or  view  the  couch  where  Sickness  lies, 
Mark  his  pale  cheek,  and  languid  eyes, 
His  frame  by  strong  convulsion  torn, 
His  struggling  sighs,  and  looks  forlorn. 
Or  see,  transfixed  with  keener  pangs, 
W'here  o'er  his  hoard  the  miser  hangs ; 
Whistles  the  wind  ;  he  starts,  he  stares, 
Nor  Slumber's  balmy  blessings  shares ; 
Despair,  Remorse,  and  Terror  roll 
Their  tempests  on  his  harassed  soul. 
But  here  perhaps  it  may  avail 
To'  enforce  our  reasoning  with  a  tale. 

Mild  was  the  morn,  the  sky  serene, 
The  jolly  hunting  band  convene; 
The  beagle's  breast  with  ardour  burns, 
The  bounding  steed  the  champaign  spurns 
And  Fancy  oft  the  game  descries 
Through  the  hound's  nose,  and  huntsman's  eyes, 

Just  then,  a  council  of  the  hares 
Had  met,  on  national  affairs. 
The  chiefs  were  set ;  while  o'er  their  head 
The  furze  its  frizzled  covering  spread. 
Long  lists  of  grievances  were  heard, 
And  general  discontent  appeared: 
"  Our  harmless  race  shall  every  savage, 
Both  quadruped  and  biped,  ravage  1 
Shall  horses,  hounds,  and  hunters  still 
Unite  their  wits,  to  work  us  ill  1 
The  youth,  his  parent's  sole  delight, 
Whose  tooth  the  dewy  lawns  invite, 
Whose  pulse  in  every  vein  beats  strong, 
Whose  limbs  leap  light  the  vales  along, 
May  yet  ere  noontide  meet  his  death, 
And  lie  dismembered  on  the  heath. 
For  youth,  alas!  nor  cautious  age, 
Nor  strength,  nor  speed,  eludes  their  rage. 
In  every  field  we  meet  the  foe, 
Each  gale  comes  fraught  with  sounds  of  wo; 


The  morning  but  awakes  our  fears, 
The  evening  sees  us  bathed  in  tears, 
But  must  we  ever  idly  grieve, 
Nor  strive  our  fortunes  to  relieve  1 
Small  is  each  individual's  force: 
To  stratagem  be  our  recourse; 
And  then,  from  all  our  tribes  combined, 
The  murderer  to  his  cost  may  find 
No  foes  are  weak,  whom  Justice  arms, 
Whom  Concord  leads,  and  Hatred  warms, 
Be  roused ;  or  liberty  acquire, 
Or  in  the  great  attempt  expire." 
He  said  no  more;  for  in  his  breast 
Conflicting  thoughts  the  voice  suppressed : 
The  fire  of  vengeance  seemed  to  stream 
From  his  swoln  eyeball's  yellow  gleam. 

And  now  the  tumults  of  the  war, 
Mingling  confusedly  from  afar, 
Swell  in  the  wind.    Now  louder  cries 
Distinct  of  hounds  and  men  arise. 
Forth  from  the  brake,  with  beating  heart, 
The'  assembled  hares  tumultuous  start, 
And,  every  straining  nerve,  on  wing, 
Away  precipitately  spring. 
The  hunting  band,  a  signal  given, 
Thick  thundering  o'er  the  plain  are  driven ; 
O'er  cliff  abrupt,  and  shrubby  mound, 
And  river  broad,  impetuous  bound ; 
Now  plunge  amid  the  forest  shades, 
Glance  through  the  openings  of  the  glades; 
Now  o'er  the  level  valley  sweep, 
Now  with  short  steps  strain  up  the  steep ; 
While  backward  from  the  hunter's  eyes 
The  landscape  like  a  torrent  flies. 
At  last  an  ancient  wood  they  gained, 
By  pruner's  axe  yet  unprofaned. 
High  o'er  the  rest,  by  Nature  reared, 
The  oak's  majestic  boughs  appeared ; 
Beneath  a  copse  of  various  hue 
In  barbarous  luxuriance  grew. 
No  knife  had  curbed  the  rambling  sprays, 
No  hand  had  wove  the'  implicit  maze. 
The  flowering  thorn,  self-taught  to  wind, 
The  hazle's  stubborn  stem  intwined, 
And  bramble  twigs  were  wreathed  around, 
And  rough  furze  crept  along  the  ground. 
Here  sheltering,  from  the  sons  of  murther, 
The  hares  drag  their  tired  limbs  no  further. 

But  lo,  the  western  wind  ere  long 
Was  loud,  and  roared  the  woods  among; 
From  rustling  leaves,  and  crashing  boughs, 
The  sound  of  wo  and  war  arose. 
The  hares  distracted  scour  the  grove, 
As  terror  and  amazement  drove; 
But  danger,  wheresoe'er  they  fled, 
Still  seemed  impending  o'er  their  head. 
Now  crowded  in  a  grotto's  gloom, 
All  hopes  extinct,  they  wait  their  doom. 


POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS. 


21 


Dire  was  the  silence,  till,  at  length, 
Even  from  despair  deriving  strength, 
With  bloody  eye,  and  furious  look, 
A  daring  youth  arose,  and  spoke : — 

"  O  wretched  race,  the  scorn  of  Fate, 
Whom  ills  of  every  sort  await ! 
O,  cursed  with  keenest  sense  to  feel 
The  sharpest  sting  of  every  ill ! 
Say  ye,  who,  fraught  with  mighty  scheme, 
Of  liberty  and  vengeance  dream, 
What  now  remains  1    To  what  recess 
Shall  we  our  weary  steps  address, 
Since  fate  is  evermore  pursuing 
All  ways,  and  means  to  work  our  ruin  7 
Are  we  alone,  of  all  beneath, 
Condemned  to  misery  worse  than  death ! 
Must  we,  with  fruitless  labour,  strive 
In  misery  worse  than  death  to  live ! 
No.     Be  the  smaller  ill  our  choice : 
So  dictates  Nature's  powerful  voice. 
Death's  pang  will  in  a  moment  cease ; 
And  then,  All  hail,  eternal  peace !" 
Thus  while  he  spoke,  his  words  impart 
The  dire  resolve  to  every  heart. 

A  distant  lake  in  prospect  lay, 
That,  glittering  in  the  solar  ray, 
Gleamed  through  the  dusky  trees,  and  shot 
A  trembling  light  along  the  grot : 
Thither  with  one  consent  they  bend, 
Their  sorrows  with  their  lives  to  end, 
While  each,  in  thought,  already  hears 
The  water  hissing  in  his  ears. 
Fast  by  the  margin  of  the  lake, 
Concealed  within  a  thorny  brake, 
A  linnet  sate,  whose  careless  lay 
Amused  the  solitary  day. 
Careless  he  sung,  for  on  his  breast 
Sorrow  no  lasting  trace  impressed ; 
When  suddenly  he  heard  a  sound 
Of  swift  feet  traversing  the  ground. 
Ciuick  to  the  neighbouring  tree  he  flies, 
Thence  trembling  casts  around  his  eyes ; 

>•'  appeared,  his  fears  were  vain; 
Flensed  he  renews  the  sprightly  strain. 

The  hares,  whose  noise  had  caused  his  fright, 
Saw  with  surprise  the  linnet's  flight. 
;:  Is  there  on  earth  a  wretch,  (they  said) 
Whom  our  approach  can  strike  with  dread  1 
An  instantaneous  change  of  thought 
To  tumult  every  bosom  wrought. 
So  fares  the  system-building  sage, 
Who,  plodding  on  from  youth  to  age, 
At  last  on  some  foundation-dream 

i red  aloft  his  goodly  scheme, 
And  proved  his  predecessors  fools, 
And  bound  all  nature  by  his  rules; 
So  fares  he  in  that  dreadful  hour, 
When  injured  Truth  exerts  her  power, 


Some  new  phenomenon  to  raise ; 
Which,  bursting  on  his  frighted  gaze, 
From  its  proud  summit  to  the  ground 
Proves  the  whole  edifice  unsound. 

"  Children,"  thus  spoke  a  hare  sedate, 
Who  oft  had  known  the1  extremes  of  fate, 
"  In  slight  events  the  docile  mind 
May  hints  of  good  instruction  find. 
That  our  condition  is  the  worst, 
And  we  with  such  misfortunes  cursed 
As  all  comparison  defy, 
Was  late  the  universal  cry. 
When  lo,  an  accident  so  slight 
As  yonder  little  linnet's  flight, 
Has  made  your  stubborn  heart  confess 
(So  your  amazement  bids  me  guess) 
That  all  our  load  of  woes  and  fears 
Is  but  a  part  of  what  he  bears. 
Where  can  he  rest  secure  from  harms, 
Whom  e'en  a  helpless  hare  alarms  1 
Yet  he  repines  not  at  his  lot, 
When  past,  the  danger  is  forgot : 
On  yonder  bough  he  trims  his  wings, 
And  with  unusual  rapture  sings ; 
While  we,  less  wretched,  sink  beneath 
Our  lighter  ills,  and  rush  to  death. 
No  more  of  this  unmeaning  rage, 
But  hear,  my  friends,  the  words  of  age. 

"  When  by  the  winds  of  autumn  driven 
The  scattered  clouds  fly  cross  the  heaven, 
Oft  have  we,  from  some  mountain's  head, 
Beheld  the  alternate  light  and  shade 
Sweep  the  long  vale.     Here  hovering  lours 
The  shadowy  cloud ;  there  downward  pours, 
Streaming  direct,  a  flood  of  day, 
Which  from  the  view  flies  swift  away ; 
It  flies,  while  other  shades  advance, 
And  other  streaks  of  sunshine  glance. 
Thus  chequered  is  the  life  below 
With  gleams  of  jpy.  and  clouds  of  wo. 
Then  hope  not,  while  we  journey  on, 
Still  to  be  basking  in  the  sun  : 
Nor  fear,  though  now  in  shades  ye  mourn, 
That,  sunshine  will  no  more  return. 
If,  by  your  terrors  overcome, 
Ye  fly  before  the'  approaching  gloom, 
The  rapid  clouds  your  flight  pursue, 
And  darkness  still  o'ercasts  your  view. 
Who  longs  to  reach  the  radiant  plain 
Must  onward  urge  his  course  amain ; 
For  doubly  swift  the  shadow  flies, 
When  'gainst  the  gale  the  pilgrim  plies. 
At  least  be  firm,  and  undismayed 
Maintain  your  ground !  the  fleeting  shade 
Ere  long  spontaneous  glides  away, 
And  gives  you  back  the'  enlivening  ray. 
Lo,  while  I  speak,  our  danger  |>nsf ! 
No  more  the  shrill  horn's  angry  blast 


BEATTIE'S  WORKS. 


Howls  in  our  ear ;  the  savage  roar 
Of  war  and  murder  is  no  more. 
Then  snatch  the  moment  fate  allows, 
Nor  think  of  past  or  future  woes." 
He  spoke ;  and  hope  revives ;  the  lake 
That  instant  one  and  all  forsake, 
In  sweet  amusement  to  employ 
The  present  sprightly  hour  of  joy. 

Now  from  the  western  mountain's  brow 
Compassed  with  clouds  of  various  glow, 
The  sun  a  broader  orb  displays, 
And  shoots  aslope  his  ruddy  rays. 
The  lawn  assumes  a  fresher  green, 
And  dew-drops  spangle  all  the  scene. 
The  balmy  zephyr  breathes  along, 
The  shepherd  sings  his  tender  song, 
With  all  their  lays  the  groves  resound, 
And  falling  waters  murmur  round. 
Discord  and  care  were  put  to  flight, 
And  all  was  peace  and  calm  delight. 


ELEGY* 

STILL  shall  unthinking  man  substantial  deem 
The  forms  that  fleet  through  life's  deceitful  dream! 
On  clouds,  where  Fancy's  beam  amusive  plays, 
Shall  heedless  Hope  the  towering  fabric  raise  1 
Till  at  Death's  touch  the  fairy  visions  fly, 
And  real  scenes  rush  dismal  on  the  eye; 
And,  from  Elysium's  balmy  slumber  torn, 
The  startled  soul  awakes,  to  think  and  mourn. 

O  ye,  whose  hours  in  jocund  train  advance, 
Whose,,  spirits  to  the  song  of  gladness  dance, 
W^ho  flowery  vales  in  endless  view  survey, 
Glittering  in  beams  of  visionary  day ; 
O,  yet  while  fate  delays  th'  impending  wo, 
Be  roused  to  thought,  anticipate  the  blow; 
Lest,  like  the  lightning's  glance,  the  sudden  ill 
Flash  to  confound,  and  penetrate  to  kill ; 
Lest,  thus  encompassed  with  funereal  gloom 
Like  me,  ye  bend  o'er  some  untimely  tomb, 
Pour  your  wild  ravings  in  Night's  frighted  ear, 
And  half  pronounce  heaven's  sacred  doom  severe. 

Wise,  Beauteous,  Good !  O  every  grace  com- 
bined, 

That  charms  the  eye,  or  captivates  the  mind ! 
Fair  as  the  floweret  opening  on  the  morn, 
Whose  leaves  bright  drops  of  liquid  pearl  adorn ! 
Sweet,  as  the  downy-pinioned  gale,  that  roves 
To  gather  fragrance  in  Arabian  groves! 
Mild  as  the  strains,  that,  at  the  close  of  day, 

Warbling  remote,  along  the  vales  decay! 

Yet,  why  with  these  compared?  What  tints  so  fine, 
What  sweetness,  mildness,  can  be  matched  with 

thine'? 

Why  roam  abroad?  Since  still,  to  Fancy's  eyes, 
I  see,  I  see  thy  lovely  form  arise. 


*  On  Mrs.  Walker,  a  sister  of  Lord  Monboddo. 


Still  let  me  gaze,  and  every  care  beguile, 
Gaze  on  that  cheek,  where  all  the  Graces  smile; 
That  soul-expressing  eye,  benignly  bright, 
Where  meekness  beams  ineffable  delight; 
That  brow,  where  Wisdom  sits  enthroned  serene, 
Each  feature  forms,  and  dignifies  the  mien 
Still  let  me  listen  while  her  words  impart 
The  sweet  effusions  of  the  blameleless  heart, 
Till  all  my  soul,  each  tumult  charm'd  away, 
Yeilds,  gently  led,  to  Virtue's  easy  sway. 
By  thee  inspir'd,  O  Virtue!  Age  is  young, 
And  music  warbles  from  the  faltering  tongue : 
Thy  ray  creative  cheers  the  clouded  brow, 
And  decks  the  faded  cheek  with  rosy  glow, 
Brightens  the  joyless  aspect,  and  supplies 
Pure  heavenly  lustre  to  the  languid  eyes: 
But  when  Youth's  living  bloom  reflects  thy  beams, 
Resistless  on  the  view  the  glory  streams. 
Love,  Wonder,  Joy,  alternately  alarm, 
And  Beauty  dazzles  with  angelic  charm. 

Ah,  whither  fled! ye  dear  illusions,  stay. 

Lo,  pale  and  silent  lies  the  lovely  clay 

How  are  the  roses  on  that  cheek  decayed, 
Which  late  the  purple  light  of  youth  displayed! 
Health  on  her  form  each  sprightly  grace  bestowed; 
With  life  and  thought  each  speaking  feature  glow'd. 
Fair  was  the  flower,  and  soft  the  vernal  sky ; 
Elate  with  hope,  we  deemed  no  tempest  nigh; 
When  lo,  a  whirlwind's  instantaneous  gust 
Left  all  its  beauties  withering  in  the  dust. 

All  cold  the  hand  that  soothed  Wo's  weary  head ! 
And  quenched  the  eye,  the  pitying  tear  that  shed ! 
And  mute  the  voice,  whose  pleasing  accents  stole, 
Infusing  balm  into  the  rankled  soul ! 
O  Death,  why  arm  with  cruelty  thy  power, 
And  spare  the  idle  weed,  yet  lop  the  flower? 
Why  fly  thy  shafts  in  lawless  error  driven  ? 

Is  Virtue  then  no  more  the  care  of  Heaven  1 • 

But  peace,  bold  thought !  be  still  my  bursting  heart ! 
We,  not  Eliza,  felt  the  fatal  dart. 
Scaped  the  dark  dungeon,  does  the  slave  com  plain, 
Nor  bless  the  hand  that  broke  the  galling  chain? 
Say,  pines  not  virtue  for  the  lingering  morn, 
On  this  dark  wild  condemned  to  roam  forlorn? 
Where  Reason's  meteor-rays,  with  sickly  glow, 
O'er  the  dun  gloom  a  dreadful  glimmering  throw? 
Disclosing  dubious  to  the  affrighted  eye, 
O'erwhelming  mountains  tottering  from  on  high, 
Black  billowy  seas  in  storms  perpetual  tossed, 
And  weary  ways  in  wildering  labyrinths  lost. 
O  happy  stroke !  that  burst  the  bonds  of  clay, 
Darts  through  the  rending  gloom  the  blaze  of  day, 
And  wings  the  soul  with  boundless  flight  to  soar*, 
Where  dangers  threat,  and  fears  alarm  no  more. 

Transporting  thought !  here  let  me  wipe  away 
The  tear  of  grief,  and  wake  a  bolder  lay. 
But  ah !  the  swimming  eye  o'erflows  anew. — 
Nor  check  the  sacred  drops  to  pity  due ; 


POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS. 


23 


Lo,  where  in  speechless,  hopeless  anguish,  bend 
O'er  her  loved  dust,  the  Parent,  Brother,  Friend! 
How  vain  the  ho[>e  of  man !  But  cease  thy  strain, 
Nor  Sorrow's  dread  solemnity  profane; 
Mixed  with  yon  drooping  Mourners,  on  her  bier 
In  silence  shed  the  sympathetic  tear. 


EPITAPH: 

BEING  PART  OP  AN  INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  MONUMENT, 

To  be  erected  by  a  Gentleman  to  the  Memory  of 
his  Lady. 

FAREWELL,  my  best  beloved;  whose  heavenly 

mind 

Genius  with  virtue,  strength  with  softness  joined ; 
Devotion,  undebased  by  pride  or  art, 
With  meek  simplicity,  and  joy  of  heart; 
Though  sprightly,  gentle ;  though  polite,  sincere ; 
And  only  of  thyself  a  judge  severe ; 
Unblamed,  unequalled  in  each  sphere  of  life, 
The  tenderest  Daughter,  Sister,  Parent,  Wife. 
In  thee  their  Patroness  the  afflicted  lost ; 
Thy  friends,  their  pattern,  ornament,  and  boast ; 
And  I — but  ah,  can  words  my  loss  declare, 
Or  paint  the  extremes  of  transport  and  despair ! 
O  Thou,  beyond  what  verse  or  speech  can  tell, 
My  guide,  my  friend,  my  best  beloved,  farewell! 


THE  HERMIT. 

AT  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still, 
And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness  prove, 
When  nought  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
And  nought  but  the  nightingale's  song  in  the  grove ; 
'Twas  thus,  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar, 
While  his  harp  rung  symphonious,  a  Hermit  began ; 
No  more  with  himself,  or  with  nature  at  war, 
He  thought  as  a  Sage,  though  he  felt  as  a  man. 

"  Ah  why,  all  abandoned  to  darkness  and  wo, 
Why,  lone  Philomela,  that  languishing  fall  7 
For  Spring  shall  return,  and  a  lover  bestow, 
And  sorrow  no  longor  thy  bosom  inthral. 
But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  the  sad  lay, 
Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  Man  calls  thee  to 

mourn; 

O  sooth  him,  whose  pleasures  like  thine  pass  away. 
Full  quickly  they  pass — but  they  never  return. 

"  Now  gliding  remote,  on  the  verge  of  the  sky, 
The  moon  half  extinguished  her  crescent  displays: 
But  lately  I  marked,  when  majestic  on  high 
She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her  blaze. 
Roll  on  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness  pursue 
The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendour  again: 


But  man's  faded  glory  what  change  shall  renew  ? 
Ah,  fool!  to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain ! 

'Tis  night  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more; 
I  mourn,  but  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn  not  for  you; 
For  morn  is  approaching,  your  charms  to  restore, 
Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance,  and  glittering  with 

dew. 

Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  Winter  I  mourn: 
Kind  Nature  the  embryo-blossom  will  save. 
But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  mouldering  urn  1 
O  when  shall  it  dawn  on  the  night  of  the  grave !" 

'Twas  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science  betrayed, 
That  leads,  to  bewilder;  and  dazzles,  to  blind; 
My  thoughts  wont  to  roam,  from  shade  onward  to 

shade, 

Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind. 
'  O-pity,  great  Father  of  light!  (then  I  cried) 
Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wander  from 

Thee! 

Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  I  relinquish  my  pride ; 
From  doubt  and  from  darkness  thou  only  canst 

free." 

And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying  away ; 

No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn ; 

So  breaks  on  the  traveller,  faint  and  astray, 

The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of  morn: 

See  Truth,  Love,  and  Mercy,  in  triumph  descend- 
ing, 

And  Nature  all  glowing  in  Eden's  first  bloom ! 

On  the  cold  cheek  of  Death  smiles  and  roses  are 
blending, 

And  Beauty  Immortal  awakes  from  the  tomb. 


EPITAPH  ON  THE  AUTHOR. 

BY  HIMSELF. 

ESCAPED  the  gloom  of  mortal  life,  a  soul 

Here  leaves  its  mouldering  tenement  of  clay, 

Safe,  where  no  cares  their  whelming  billows  roll, 
No  doubts  bewilder,  and  no  hopes  betray. 

Like  thee,  I  once  have  stemmed  the  sea  of  life; 

Like  thee,  have  languished  after  empty  joys; 
Like  thee,  have  laboured  in  the  stormy  strife; 

Been  grieved  for  trifles,  and  amused  with  toys. 

Yet  for  awhile,  'gainst  passion's  threatful  blast 
Let  steady  reason  urge  the  struggling  oar ; 

Shot  through  the  dreary  gloom,  the  morn  at  last 
Gives  to  thy  longing  eye  the  blissful  shore. 

Forget  my  frailties,  thou  art  also  frail ; 

Forgive  my  lapses,  for  thyself  may 'st  fall; 
Nor  read,  unmoved,  my  artless  tender  tale, 

I  was  a  friend,  oh  man !  to  thee,  to  all. 


THE 


WILLIAM  COLLINS. 


Contents. 


Page. 

ii 

ORIENTAL  ECLOGUES. 

\    Eclogue  I.       

.    1 

2 

|   Eclogue  m.    

ib. 

\  Eclogue  IV.         .... 

3 

ODES. 

-    Ode  to  Pity,    

.       .       .    4 

—  Ode  to  Fear,        .... 

5 

—  Ode  to  Simplicity,  - 

ib. 

Ode  on  the  Poetical  Character,    - 

6 

—  Ode  written  in  the  year  1740, 

.        .       .    7 

—  »  Ode  to  Mercy,     .... 

•     ib. 

—  Ode  to  Liberty,       - 

ib. 

Page. 

""-Ode  to  a  Lady,  on  the  death  of  Colonel  Charles  Rose, 
in  the  action  of  Fontenoy.  Written  in  May,  1745,    9 

-    Ode  to  Evening, 10 

"""--  Ode  to  Peace, ib. 

The  Manners.    An  Ode, ib. 

The  Passions.    An  Ode  for  Music,         -        -        -  11 
An  Epistle  to  Sir  Thomas  Hanmer,  on  his  Edition 

of  Shakspeare's  Works, 12 

Dirge  in  Cymbeline, 14 

—-,  Ode  on  the  death  of  Mr.  Thomson,      -        -        -     ib. 
Verses  written  on  a  Paper  which  contained  a  Piece 

of  Bride-cake,      -  -  15 

Ode  on  the  popular  Superstitions  of  the  Highlands 

of  Scotland, -     ib. 

Supplementary  Stanzas  on  the  same,  by  William 
Erekine,  Esq.,     ...  -       -       -  18 


Efir  Eife  of 


Collins. 


WILLIAM  COLLIXS  was  born  at  Chichester  on 
the  twenty-fifth  day  of  December,  about  1720. 
His  father  was  a  hatter  of  good  reputation.  He 
was  in  1*33,  as  Dr.  Wharton  has  kindly  inform- 
ed me,  admitted  a  scholar  of  Winchester  College, 
where  he  was  educated  by  Dr.  Burton.  His  Eng- 
lish e  \  better  than  his  Latin. 

He  first  courted  the  notice  of  the  public  by  some 
verses  to  a  "  Lady  Weeping,''  published  in  "  The 
Gentleman's  Mauazine.'' 

In  1 7  1  first  in  the  list  of  the  scholars 

to  be  received  in  succession  at  New  College,  but 
unhappily  there  was  no  vacancy.  He  became  a 
Commoner  of  Queen's  College,  probably  with  a 
scanty  maintenance ;  but  was,  in  about  half  a  year, 
elected  a  Demy  of  Magdalen  College,  where  he 
continued  till  he  had  taken  a  bachelor's  degree, 
and  then  suddenly  left  the  University;  for  what 
reason  I  know  not  that  he  told. 

He  now  (about  1744)  came  to  London  a  literary 
adventurer,  with  many  projects  in  his  head,  and 
very,  little  money  in  his  pocket.  He  designed 
many  works;  but  his  great  fault  was  irresolution, 
or  the  frequent  calls  of  immediate  necessity  broke 
his  schemes,  and  suffered  him  to  pursue  no  settled 
purpose.  A  man  doubtful  of  his  dinner,  or  trem- 
bling at  a  creditor,  is  not  much  disposed  to  ab- 
stracted meditation,  or  remote  inquiries.  He  pub- 
lished proposals  for  a  History  of  the  Revival  of 
Learning ;  and  I  have  heard  him  speak  with  great 
kindness  of  Leo  the  Tenth,  and  with  keen  re- 
sentment of  his  tasteless  successor.  But  probably 
not  a  page  of  his  history  was  ever  written.  He 
planned  several  tragedies,  but  he  only  planned 
them.  He  wrote  now  and  then  odes  and  other 
poems,  and  did  something,  however  little. 

About  this  time  I  fell  into  his  company.  His 
appearance  was  decent  and  manly:  his  knowledge 
considerable,  his  views  extensive,  his  conversation 
•  and  his  disposition  cheerful.  By  degrees 
I  gained  his  confidence;  and  one  day  was  admit- 
ted to  him  when  he  was  immured  by  a  bailiff, 
that  was  prowling  in  the  street.  On  this  occasion 
recourse  was  had  to  the  booksellers,  who,  on  the 
credit  of  a  translation  of  Aristotle's  Poetics,  which 
he  engaged  to  write  with  a  large  commentary,  ad- 
vanced as  much  money  as  enabled  him  to  escape 
into  the  country.  He  showed  me  the  guineas 
safe  in  his  hand.  Soon  afterwards  his  uncle,  Mr. 
Martin,  a  lieutenant-colon^  left  him  about  two 
thdusand  pounds;  a  sum  which  Collins  could 
33 


scarcely  think  exhaustible,  and  which  he  did  not 
live  to  exhaust.  The  guineas  were  then  repaid 
and  the  translation  neglected. 

But  man  is  not  born  for  happiness.  Collins, 
who,  while  he  studied  to  live,  felt  no  evil  but  po- 
verty, no  sooner  lived  to  study  than  his  life  was 
assailed  by  more  dreadful  calamities,  disease  and 
insanity. 

Mr.  Collins  was  a  man  of  extensive  literature, 
and  of  vigorous  faculties.  He  was  acquainted  not 
only  with  the  learned  tongues,  but  with  the  Ita- 
lian, French,  and  Spanish  languages.  He  had 
employed  his  mind  chiefly  upon  works  of  fiction, 
and  subjects  of  fancy;  and,  by  indulging  some 
peculiar  habits  of  thought,  was  eminently  delight- 
ed with  those  flights  of  imagination  which  pass 
the  bounds  of  nature,  and  to  which  the  mind  is 
reconciled  only  by  a  passive  acquiescence  in  popu- 
lar traditions.  He  loved  fairies,  genii,  giants,  and 
monsters;  he  delighted  to  rove  through  the  mean- 
ders of  enchantment,  to  gaze  on  the  magnificence 
of  golden  palaces,  to  repose  by  the  water-falls  of 
Elysian  gardens. 

This  was,  however,  the  character  rather  of  his 
inclination  than  his  genius;  the  grandeur  of  wild- 
ness,  and  the  novelty  of  extravagance,  was  always 
desired  by  him,  but  were  not  always  attained. 
Yet,  as  diligence  is  never  wholly  lost,  if  his  efforts 
sometimes  caused  harshness  and  obscurity,  they 
likewise  produced,  in  happier  moments,  sublimity 
and  splendour.  This  idea  which  he  had  formed 
of  excellence,  led  him  to  oriental  fictions  and  alle- 
gorical imagery ;  and  perhaps,  while  he  was  intent 
upon  description,  he  did  not  sufficiently  cultivate 
sentiment.  His  poems  are  the  productions  of  a 
mind  not  deficient  in  fire,  nor  unfurnished  with 
knowledge  either  of  books  or  life,  but  somewhat 
obstructed  in  its  progress  by  deviation  in  quest  of 
mistaken  beauties. 

Upon  the  whole,  Collins,  by  his  taste  and  at- 
tainments, appears  to  have  been  peculiarly  adapt- 
ed for  the  higher  walks  of  poetry.  His  odes,  from 
which  he  derives  his  chief  poetical  fame,  notwith- 
standing the  disparaging  remarks  of  Dr.  Johnson, 
are  now  almost  universally  regarded  as  the  first 
productions  of  the  kind  in  the  English  language 
for  vigour  of  conception,  boldness  and  variety  of 
personification,  and  genuine  warmth  of  feeling. 
The  originality  of  Collins  consists,  not  in  his  sen- 
timent, but  in  the  highly  figurative  garb  in  which 
he  clothes  abstract  ideas,  in  the  felicity  of  his  ex- 


IV 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  COLLINS. 


pressions,  and  in  his  skill  in  embodying  ideal  cre- 
ations. His  chief  defect  is  an  occasional  mysti- 
cism. His  temperament  was,  in  the  strictest 
meaning  of  the  word,  poetical ;  and  had  he  exist- 
ed under  happier  circumstances,  and  enjoyed  the 
undisturbed  exercise  of  his  faculties,  he  would  pro- 
bably have  surpassed  most,  if  not  all,  of  his  con- 
temporaries, during  the  very  prosaic  period  which 
immediately  followed  the  death  of  Pope. 

His  morals  were  pure,  and  his  opinions  pious : 
in  a  long  continuance  of  poverty,  and  long  habits 
of  dissipation,  it  can  not  be  expected  that  any  cha- 
racter should  be  exactly  uniform.  There  is  a 
degree  of  want  by  which  the  freedom  of  agency  is 
almost  destroyed ;  and  long  association  with  for- 
tuitous companions  will  at  last  relax  the  strictness 
of  truth,  and  abate  the  fervour  of  sincerity.  That 
this  man,  wise  and  virtuous  as  he  was,  passed  al- 
ways unentangled  through  the  snares  of  life,  it 
would  be  prejudice  and  temerity  to  affirm;  but  it 
may  be  said  that  at  least  he  preserved  the  source 
of  action  unpolluted,  that  his  principles  were 
never  shaken,  that  his  distinctions  of  right  and 
wrong  were  never  confounded,  and  that  his  faults 
had  nothing  of  malignity  or  design,  but  proceeded 
from  some  unexpected  pressure  or  casual  temp- 
tation. 

The  latter  part  of  his  life  can  not  be  remembered 
but  with  pity  and  sadness.  He  languished  some 
years  under  that  depression  of  mind  which  en- 
chains the  faculties  without  destroying  them,  and 
leaves  reason  the  knowledge  of  right  without  the 
power  of  pursuing  it.  These  clouds,  which  he 
perceived  gathering  on  his  intellects,  he  endea- 
voured to  disperse  by  travel,  and  passed  into 
France:  but  found  himself  constrained  to  yield  to 
his  malady,  and  returned.  He  was  for  some  time 
confined  in  a  house  of  lunatics,  and  afterwards 
retired  to  the  care  of  his  sister  in  Chichester, 
where  death,  in  1756,  came  to  his  relief. 

After  his  return  from  France,  the  writer  of  this 
character  paid  him  a  visit  at  Islington,  where  he 
was  waiting  for  his  sister,  whom  he  had  directed 
to  meet  him :  there  was  then  nothing  of  disorder 
discernible  in  his  mind  by  any  but  himself:  but 
he  had  withdrawn  from  study,  and  travelled. with 


no  other  book  than  an  English  Testament,  such 
as  children  carry  to  school:  when  his  friend  took 
it  into  his  hand,  out  of  curiosity  to  see  what  com- 
panion a  man  of  letters  had  chosen,  "  I  have  but 
one  book,"  said  Collins,  "  but  that  is  the  best." 

Such  was  the  fate  of  Collins,  with  whom  I  once 
delighted  to  converse,  and  whom  I  yet  remember 
with  tenderness. 

He  was  visited  at  Chichester  in  his  last  illness, 
by  his  learned  friends  Dr.  Warton  and  his  brother; 
to  whom  he  spoke  with  disapprobation  of  his 
Oriental  Eclogues,  as  not  sufficiently  expressive 
of  Asiatic  manners,  and  called  them  his  Irish 
Eclogues.  He  showed  them,  at  the  same  time,  an 
ode  inscribed  to  Mr.  John  Home,  on  the  super- 
stitions of  the  Highlands;  which  they  thought 
superior  to  his  other  works. 

His  disorder  was  not  alienation  of  mind,  but 
general  laxity  and  feebleness,  a  deficiency  rather 
of  his  vital  than  intellectual  powers.  What  he 
spoke  wanted  neither  judgment  nor  spirit;  but  a 
few  minutes  exhausted  him,  so  that  he  was  forced 
to  rest  upon  the  couch,  till  a  short  cessation  re- 
stored his  powers,  and  he  was  again  able  to  talk 
with  his  former  vigour. 

The  approaches  of  this  dreadful  malady  he  began 
to  feel  soon  after  his  uncle's  death ;  and  with  the 
usual  weakness  of  men  so  diseased,  eagerly 
snatched  that  temporary  relief  with  which  the 
table  and  the  bottle  flatter  and  seduce.  But  his 
health  continually  declined,  and  he  grew  more 
and  more  burthensome  to  himself. 

Mr.  Collins's  first  production  is  added  here  from 
the  "  Poetical  Calendar." 

TO  MISS  AURELIA  C R, 

On  her  Weeping  at  her  Sister's  Wedding. 

CEASE,  fair  Aurelia!  cease  to  mourn; 

Lament  not  Hannah's  happy  state: 
You  may  be  happy  in  your  turn, 

And  seize  the  treasure  you  regret. 

With  Love  united  Hymen  stands, 
And  softly  whispers  to  your  charms, 

"  Meet  but  your  lover  in  my  bands, 
"  You'll  find  your  sister  in  his  arms." 


THE 


POETICAL  WOEKS 


OJP 


©ricntal 


ECLOGUE  I. 

SELIM  ;  OR  THE  SHEPHERD'S  MORAL. 
Scene,  a  Valley  near  BadgaL    Time,  the  Morning. 

"  YE  Persian  maids,  attend  your  poets  lays, 
And  hear  how  shepherds  pass  their  golden  days. 
Not  all  are  blest  whom  Fortune's  hand  sustains 
"With  wealth  in  courts;  nor  all  that  haunt  the 

plains : 

Well  may  your  hearts  believe  the  truths  I  tell ; 
'Tis  virtue  makes  the  bliss,  where'er  we  dwell." 

Thus  Selim  sung,  by  sacred  Truth  inspired  ; 
Nor  praise,  but  such  as  Truth  bestowed,  desired : 
Wise  in  himself,  his  meaning  songs  conveyed 
Informing  morals  to  the  shepherd  maid ; 
Or  taught  the  swains  that  surest  bliss  to  find, 
What  groves  nor  streams  bestow,  a  virtuous  mind. 

When  sweet  and  blushing,  like  a  virgin  bride, 
The  radiant  morn  resumed  her  orient  pride ; 
When  wanton  gales  along  the  vallies  play, 
Breathe  on  each  flower,  and  bear  their  sweets  away ; 
By  Tigris'  wandering  waves  he  sat  and  sung, 
This  useful  lesson  for  the  fair  and  young. 

"  Ye  Persian  dames,"  he  said,  "  to  you  belong — 
Well  may  they  please — the  morals  of  my  song  : 
irer  maids,  I  trust,  than  you  are  found, 
I  with  soft  arts,  the  peopled  world  around! 
Tin-  morn,  that  lights  you,  to  your  loves  supplies 
_rentler  ray  delicious  to  your  «• 

nit  hands  bestow; 

And  yours  t  UIIL:S  delight  to  know. 

Yet  think  not  these,  all  -  they  an-, 

The  best  kind  blessings  heaven  can  grant  the  fair! 

in  beauty's  feeble  ray 

Boast  but  the  worth  Bassora's  pearls  display: 
Drawn  from  the  deep  we  own  their  surface  bright; 
But  dark  within,  they  drink  no  lustrous  light ; 


I  Such  are  the  maids,  and  such  the  charms  they 


By  sense  unaided,  or  to  virtue  lost, 
Self-flattering  sex!  your  hearts  believe  in  vain 
That  love  shall  blind,  when  once  he  fires  the  swain 
Or  hope  a  lover  by  your  faults  to  win, 
As  spots  on  ermine  beautify  the  skin : 
Who  seeks  secure  to  rule  be  first  her  care 
Each  softer  virtue  that  adorns  the  fair ; 
Each  tender  passion  man  delights  to  find  ; 
The  loved  perfections  of  a  female  mind  ! 

Blest  were  the  days  when  Wisdom  held  her 

reign, 

And  shepherds  sought  her  on  the  silent  plain ! 
With  Truth  she  wedded  in  the  secret  grove ; 
Immortal  Truth;  and  daughters  blessed  their  love. 
— O  haste,  fair  maids !  ye  Virtues,  come  away! 
Sweet  Peace  and  Plenty  lead  you  on  your  way; 
The  balmy  shrub  for  you  shall  love  our  shore, 
By  Ind  excelled,  or  Araby,  no  more. 

Lost  to  our  fields,  for  so  (he  fates  ordain, 
The  dear  deserters  shall  return  again. 
Come  thou,  whose  thoughts  as  limpid  springs  are 

clear, 

To  leaxl  the  train,  sweet  Modesty,  appear  : 
Here  make  thy  court  amidst  our  rural  scene, 
And  shepherd  tcirls  shall  own  thee  for  their  queen: 
With  thee  be  Chastity,  of  all  afraid. 
TJistrusting  all; — a  wise  suspii-ious  maid  ;— 
But  man  the  most: — not  more  the  mountain-doe 
Holds  the  swift  falcon  for  her  deadly  foe. 
Cold  is  her  breast,  like  tlowers  that  drink  the  dew; 
A  silken  veil  conceals  her  from  the  view. 
No  wild  desires  amidst  thy  train  be  known ; 
But  Faith,  whose  heart  is  fixed  on  one  alone  : 

•  iiii'_r  Me.  kin-<s.  \\ith  her  downcast  eyes, 
And  friendly  Pity,  full  of  tender  si^hs: 
And  Love  the  last :  by  these  your  hearts  approve ; 
These  are  the  virtues  that  must  lead  to  love  " 


COLLINS'S  WORKS. 


Thus  sung  the  swain ;  and  ancient  legends  say 
The  maids  of  Bagdat  verified  the  lay : 
Dear  to  the  plains,  the  Virtues  came  along ; 
The  shepherds  loved;  and  Selim blessed  his  song. 


ECLOGUE  II.      ' 

HASSAN  J   OR,  THE  CAMEL-DRIVER. 
Scene,  the  Desert.    Time,  Mid-day. 

IN  silent  horror  o'er  the  boundless  waste 
The  driver  Hassan  with  his  camels  past : 
One  cruise  of  water  on  his  back  he  bore, 
And  his  light  scrip  contained  a  scanty  store ; 
A  fan  of  painted  feathers  in  his  hand, 
To  guard  his  shaded  face  from  scorching  sand, 
The  sultry  sun  had  gained  the  middle  sky, 
And  not  a  tree,  and  not  an  herb  was  nigh ; 
The  beasts  with  pain  their  dusty  way  pursue : 
Shrill  roared  the  winds,  and  dreary  was  the  view ! 
With  desperate  sorrow  wild,  the  affrighted  man 
Thrice  sighed  ;  thrice  struck  his  breast ;  and 
•  ,/  began : 

-»~H--/"  Sad  was  the  hour,  and  luckless  was  the  day, 
'  When  first  from  Schiraz'  walls  I  bent  my  way!" 


Ah !  little  thought  I  of  the  blasting  wind, 
The  thirst,  or  pinching  hunger,  that  I  find ! 
Bethink  thee,  Hassan,  where  shall  thirst  assuage, 
When  fails  this  cruise,  his  unrelenting  rage  1 
Soon  shall  this  scrip  its  precious  load  resign ; 
Then  what  but  tears  and  hunger  shall  be  thine? 

Ye  mute  companions  of  my  toils,  that  bear, 
In  all  my  griefs  a  more  than  equal  share ! 
Here,  where  no  springs  in  murmurs  break  away, 
Or  moss-crowned  fountains  mitigate  the  day, 
In  vain  ye  hope  the  green  delights  to  know 
Which  plains  more  blest,  or  verdant  vales  bestow ; 
Here  rocks  alone,  and  tasteless  sands  are  found ; 
And  faint  and  sickly  winds  for  ever  howl  around. 
"  Sad  was  the  hour,  and  luckless  was  the  day, 
When  first  from  Schiraz'  walls  I  bent  my  way !" 

Curst  be  the  gold  and  silver  which  persuade 
Weak  men  to  follow  far.  fatiguing  trade ! 
The  lily  peace  outshines  the  silver  store ; 
And  life  is  dearer  than  the  golden  ore, 
Yet  money  tempts  us  o'er  the  desert  brown, 
To  every  distant  mart  and  wealthy  town. 
Full  oft  we  tempt  the  land,  and  oft  the  sea : 
And  are  we  only  yet  repaid  by  thee  1 
— Ah !  why  was  ruin  so  attractive  made  1 
Or  why  fond  man  so  easily  betrayed  1 
Why  heed  we  not,  while  mad  we  haste  along, 
The  gentle  voice  of  peace,  or  pleasure's  song? 
Or  wherefore  think  the  flowery  mountain's  side, 
The  fountain's  murmurs,  and  the  valley's  pride, 


At  that  dead  hour  the  silent  asp  shall  creep, 
If  aught  of  rest  I  find,  upon  my  sleep : 
^  Or  some  swoln  serpent  twist  his  scales  around, 
And  wake  to  anguish  with  a  burning  wound. 
Thrice  happy  they,  the  wise  contented  poor, 
thus  "From  lust  of  wealth,  and  dread  of  death  secure ! 
They  tempt  no  deserts,  and  no  griefs  they  find ; 
Peace  rules  the  day,  where  reason  rules  the  mind. 

Sad  was  the  hour,  and  luckless  was  the  day, 
When  first  from  Schiraz'  walls  I  bent  my  way !" 


Why  think  we  these  less  pleasing  to  behold 
Than  dreary  deserts,  if  they  lead  to  gold  1 

Sad  was  the  hour,  and  luckless  was  the  day, 
When  first  from  Schiraz'  walls  I  bent  my  way !" 

O  cease,  my  fears ! — all  frantic  as  I  go, 
When  thought  creates  unnumbered  scenes  of  wo, 
What  if  the  lion  in  his  rage  I  meet? — 
Oft  in  the  dust  I  view  his  printed  feet: 
And,  fearful!  oft,  when  day's  declining  light 
Yields  her  pale  empire  to  the  mourner  night, 
By  hunger  roused  he  scours  the  groaning  plain, 
Gaunt  wolves  and  sullen  tigers  in  his  train: 
Before  them  Death  with  shrieks  directs  their  way, 
Fills  the  wild  yell,  and  leads  them  to  their  prey. 

Sad  was  the  hour,  and  luckless  was  the  day, 
When  first  from  Schiraz'  walls  I  bent  my  way!" 


O  hapless  youth ! — for  she  thy  love  had  won — 
The  tenfler  Zara  will  be  most  undone ! 
Big  swelled  my  heart,  and  owned  the  powerful 

maid, 

When  fast  she  dropt  her  tears,  as  thus  she  said : 
"  Farewell  the  youth  whom  sighs  could  not  detain; 
Whom  Zara's  breaking  heart  implored  in  vain ! 
Yet,  as  thou  goest,  may  every  blast  arise 
Weak  and  unfelt  as  these  rejected  sighs ! 
Safe  o'er  the  wild,  no  perils  may'st  thou  see, 
No  griefs  endure ;  nor  weep  false  youth,  like  me." 
— O  let  me  safely  to  the  fair  return ; 
Say,  with  a  kiss,  she  must  not,  shall  not  mourn; 
O  !  let  me  teach  my  heart  to  lose  its  fears, 
Recalled  by  Wisdom's  voice,  and  Zara's  tears. 

He  said,  and  called  on  heaven  to  bless  the  day, 
When  back  to  Schiraz'  walls  he  bent  his  way. 


ECLOGUE  IIL 

ABRAj  Or,  THE  GEORGIAN  SULTANA. 
Scene,  a  Forest.    Time,  the  Evening. 

IN  Georgia's  land,  where  Tefflis'  towers  are  seen, 
In  distant  view,  along  the  level  green, 
While  evening  dews  enrich  the  glittering  glade, 
And  the  tall  forests  casts  a  longer  shade, 
What  time  'tis  sweet  o'er  fields  of  rice  to  stray. 
Or  scent  the  breathing  maze  at  setting  day; 


ORIENTAL  ECLOGUES. 


Amidst  the  maids  of  Zagen's  peaceful  grove, 
Emyra  sung  the  pleasing  cares  of  love. 

Of  Abra  first  began  the  tender  strain, 
Who  led  her  youth  with  flocks  upon  the  plain : 
At  morn  she  came  those  willing  flocks  to  lead, 
Where  lilies  rear  them  in  the  watery  mead; 
From  early  dawn  the  livelong  hours  she  told, 
Till  late  at  silent  eve  she  penned  the  fold : 
Deep  in  the  grove,  beneath  the  secret  shade, 
A  various  wreath  of  odorous  flowers  she  made; 
Gay-motleyed  pinks*  and  sweet  jonquils  she  chose, 
The  violet  blue  that  on  the  moss-bank  grows ; 
All  sweet  to  sense,  the  flaunting  rose  was  there ; 
The  finished  chaplet  well  adorned  her  hair. 

Great  Abbas  chanced  that  fated  morn  to  stray, 
By  love  conducted  from  the  chase  away; 
Among  the  vocal  vales  he  heard  her  song ; 
And  sought,  the  vales  and  echoing  groves  among; 
At  length  he  found,  and  wooed  the  rural  maid ; 
She.. knew  the  monarch,  and  with  fear  obeyed. 
"  Be  every  youth  like  royal  Abbas  moved  5s} 
And  every  Georgian  maid  like  Abra  loved  V^ 

The  royal  lover  bore  her  from  the  plain; 
Yet  still  her  crook  and  bleating  flock  remain; 
Oft  as  she  went  she  backward  turned  her  view, 
And  bade  that  crook  and  bleating  flock  adieu. 
Fair  happy  maid!  to  other  scenes  remove; 
To  richer  scenes  of  golden  power  and  love !   .  _ 
Go  leave  the  simple  pipe  and  shepherd's  strain ; 
With  love  delight  thee,  and  with  Abbas  reign]/ 
"  Be  every  youth  like  royal  Abbas  moved ; 
And  every  Georgian  maid  like  Abra  loved." 

Yet,  'midst  the  blaze  of  courts,  she  fixed  her  love 
On  the  cool  fountain,  or  the  shady  grove : 
Still,  with  the  shepherd's  innocence,  her  mind 
To  the  sweet  vale,  and  flowery  mead  inclined ; 
And,  oft  as  spring  renewed  the  plains  with  flowers, 
Breathed  his  soft  gales,  and  led  the  fragrant  hours, 
With  sure  return  she  sought  the  sylvan  scene, 
The  breezy  mountains,  and  the  forests  green. 
Her  maids  around  her  moved,  a  duteous  band ! 
Each  bore  a  crook,  all-rural,  in  her  hand : 
Some  simple  lay,  of  flocks  and  herds  they  sung; 
With  joy  the  mountain  and  the  forest  rung. 
"  Be  every  youth  like  royal  Abbas  moved; 
And  every  Georgian  maid  like  Abra  loved." 

And  oft  the  royal  lover  left  the  care 

And  thorns  of  state,  attendant  on  the  fair; 

Oft  to  the  shades  and  low-roofed  cots  retired ; 

Or  sought  the  vale  where  first  his  heart  was  fired: 

A  russet  mantle,  like  a  swain  he  wore ; 

And  thought  of  crowns,  and  busy  courts  no  more. 


*  That  these  flowers  are  found  in  very  great  abundance  in 
some  of  the  provincee  of  Persia ;  see  the  Modern  History  of 
Mr.  Salmon. 


"  Be  every  youth  like  royal  Abbas  moved ; 
And  every  Georgian  maid  like  Abra  loved." 

Blest  was  the  life  that  royal  Abbas  led: 
Sweet  was  his  love,  and  innocent  his  bed. 
Wh;.t  li  in  \\valth  the  nu!>le  maid  excel? 
The  simple  shepherd  girl  can  love  as  well. 
Let  those  who  ruled  on  Persia's  jewelled  throne 
Be  famed  for  love,  and  gentlest  love  alone ; 
Or  wreath,  like  Abbas,  full  of  fair  rci- 
The  lover's  myrtle  with  the  warrior's  crown. 
O  happy  days !  the  maids  around  her  say ; 
O  haste;  profuse  of  blessings,  haste  away; 
"  Be  every  youth,  like  royal  Abbas,  moved ; 
And  every  Georgian  maid  like  Abra  loved." 


ECLOGUE  IV. 

AGIB  AND  SECANDER;  OR,  THE  FUGITIVES. 

Scene,  a  Mountain  in  Circassia.  Time,  Midnight. 
In  fair  Circassia,  where  to  love  inclined 
Each  swain  was  blest,  for  every  maid  was  kind ; 
At  that  still  hour  when  awful  midnight  reigns, 
And  none  but  wretches  haunt  the  twilight  plains; 
What  time  the  moon  had  hung  her  lamp  on  high, 
And  past  in  radiance  through  the  cloudless  sky ; 
Sad,  o'er  the  dews,  two  brother  shepherds  fled 
Where  wildering  fear  and  desperate  sorrow  led : 
Fast  as  they  prest  their  flight,  behind  them  lay 
Wide  ravaged  plains:  and  valleys  stole  away : 
Along  the  mountain's  bending  sides  they  ran, 
Till,  faint  and  weak,  Secander  thus  began. 

SECANDER. 

O  stay  thee,  Agib,  for  my  feet  deny, 
No  longer  friendly  to  my  life,  to  fly. 
Friend  of  my  heart,  O  turn  thee  and  survey! 
Trace  our  sad  flight  through  all  its  length  of  way ! 
And  first  review  that  long-extended  plain, 
And  yon  wide  groves  already  past  with  pain! 
Yon  ragged  cliif,  whose  dangerous  path  we  tried ! 
And,  last,  this  lofty  mountain's  weary  side ! 

AGIB. 

Weak  as  thou  art,  yet,  hapless,  must  thou  know 
The  toils  of  flight  or  some  severer  wo ! 
Still,  as  I  haste,  the  Tartar  shouts  behind ; 
And  shrieks  and  sorrows  load  the  saddening  wind: 
In  rage  of  heart,  with  ruin  in  his  hand, 
He  blasts  our  harvests,  and  deforms  our  land. 
Yon  citron  grove,  whence  first  in  fear  we  came, 
Droops  its  fair  honours  to  the  conquering  flame. 
Far  fly  the  swains,  like  us,  in  deep  despair, 
And  leave  to  ruffian  hands  their  fleecj 

SECANDER. 

Unhappy  land,  whose  blessings  tempt  the  sword, 
In  vain,  unheard,  thou  call'st  thy  Persian  lord ! 


coLLiNS's  WORKS. 


In  vain  thou  court'st  him,  helpless,  to  thine  aid, 

To  shield  the  shepherd,  and  protect  the  maid ! 

Far  off,  in  thoughtless  indolence  resigned, 

Soft  dreams  of  love  and  pleasure  sooth  his  mind: 

'Midst  fair  sultanas  lost  in  idly  joy, 

No  wars  alarm  him,  and  no  fears  annoy. 


Yet  these  green  hills  in  summer's  sultry  heat, 
Have  lent  the  monarch  oft  a  cool  retreat. 
Sweet  to  the  sight  is  Zabran's  flowery  plain; 
At  once  by  maids  and  shepherds  loved  in  vain  ! 
No  more  the  virgins  shall  delight  to  rove 
By  Sargis'  banks,  or  Irwan's  shady  grove; 
On  Tarkie's  mountains  catch  the  cooling  gale, 
Or  breathe  the  sweets  of  Aly's  flowery  vale : 
Fair  scene !  but,  ah !  no  more  with  peace  possest, 
With  ease  alluring,  and  with  plenty  blest ! 
No  more  the  shepherd's  whitening  tents  appear, 
Nor  the  kind  products  of  a  bounteous  year ; 
No  more  the  date,  with  snowy  blossoms  crowned ! 
But  ruin  spreads  her  baleful  fires  around. 

ECANDER. 

In  vain  Circassia  boasts  her  spicy  groves, 
For  ever  famed  for  pure  and  happy  loves : 


In  vain  she  boasts  her  fairest  of  the  fair, 
Their  eyes  blue  languish,  and  their  golden  hair ! 
Those  eyes  in  tears  their  fruitless  grief  must  send; 
Those  hairs  the  Tartar's  cruel  hand  shall  rend. 


Ye  Georgian  swains,  that  piteous  learn  from 

far 

Circassia's  ruin,  and  the  waste  of  war: 
Some  weightier  arms  than  crooks  and  staffs  pre- 
pare 

To  shield  your  harvest,  and  defend  your  fair; 
The  Turk  and  Tartar  like  designs  pursue, 
Fixed  to  destroy  and  steadfast  to  undo. 
Wild  as  his  hand,  in  native  deserts  bred,  ^ 
By  lust  incited,  or  by  malice  led, 
The  villain  Arab,  as  he  prowls  for  prey, 
Oft  marks  with  blood  and  wasting  flames  the  way. 
Yet  none  so  cruel  as. the  Tartar  foe,... 
To  death  inured,  and  nursed  in  scenes  of  wo. 

He  said;  when  loud  along  the  vale  was  heard 
A  shriller  shriek ;  and  nearer  fires  appeared ; 
The  affrighted  shepherds,  through  the  dews  of 

night, 
Wide  o'er  the  moonlight  hills  renewed  their  flight. 


ODE  TO  PITY. 

O  THOU,  the  friend  of  man  assigned, 
With  balmy  hands  his  wounds  to  bind, 

And  charm  his  frantic  wo: 
When  first  Distress,  with  dagger  keen, 
Broke  forth  to  waste  his  destined  scene, 

His  wild  unsated  foe ! 

By  Pella's*  bard,  a  magic  name, ' 

By  all  the  griefs  his  thought  could  frame, 

Receive  my  humble  rite: 
Long,  Pity,  let  the  nations  view 
Thy  sky- worn  robes  of  tenderest  blue, 

And  eyes  of  dewy  light ! 

But  wherefore  need  I  wander  wide 
To  old  Illissus'  distant  side 

Deserted  stream,  and  mute? 
Wild  Arunt  too  has  heard  thy  strains, 
And  echo,  midst  thy  native  plains, 

Been  soothed  by  Pity's  lute. 


*  Euripides,  of  whom  Aristotle  pronounces,  on  a  compari- 
son of  him  with  Sophocles,  that  he  was  the  greater  master  of 
the  tender  passions,  „„  <rgctyt>uvrt£oc. 

t  The  river  Arun  runs  by  the  village  in  Sussex,  where 
Otway  had  his  birth. 


There  first  the  wren  in  myrtles  shed 
On  gentlest  Otway's  infant  head, 

To  him  thy  cell  was  shown ; 
And  while  he  sung  the  female  heart, 
With  youth's  soft  notes  unspoiled  by  art, 

Thy  turtles  mixed  their  own. 

Come,  Pity,  come,  by  fancy's  aid, 
E'en  now,  my  thoughts,  relenting  maid, 

Thy  temple's  pride  design: 
Its  southern  site,  its  truth  complete, 
Shall  rise  a  wild  enthusiast  heat 

In  all  who  view  the  shrine. 

There  Picture's  toils  shall  well  relate, 
How  chance,  or  hard  involving  fate, 

O'er  mortal  bliss  prevail ; 
The  buskined  Muse  shall  near  her  stand, 
And  sighing  prompt  her  tender  hand 

With  each  disastrous  tale. 

There  let  me  oft,  retired  by  day, 
In  dreams  of  passion  melt  away, 

Allowed  with  theeto  dwell: 
There  waste  the  mournful  lamp  of  night, 
Till,  Virgin,  thou  again  delight 

To  hear  a  British  shell. 


ODES. 


ODE  TO  FEAR. 
THOU  to  whom  the  world  unknown, 

s  shadowy  shapes,  is  shown ; 
"Who  <(.  st,  appalled,  the  unreal  scene, 
While  Fancy  lifts  the  veil  between: 

Ah  Fear!  ah  frantic^Fear! 

I  see,  I  see  thee  near^) 
I  know  thy  hurried  step;  thy  haggard  eye! 
Like  thee  I  start;  like  thee  disordered  fly. 
For  lo,  what  monsters  in  thy  train  appear! 
Danger,  whose  limbs  of  giant  mould 
What  mortal  eye  can  fixed  behold! 
Who  stalks  his  round,  an  hideous  form, 
Howling  amidst  the  midnight  storm; 
Or  throws  him  on  the  ridgy  steep 
Of  some  loose  hanging  rock  to  sleep: 
And  with  him  thousand  phantoms  joined, 
Who  prompt  to  deeds  accursed  the  mind : 
And  those,  the  fiends,  who,  near  allied, 
O'er  Nature's  wounds,  and  wrecks,  preside; 
While  Vengeance,  in  the  lurid  afar, 
Lifts  her  red  arm,  exposed  and  bare : 
On  whom  that  ravening*  brood  of  Fate 
Who  lap  the  blood  of  sorrow  wait: 
Who,  Fear,  this  ghastly  train  can  see, 
And  look  not  madly  wild  like  thee? 

EPODE. 

IN  earliest  Greece,  to  thee,  with  partial  choice, 
The  grief-full  Muse,  addrest  her  infant  tongue; 

The  maids  and  matrons  on  her  awful  voice, 
Silent  and  pale  in  wild  amazement  hung. 

Yet  he,  the  bardt  who  first  invoked  thy  name, 
Disdained  in  Marathon  its  power  to  feel : 

For  not  alone  he  nursed  the  poet's  flame, 
But  reached  from  Virtue's  hand  the  patriot's 
steel. 

But  who  is  he  whom  later  garlands  grace ; 

Who  left  a  while  o'er  Hybla's  dews  to  rove, 
With  trembling  eyes  thy  dreary  steps  to  trace, 

Where  thou  and  furies  shared  the  baleful  grove ! 

Wrapt  in  thy  cloudy  veil,  the  incestuous  queent 
Sighed  the  sad  calH  her  son  and  husband  heard, 

When  once  alone  it  broke  the  silent  scene, 

And  he  the  wretch  of  Thebes  no  more  appeared. 


•  Alluding  to  the  Kuvac  «Kpy»m  of  Sophocles.    See  the 
Hectra. 
t  .fiachylui 


it J  opopft  potj 
Hv  fttv  2uj?t^:  tyOfy/jui,  6J 


-Sec  the  CEdip.  Colon,  of  Sophocles. 


O  Fear,  I  know  thee  by  my  throbbing  heart:     — "N   ** 
Thy  withering  power  inspired  each  mournful     1  JT 
line: 

Though  gentle  Pity  claim  her  mingled  part, 
Yet  all  the  thunders  of  the  scene  are  thine 

ANTJSTROPHE. 

THOU  who  such  weary  lengths  hast  past, 
Where  wilt  thou  rest,  mad  Nymph,  at  last! 
Say,  wilt  thou  shroud  in  haunted  cell 
Where  gloomy  Rape  and  Murder  dwell  7 
Or,  in  some  hallowed  seat, 
'Gainst  which  the  big  waves  beat, 
Hear  drowning  seamen's  cries,  in  tempests  brought! 
Dark   power,  with  shuddering  meek  submitted 
thought. 

Be  mine  to  read  the  visions  old 
Which  thy  awakening  bards  have  told : 
And,  lest  thou  meet  my  blasted  view, 
Hold  each  strange  tale  devoutly  true; 
Ne'er  be  I  found,  by  thee  o'erawed, 
In  that  thrice-hallowed  eve,  abroad, 
When  ghosts,  as  cottage  maids  believe, 
Their  pebbled  beds  permitted  leave;       //  f" 
And  goblins  haunt,  from  fire,  or  fen,     //  ••' 
Or  mine,  or  flood,  the  walks  of  men ! 

O  thou  whose  spirit  most  possest 
The  sacred  seat  of  Shakspeare's  breast! 
By  all  that  from  thy  prophet  broke, 
In  thy  divine  emotions  spoke; 
Hither  again  thy  fury  deal, 
Teach  me  but  once  like  him  to  feel: 
His  cypress  wreath  my  meed  decree, 
And  I,  O  Fear,  will  dwell  with  thee! 


ODE  TO  SIMPLICITY. 

O  THOU  by  Nature  taught 

To  breathe  her  genuine  thought 
In  numbers  warmly  pure,  and  sweetly  strong; 

Who  first  on  mountains  wild, 

In  Fancy,  loveliest  child, 
Thy  babe,  or  Pleasure's,  nursed  the  powers  of  song. 

Thou,  who,  with  hermit  heart, 

Disdain'st  the  wealth  of  art, 
And  gauds,  and  pageant  weeds,  and  trailing  pall; 

But  com'st   a  decent  maid, 

In  attic  robe  arrayed, 
O  chaste,  unboastful  Nymph,  to  thee  I  call ! 

By  all  the  honied  store 

On  Hybla's  thymy  shore; 
By  all  her  blooms,  and  mingled  murmurs  dear : 

By  her*  whose  love-lorn  wo, 

In  evening  musings  slow, 
Soothed  sweetly  sad  Electra's  poet's  ear : 


The  «t*T«r,  or  nightingale,  for  which  Sophocles 
have  entertained  a  peculiar  fondness. 


COLLINS'S  WORKS. 


By  old  Cephisus  deep, 

Who  spread  his  wavy  sweep, 
In  warbled  wanderings,  round  thy  green  retreat; 

On  whose  enamel'd  side, 

When  holy  Freedom  died, 
No  equal  haunt  allured  thy  future  feet. 

O  sister  meek  of  Truth, 

To  my  admiring  youth, 
Thy  sober  aid  and  native  charms  infuse! 

The  flowers  that  sweetest  breathe, 

Though  beauty  culled  the  wreath, 
Still  ask  thy  hand  to  raise  their  ordered  hues. 

While  Rome  could  none  esteem 

But  virtue's  patriot  theme, 
You  loved  her  hills,  and  led  her  laureat  band: 

But  staid  to  sing  alone 

To  one  distinguished  throne; 
And  turned  thy  face,  and  fled  her  altered  land. 

No  more,  in  hall  or  bower, 

The  Passions  own  thy  power; 
Love,  only  Love  her  forceless  numbers  mean: 

For  thou  hast  left  her  shrine; 

Nor  olive  more,  nor  vine, 
Shall  gain  thy  feet  to  bless  the  servile  scene. 

Though  taste,  though  genius,  bless 

To  some  divine  excess, 
Faints  the  cold  work,  till  thou  inspire  the  whole ; 

What  each,  what  all  supply, 

May  court,  may  charm,  our  eye; 
Thou,  only  thou  canst  raise  the  meeting  soul! 

Of  these  let  others  ask, 

To  aid  some  mighty  task, 
I  only  seek  to  find  thy  temperate  vale; 

Where  oft  my  reed  might  sound 

To  maids  and  shepherds  round, 
And  all  thy  sons,  O  Nature,  learn  my  tale. 


ODE  ON  THE  POETICAL  CHARAC- 
TER. • 

As  once,— if,  not  with  light  regard, 
I  read  aright  that  gifted  bard, 
— Him  whose  school  above  the  rest 
His  loveliest  elfin  queen  has  blest ; — 
One,  only  one,  unrivalled*  fair, 
Might  hope  the  magic  girdle  wear, 
At  solemn  turney  hung  on  high, 
The  wish  of  each  love-darting  eye ; 

— Lo !  to  each  other  nymph,  in  turn,  applied, 
As  if,  in  air  unseen,  some  hovering  hand, 


•FlorimeL    See  Spenser,  Leg.  4th. 


Some  chaste  and  angel-friend  to  virgin-fame, 
With  whispered  spell  had  burst  the  starting 
band, 

It  left  unblessed  her  loathed  dishonoured  side ; 
Happier  hopeless  Fair,  if  never 
Her  baffled  hand  with  vain  endeavour, 

Had  touched  that  fatal  zone  to  her  denied ! 

Young  Fancy  thus,  to  me  divinest  name, 
To  whom,  prepared  and  bathed  in  heaven, 
The  cest  of  amplest  power  is  given : 
To  few  the  godlike  gift  assigns, 
To  gird  their  best  prophetic  loins, 

And  gaze  her  visions  wild,  and  feel  unmixed  her 
flame! 

The  band,  as  fairy  legends  say, 

Was  wove  on  that  creating  day 

When  He,  who  called  with  thought  to  birth 

Yon  tented  sky,  this  laughing  earth. 

And  drest  with  springs  and  forests  tall, 

And  poured  the  main  engirting  all, 

Long  by  the  loved  enthusiast  wooed, 

Himself  in  some  diviner  mood, 

Retiring,  sat  with  her  alone, 

And  placed  her  on  his  sapphire  throne , 

The  whiles  the  vaulted  shrine  around, 

Seraphic  wires  were  heard  to  sound, 

Now  sublimest  triumph  swelling, 

Now  on  love  and  mercy  dwelling ; 

And  she,  from  out  the  veiling  cloud, 

Breathed  her  magic  notes  aloud  : 

And  thou,  thou  rich-haired  youth  of  morn, 

And  all  thy  subject  life  was  born ! 

The  dangerous  passions  kept  aloof, 

Far  from  the  sainted  growing  woof: 

But  near  it  sad  ecstatic  Wonder, 

Listening  the  deep  applauding  thunder ; 

And  Truth,  in  sunny  vest  arrayed, 

By  whose  the  tarsel's  eyes  were  made : 

All  the  shadowy  tribes  of  mind, 

In  braided  dance,  their  murmurs  joined, 

And  all  the  bright  uncounted  powers 

Who  feed  on  Heaven's  ambrosial  flowers. 

— Where  is  the  bard  whose  soul  can  now 

Its  high  presuming  hopes  avow  !' 

Where  he  who  thinks,  with  rapture  blind, 

This  hallowed  work  for  him  designed  1 

High  on  some  cliff,  to  heaven  up-piled, 

Of  rude  access,  of  prospect  wild, 

Where,  tangled  round  the  jealous  steep, 

Strange  shades  o'erbrow  the  valleys  deep, 

And  holy  Genii  guard  the  rock, 

fts  glooms  embrown,  its  springs  unlock,       \ 

While  on  its  rich  ambitious  head, 

An  Eden,  like  his  own,  lies  spread, 

[  view  that  oak,  the_fancicd  glades  among, 

By  which  as  Milton  lay,  his  evening  ear, 

From  many  a  cloud  that  droppedTethereal  dew, 


ODES. 


Nigh  sphered  in  heaven,  its  native  strains  could 
hear; 

On  which  that  ancient  trump  he  reached  was  hung: 

Thither  oft  his  glory  greeting, 
From  Waller's  myrtle  shades  retreating, 

With  many  a  vow  from  Hope's  aspiring  tongue, 

My  trembling  feet  his  guiding  steps  pursue ; 
In  vain — Such  bliss  to  one  alone, 
Of  all  the  sons  of  soul,  was  known ; 
And  Heaven,  and  Fancy,  kindred  powers, 
Have  now  o'erturned  th'  inspiring  bowers  ; 

Or  curtained  close  such  scenes  from  every  future 
view. 


ODE, 

Written  in  the  beginning  of  the  year  1746. 
How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest, 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung ; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung ; 
There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay ; 
And  freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there ! 


ODE  TO  MERCY. 

STROPHE. 

O  THOU,  who  sit'st  a  smiling  bride 

By  valour's  armed  and  awful  side, 
Gentlest  of  sky-bom  forms,  and  best  adored ; 

Who  oft  with  songs,  divine  to  hear, 

Win'st  from  his  fatal  grasp  the  spear, 
And  hid'st  in  wreaths  of  flowers  his  bloodless 
sword ! 

Thou  who,  amidst  the  deathful  field, 

By  godlike  chiefs  alone  beheld, 
Oft  with  thy  bosom  bare  art  found, 
Pleading  for  him  the  youth  who  sinks  to  ground : 

See,  Mercy,  see  with  pure  and  loaded  hands, 

Before  thy  shrine  my  country's  genius  stands, 
And  decks  thy  altar  still,  though  pierced  with 
many  a  wound ! 

ANTISTROPHE. 

When  he  whom  e'en  our  joys  provoke, 
The  fiend  of  nature  joined  his  yoke, 

And  rushed  in  wrath  to  make  our  isle  his  prey: 
Thy  form,  from  out  thy  sweet  abode, 

•   O'ertook  him  on  his  blasted  road, 

And  stopped  his  wheels,  and  looked  his  rage  away. 


I  see  recoil  his  sable  steeds, 

That  bore  him  swift  to  savage  deeds, 
Thy  tender  melting  eyes  they  own ; 
O  maid,  for  all  thy  love  to  Britain  shown, 

Where  Justice  bars  her  iron  tower, 

To  thee  we  build  a  roseate  bower, 
Thou,  thou  shalt  rule  our  queen,  and  share  our 
monarch's  throne. 


ODE  TO  LIBERTY.  • 


WHO  shall  awake  the  Spartan  fife, 
And  call  in  solemn  sounds  to  life, 
The  youths,  whose  locks  divinely  spreading, 

Like  vernal  hyacinths  in  sullen  hue, 
At  once  the  breath,  of  fear  and  virtue  shedding, 

Applauding  freedom  loved  of  old  to  view? 
What  new  Alcaeus,*  fancy-blest, 
Shall  sing  the  sword,  in  myrtles  drest, 
At  wisdom's  shrine  awhile  its  flame  conceal- 
ing, 

(What  place  so  fit  to  seal  a  deed  renowned  ? 
Till  she  her  brightest  lightnings  round  reveal- 
ing, 
It  leaped  in  glory  forth,  and  dealt  her  prompted 

wound! 

O  goddess,  in  that  feeling  hour, 
When  most  its  sounds  would  court  thy  ears, 

Let  not  my  shell's  misguided  powert 
E'er  draw  thy  sad  thy  mindful  tears. 
No,  Freedom,  no,  I  will  not  tell 
How  Rome,  before  thy  weeping  face, 
With  heaviest  sound,  a  giant-statue,  fell, 
Pushed  by  a  wild  and  artless  race 
From  off  its  wide  ambitious  base, 
When  Time  his  northern  sons  of  spoil  awoke, 
And  all  the  blended  work  of  strength  and  grace, 
With  many  a  rude  repeated  stroke, 
And  many  a  barb'rous  yell,  to  thousand  fragments 
broke. 


•  Alluding  to  that  beautiful  fragment  of  Alcaeus. 
Ev  Alvpfou  xAaSc  to  £«J>oj 

Ap^uoo'ioj  xat  Apifoyftr 


iv  Maxo^jwi'  2«  <J>a5iv  s  wu. 

to 

Ap(uo5to£  xac 
Ot7  Adtjvavqs 

Arfipa  Tvpawov  tTtrtap^w  f  xMvftijy. 
Ast  2wv  xX*o$  laaffcu  xar*  auu>. 


t  Mjy 
Aqot. 


fcwta  Xf  yw/tf  jj   a  daxpvop 


Callimach.    T/tvoj 


COLLINS'S  WORKS. 


EPODE. 

Yet,  e'en  where'er  the  least  appeared, 
Theadmiring  world  thy  hand  revered  ; 
Stilf'miagt-tire-scattered  states  around, 
Some  remnants  of  her  strength  were  found; 
They  saw,  by  what  escaped  the  storm, 
How  wondrous  rose  her  perfect  form; 
How  in  the  great,  the  laboured  whole, 
Each  mighty  master  poured  his  soul ! 
For  sunjiy  Florence,  seat  of  art, 
Beneath  her  vines  preserved  a  part, 
Till  they,*  whom  Science  loved  to  name, 
(O  who  could  fear  it  ?)  quenched  her  flame. 
And  lo,  a  humbler  relic  laid 
In  jealous  Pisa's  olive  shade ! 
See  small  Marmot  joins  the  theme, 
Though  least,  not  last  in  thy  esteem : 
Strike,  louder  strike  the  ennobling  strings 
To  those,*  whose  merchant  sons  were  kings; 
To  him,§  who,  decked  with  pearly  pride, 
In  Adria  weds  his  green- haired  bride; 
Hail,  port  of  glory,  wealth,  and  pleasure, 
Ne'er  let  me  change  this  Lydian  measure : 
Nor  e'er  her  former  pride  relate, 
To  sad  Liguria'sll  bleeding  state. 
Ah  no!  more  pleased  thy  haunts  I  seek, 
On  wild  Helvetia'sIT  mountains  bleak: 
(Where,  when  the  favoured  of  thy  choice, 
The  daring  archer  heard  thy  voice ; 
Forth  from  his  eyrie  roused  in  dread, 
The  ravening  eagle  northward  fled.) 
Or  dwells  in  willowed  meads  more  near, 
With  those**  to  whom  thy  stork  is  dear ; 
Those  whom  the  rod  of  Alva  bruised, 
Whose  crown  a  British  queentt  refused ! 
The  magic  works,  thou  feel'st  the  strains, 
One  holier  name  alone  remains; 
The  perfect  spell  shall  then  avail, 
Hail,  nymph,  adorned  by  Britain,  hail  I 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Beyond  the  measure  vast  of  thought, 
The  works,  the  wizard  time  has  wrought ! 


*  The  family  of  the  Medici. 

1  The  little  republic  of  San  Marino. 

J  The  Venetians. 

§  The  Doge  of  Venice. 

fl  Genoa. 

fi  Switzerland. 

* '  The  Dutch,  amongst  whom  there  are  very  severe  penal- 
ties for  those  who  are  convicted  of  killing  this  bird.  They  are 
kept  tame  in  almost  all  their  towns,  and  particularly  at  the 
Hague,  of  the  arms  of  which  they  make  a  part.  The  common 
people  of  Holland  are  said  to  entertain  a  superstitious  senti- 
ment, that  if  the  whole  species  of  them  should  become  extinct, 
they  should  lose  their  liberties. 

tt  Queen  Elizabeth. 


The  Gaul,  'tis  held  of  antique  story, 
Saw  Britain  linked  to  his  now  adverse  strand,* 
No  sea  between,  nor  cliff  sublime  and  hoary, 
He  passed  with  unwet  feet  through  all  our  land. 
To  the  blown  Baltic  then,  they  say, 
The  wild  waves  found  another  way, 
Where  Orcas  howls,  his  wolfish  mountains  round* 

ing, 

Till  all  the  banded  west  at  once  'gan  rise, 
A  wide  wild  storm  e'en  nature's  self  confound- 
ing, 
Withering  her  giant  sons  with  strange  uncouth 

surprise. 

This  pillared  earth,  so  firm  and  wide, 
By  winds  and  inward  labours  torn, 
In  thunders  dread  was  pushed  aside, 

And  down  the  shouldering  billows  borne 
And  see,  like  gems,  her  laughing  train, 

The  little  isles  on  every  side, 
Mona,t  once  hid  from  those  who  search  the  main, 

Where  thousand  elfin  shapes  abide, 
And  Wight  who  cheeks  the  west'ring  tide, 

For  thee  consenting  Heaven  has  each  bestowed, 
A  fair  attendant  on  her  sovereign  pride : 

To  thee  this  blest  divorce  she  owed, 
For  thou  hast  made  her  vales  thy  loved,  thy  last 
abode? 

SECOND   EPODE. 

Then  too,  'tis  said,  an  hoary  pile 
JMidst  the  green  naval  of  our  isle, 
Thy  shrine  in  some  religious  wood, 
O  soul-enforcing  goddess,  stood; 
There  oft  the  painted  natives  feet 
Were  wont  thy  form  celestial  meet: 
Though  now  with  hopeless  toil  we  trace 
Time's  backward  rolls,  to  find  its  place ; 
Whether  the  fiery-tressed  Dane, 
Or  Roman's  self  o'erturned  the  fane, 
Or  in  what  heaven-left  age  it  fell, 
'Twere  hard  for  mpdern  song  to  tell. 
Yet  still,  if  Truth  those  beams  infuse, 
Which  guide  at  once  and  charm  the  Muse, 


*  This  tradition  is  mentioned  by  several  of  our  old  historians. 
Some  naturalists  too  have  endeavoured  to  support  the  proba- 
bility of  the  fact  by  arguments  drawn  from  the  correspondent 
disposition  of  the  two  opposite  coasts.  I  do  not  remember 
that  any  poetical  use  has  hitherto  been  made  of  it. 

t  There  is  a  tradition  in  the  Isle  of  Man,  that  a  mermaid 
becoming  enamoured  of  a  young  man  of  extraordinary  beau- 
ty, took  an  opportunity  of  meeting  him  one  day  as  he  walked 
on  the  shore,  and  opened  her  passion  to  him,  but  was  received 
with  a  coldness,  occasioned  by  his  horror  and  surprise  at  her 
appearance.  This,  however,  was  so  misconstrued  by  the  sea 
lady,  that  in  revenge  for  his  treatment  of  her,  she  punished  the 
whole  island,  by  covering  it  with  a  mist ;  so  that  all  who  at- 
tempted to  carry  on  any  commerce  with  it,  either  never  ar- 
rived at  it,  but  wandered  up  and  down  the  sea,  or  were  on  a 
sudden  wrecked  upon  its  cliffs. 


ODES. 


Beyond  yon  braided  clouds  that  Be, 
Pavinu  thf  !i_'ht  embroidered  «ky, 

the  bright  pavilioned  plains, 
The  beauteous  mcxlcl  still  remains. 
There,  happier  than  in  islands  blest, 
Or  bowers  by  spring  or  Hebe  drest, 
The  .  ::11  our  Albion's  story, 

In  warlike  v.ved*.  retired  in  glory, 
Hear  their  consorted  Druids  sing 
Their  triumphs  to  the  immortal  string. 
How  may  the  Poet  now  unfold 

?  never  tongue  or  numbers  told  1 
How  learn,  delighted  and  amazed, 
What  hinds  unknown  that  fabric  raised  7 
Ev'n  now  before  his  favoured  eyes, 
In  Gothic  pride  it  seems  to  rise ! 

eful  orders  join, 
Majestic  through  the  mixed  d. 
The  secret  builder  knew  to  choose 
Each  sphere-found  gem  of  richest  hues ; 
Whate'er  heaven's  purer  mould  contains 
When  nearer  suns  emblaze  its  veins; 
There  on  the  walls  the  patriot's  sight 
May  ever  hang  with  fresh  delight, 
And.  graved  with  some  prophetic  rage, 
Read  Albion's  fame  through  every  age. 

r:ns  divine,  ye  laureate  band, 
That  near  her  inmost  altar  stand! 
Ndw  sooth  her,  to  her  blissful  train 
Blithe  Concord's  social  form  to  gain: 
Concord,  whose  myrtle  wand  can  steep 
E'en  Anger's  blood-shot  eyes  in  sleep: 
Before  whose  breathing  bosom's  balm 
Rage  drops  his  steel,  and  storms  grow  calm ; 
Her  let  our  sires  and  matrons  hoar 
Welcome  to  Britain's  ravaged  shore ; 
Our  youths,  enamoured  of  the  fair, 
Play  with  the  tangles  of  her  hair, 
Till,  in  one  loud  applauding  sound, 
The  nations  shout  to  her  around, 
O  how  supremely  art  thou  blest, 
Thou,  lady— thou  shall  rule  the  west ! 


ODE  TO  A  LADY, 

On  the  death  of  Colonel  Ross,  in  the  action  of  Fontenoy 
Written  in  Maj,  1745. 

WHILE,  lost  to  all  his  former  mirth, 
Britannia's  genius  bends  to  earth, 

And  mourns  the  fatal  day: 
While  stained  with  blood  he  strives  to  tear 
Unseemly  from  his  sea-screen  hair 
The  wreaths  of  cheerful  May : 

The  thoughts  which  musing  Pity  pays, 
And  fond  remembrance  loves  to  raise, 
Your  faithful  hours  attend ; 


Still  Fancy,  to  herself  unkind, 
Awakes  to  grief  the  softened  mind, 
And  points  the  bleeding  friend. 

By  rapid  Scheld's  descending  wave 
His  country's  vows  shall  bless  the  grave, 

Where'er  the  youth. is  laid : 
That  sacred  spot  the  village  hind, 
With  every  sweetest  turf  shall  bind, 

And  Peace  protect  the  shade. 

Blest  youth,  regardful  of  thy  doom, 
Aerial  hands  shall  build  thy  tomb, 

With  shadowy  trophies  crowned : 
Whilst  Honour  bathed  in  tears  shall  rove 
To  sigh  thy  name  through  every  grove, 

And  call  his  heroes  round. 

The  warlike  dead  of  every  age, 
Who  fill  the  fair  recording  page, 

Shall  leave  their  sainted  rest: 
And,  half  reclining  on  his  spear, 
Each  wondering  chief  by  turns  appear, 

To  hail  the  blooming  guest. 

Old  Edward's  sons,  unknown  to  yield, 
Shall  crowd  from  Cressy's  laureled  field, 

And  gaze  with  fixed  delight : 
Again  for  Britain's  wrongs  they  feel, 
Again  they  snatch  the  gleamy  steel, 

And  wish  th'  avenging  fight. 

But,  lo !  where,  sunk  in  deep  despair, 
Her  garments  torn,  her  bosom  bare, 

Impatient  Freedom  lies ! 
Her  matted  tresses  madly  spread, 
To  every  sod  which  wraps  the  dead, 

She  turns  her  joyless  eyes. 

Ne'er  shall  she  leave  that  lowly  ground 
Till  notes  of  triumph  bursting  round 

Proclaim  her  reign  restored : 
Till  William  seek  the  sad  retreat, 
And  bleeding  at  her  sacred  feet, 

Present  the  sated  sword. 

If,  weak  to  sooth  so  soft  an  heart, 
These  pictured  glories  nought  impart, 

To  dry  thy  constant  tear: 
If  yet,  in  Sorrow's  distant  eye, 
Exposed  and  pale  thou  seest  him  lie, 
Wild  war  insulting  near ; 

Where'er  from  Time  thou  court'st  relief, 
The  Muse  shall  still  with  social  grief, 

Her  gentlest  promise  keep: 
F>n  humble  Harting?s  cottaged  vale 
Shall  learn  the  sad  repeated  tale, 

And  bid  her  shepherds  weep. 


10 


COLLINS'S  WORKS. 


ODE  TO  EVENING.    * 

IF  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 
May  hope,  O  pensive  Eve,  to  sooth  thine  ear, 

Like  thy  own  brawling  springs, 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales : 

O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright-haired 

sun, 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts, 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed : 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak-eyed 

bat, 
With  short,  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leathern  wing, 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum : 
Now  teach  me,  maid  composed, 
To  breathe  some  softened  strain^ 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  dark'ning 

vale, 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit ; 

As  musing  slow,  I  hail, 

Thy  genial  love  return ! 

For  when  thy  folding  star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  Hours,  and  Elves 

Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with 


And  sheds  the  fresh'ning  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 
The  pensive  pleasures  sweet, 
Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy  scene ; 
Or  find  some  ruin,  'midst  its  dreary  dells, 

Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 

By  thy  religious  gleams. 

Or,  if  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain, 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut, 
That,  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires; 
And  hears  their  simple  bell;  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he 

wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve! 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light; 


While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 

And  rudety  rends  thy  robes ; 

So  long,  regardiul  of  thy  quiet  rule, 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 

And  love  thy  favourite  name ! 


ODE  TO  PEACE. 

O  THOU,  who  bad'st  thy  turtles  bear 
Swift  from  his  grasp  thy  golden  hair, 

And  sought'st  thy  native  skies; 
When  War,  by  vultures  drawn  from  far, 
To  Britain  bent  his  iron  car, 

And  bade  his  storms  arise ! 

Tired  of  his  rude  tyrannic  sway, 
Our  youth  shall  fix  some  festive  day, 

His  sullen  shrines  to  burn; 
But  thou  who  hear'st  the  turning  spheres, 
What  sounds  may  charm  thy  partial  ears, 

And  gain  thy  blest  return ! 

O  Peace,  thy  injured  robes  up-bind! 
O  rise !  and  leave  not  one  behind 

Of  all  thy  beamy  train  ! 
The  British  Lion,  goddess  sweet, 
Lies  stretched  on  earth,  to  kiss  thy  feet, 

And  own  thy  holier  reign. 

Let  others  court  thy  transient  smile, 
But  come  to  grace  thy  western  isle, 

By  warlike  honour  led ; 
And  while  around  her  ports  rejoice, 
While  all  her  sons  adore  thy  choice, 

With  him  for  ever  wed ! 


THE  MANNERS.— AN  ODE. 

FAREWELL,  for  clearer  ken  designed, 
The  dim-discovered  tracts  of  mind; 
Truths  which,  from  action's  path  retired, 
My  silent  search  in  vain  required! 
No  more  my  sail  that  deep  explores ; 
No  more  I  search  those  magic  shores; 
What  regions  part  the  world  of  soul, 
Or  whence  thy  streams,  Opinion,  roll : 
If  e'er  I  round  such  fairy  field, 
Some  power  impart  the  spear  and  shield 
At  which  the  wizard  passions  fly : 
By  which  the  giant  Follies  die ! 

Farewell  the  porch  whose  roof  is  seen 
Arched  with  th;  enlivening  olive's  green; 
Where  Science,  pranked  in  tissued  vest, 
By  Reason,  Pride,  and  Fancy  drest, 


ODES. 


a 


Comes,  like  a  bride,  so  trim  arrayed, 
To  wed  with  Doubt  in  Plato's  shade. 

Youth  of  the  quick  uncheated  sight, 
Thy  walks,  Observance,  more  invite! 
O  thou  who  lov'st  that  ampler  range, 
Where  life's  wide  prospects  round  thee  change, 
And,  with  her  mingling  sons  allied, 
Throw'st  the  prattling  page  aside, 
To  me,  in  converse  sweet,  impart 
To  read  in  man  the  native  heart ; 
To  learn,  where  Science  sure  is  found, 
From  nature  as  she  lives  around; 
And,  gazing  oft  her  mirror  true, 
By  turns  each  shilling  image  view! 
Till  meddling  Art's  officious  lore 
Reverse  the  lessons  taught  before ; 
Alluring  from  a  safer  rule, 
To  dream  in  her  enchanted  school : 
Thou,  Heaven,  whate'er  of  great  we  boast, 
Hast  blest  this  social  science  most. 

Retiring  hence  to  thoughtful  cell, 
As  Fancy  breathes  her  potent  spell, 
Not  vain  she  finds  the  charmful  task, 
In  pageant  quaint,  in  motley  mask ; 
Behold,  before  her  musing  eyes, 
The  countless  Manners  round  her  rise; 
While,  ever  varying  as  they  pass, 
To  some  Contempt  applies  her  glass; 
With  these  the  white-robed  maids  combine; 
And  those  the  laughing  Satyr's  join ! 
But  who  is  he  whom  now  she  views, 
In  robe  of  wild  contending  hues  1 
Thou  by  the  Passions  nursed ;  I  greet 
The  comic  sock  that  binds  thy  feet ! 
O  Humour,  thou  whose  name  is  known 
To  Britain's  favoured  isle  alone : 
Me  too  amidst  thy  band  admit; 
There  where  the  young-eyed  healthful  wit, 
(Whose  jewels  in  his  crisped  hair 
Are  placed  each  other's  beams  to  share ; 
Whom  no  delights  from  thee  divide) 
In  laughter  loosed,  attends  thy  side ! 

By  old  Miletus,*  who  so  long 
Has  ceased  his  love-inwoven  song; 
By  all  you  taught  the  Tuscan  maids, 
In  changed  Italia's  modern  shades ; 
By  himt  whose  knight's  distinguished  name 
Refined  a  nation's  lust  of  fame ; 
Whose  tales  e'en  now,  with  echoes  sweet, 
Castalia's  Moorish  hills  repeat; 
Or  himt  whom  Seine's  blue  nymphs  deplore, 
In  watch tt  weeds  on  GalUa's  shore; 


*  Alluding  to  the  Milesian  tales,  some  of  the  earliest  ro- 
mances, t  Cervantes. 
.  |  Monsieur  Le  Sage,  author  of  the  incomparable  Adventure* 
of  Gil  Bias  de  Santillane,  who  died  in  Paris  in  the  year  1745. 


Who  drew  the  sad  Sicilian  maid, 
By  virtues  in  her  sire  betrayed. 

O  Nature  boon,  from  whom  proceed 
Each  forceful  thought,  each  prompted  deed; 
If  but  from  thee  I  hope  to  feel, 
On  all  my  heart  imprint  thy  zeal! 
Let  some  retreating  cynic  find 
Those  oft-turned  scrolls  I  leave  behind: 
The  Sports  and  I  this  hour  agree, 
To  rove  thy  scene-full  world  with  thee ! 


THE  PASSIONS.— ANODE  FOR  MUSIC. 

WHEN  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 
The  Passions  oft  to  hear  her  shell, 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell, 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possessed  beyond  the  Muse's  painting; 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined ; 
Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Filled  with  fury,  r^pt,  inspired, 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound ; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each  (for  madness  ruled  the  hour) 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 

Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid, 
And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why, 

E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rushed :  his  eyes  on  fire, 
In  lightnings,  owned  his  secret  stings: 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings. 

With  woful  measures  wan  Despair 
Low  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguiled ; 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air  : 
'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  O  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair, 

What  was  thy  delighted  measure  7 
Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail ! 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong ; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 
She  called  on  Echo  still,  through  all  the  song; 

And,  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 

A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close; 
And  Hope  enchanted  smiled,  and  waved  her  gold- 
en hair. 
And  longer  had  she  sung;— but  with  a  frown, 

Revenge  impatient  rose: 
He  thre  w  his  blood-stained  sword,  in  thunder  down, 


12 


COLLINS'S  WORKS. 


And,  with  a  withering  look, 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  wo! 
And,  ever,  and  anon,  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum,  with  furious  heat; 
And,  though  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between, 
Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side, 
Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unaltered  mien, 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  bursting 

frcm  his  head. 
Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  nought  were  fixed; 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state ! 
Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed ; 
And  now  it  courted  Love,  now  raving  called  on 
Hate. 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 
Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired : 
And,  from  her  wild  sequestered  seat, 
In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 
Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul: 
And  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 
Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound; 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measures 

stole, 

Or,  o'er  some  haunted  stream,  with  fond  delay, 
Round  an  holy  calm  diffusing, 
Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing, 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But  O !  how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone 

When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulders  flung, 
Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 

Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung, 
The  hunter's  call,  to  Faun  and  Dryad  known. 

The  oak-crowned  Sisters,  and  their  chaste-eyed 

Clueen, 

Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys  were  seen, 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green : 

Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear; 
And  Sport  leaped  up,  and  seized  his  beechen 
spear. 

Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial : 
He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addrest ; 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol, 

Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best : 
They  would  have  thought  who  heard  the  strain 
They  saw,  in  Tempe's  vale,  her  native  maids, 
Amidst  the  festal  sounding  shades, 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing, 
While  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the  strings, 

Love  framed  with  Mirth  a  gay  fantastic  round  ; 

Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound, 

And  he.  amidst  his  frolic  play, 

As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 
Shook  thousand  odours  from  his  dewy  wings. 


O  Music,  sphere-descended  maid, 
Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom's  aid  ! 
Why,  goddess !  why,  to  us  denied, 
Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside! 
As,  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower, 
You  learned  an  all-commanding  power, 
Thy  mimic  soul,  O  Nymph  endeared, 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard, 
Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 
Devote  to  Virtue,  Fancy,  Artl 
Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time, 
Warm,  energic,  chaste,  sublime ! 
Thy  wonders  in  that  godlike  age, 
Fill  thy  recording  sister's  page — 
'Tis  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale, 
Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail, 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage, 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age; 
E'en  all  at  once  together  found, 

ecilia's  mingled  word  of  sound — 
O  bid  our  vain  endeavours  cease ; 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece ; 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state ! 

!onfirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate ! 


AN  EPISTLE, 

Addressed  to  Sir  Tliomas  Hammer,  on  Ms  Edition  of 
Shakspeare's  Works. 

WHILE,  born  to  bring  the  Muse's  happier  days, 
A  patriot's  hand  protects  the  poet's  lays,,^*— - -* 
While  nursed  by  you  she  sees  her  myrtles  bloom, 
Green  and  unwithered  o'er  his  honoured  tomb ; 
Excuse  her  doubts,  if  yet  she  fears  to  tell 
What  secret  transports  in  her  bosom  swell. 
With  conscious  awe  she  hears  the  critic's  fame, 
And  blushing  hides  her  wreath  at  Shakspeare's 

name. 

Hard  was  the  lot  those  injured  strains  endured, 
Unowned  by  Science,  and  by  years  obscured ; 
Fair  Fancy  wept ;  and  echoing  sighs  confessed 
A  fixt  despair  in  every  tuneful  breast. 
Not  with  more  grief  the  afflicted  swains  appear, 
When  wintry  winds  deform  the  plenteous  year 
When  lingering  frosts  the  ruined  seats  invade 
Where  Peace  resorted,  and  the  Graces  played. 

Each  rising  art  by  just  gradation  moves: 
Toil  builds  on  toil :  and  age  on  age  improves : 
The  muse  alone  unequal  dealt  her  rage, 
And  graced  with  noblest  pomp  her  earliest  stage. 
Preserved  through  time,  the  speaking  scenes  impart 
Each  changeful  wish  of  Phaedra's  tortured  heart ; 
Or  paint  the  curse  that  marked  the  Theban's*  reign; 
A  bed  incestuous,  and  a  father  slain. 


*  The  CEdipus  of  Sophocles. 


ODES. 


13 


With  kind  concern  our  pitying  eyes  o'erflow, 
Trace  the  sad  tale,  and  own  another's  wo. 

To  Rome  removed,  with  wit  secure  to  please, 
The  comic  Sisters  kept  their  native  ease; 
With  jealous  fear  declining  Greece  beheld 
Her  own  Meander's  art  almost  excelled ; 
But  every  V  I  to  rise  in  vain 

Some  laboured  rival  of  her  tragic  strain ; 
Illysus'  laurels,  though  transferred  with  toil, 
Dropped  their  fair  leaves,  nor  knew  the  unfriendly 
soil. 

As  Arts  expired,  resistless  Dulness  rose ; 
Goths,  priests,  or  Vandals,— all  were  Learning's 

foes, 

Till  Julius*  first  recalled  each  exiled  maid; 
And  Cosmo  owned  them  in  the  Etrurian  shade : 
Then,  deeply  skilled  in  love's  engaging  theme, 
The  soft  Provincial  passed  to  Arno's  stream : 
With  graceful  ease  the  wanton  lyre  he  strung ; 
Sweet  flowed  the  lays— but  love  was  all  he  sung. 
The  gay  description  could  not  fail  to  move ; 
For,  led  by  nature,  all  are  friends  to  love. 

But  Heaven,  still  various  in  its  work,  decreed 
The  perfect  boast  of  time  should  last  succeed. 
The  beauteous  union  must  appear  at  length, 
Of  Tuscan  fancy,  and  Athenian  strength ; 
One  greater  Muse  Eliza's  reign  adorn, 
And  even  a  Shakspeare  to  her  fame  be  born  I 

Yet  ah !  so  bright  her  morning's  opening  ray, 
In  vain  our  Britain  hoped  an  equal  day ! 
No  second  growth  the  western  isle  could  bear, 
At  once  exhausted  with  too  rich  a  year. 
Too  nicely  Johnson  knew  the  critic's  part ; 
Nature  in  him  was  almost  lost  in  art. 
Of  softer  mould  the  gentle  Fletcher  came, 
The  next  in  order  as  the  next  in  name. 
With  pleased  attention,  midst  his  scenes  we  find 
Each  glowing  thought  that  warms  the  female  mind : 
Each  melting  sigh,  and  every  tender  tear ; 
The  lovers  wishes,  and  the  virgin's  fear. 
Hist  every  strain  the  Smiles  and  Graces  own : 
But  stronger  Shakspeare  felt  for  man  alone ; 
Drawn  by  his  pen,  our  ruder  passions  stand 
The  unrivaled  picture  of  his  early  hand. 

With*  gradual  steps  and  slow,  exacter  France 
Saw  Art's  fair  empire  o'er  her  shores  advance: 
By  length  of  toil  a  bright  perfection  knew, 
Correctly  bold,  and  just  in  all  she  drew : 


*  Julius  II.  the  immediate  predecessor  of  Leo  X. 

t  Their  characters  are  thus  distinguished  by  Mr.  Dryden. 

J  About  the  time  of  Shakspeare,  the  poet  Hardy  was  in  great 
repute  in  France.  He  wrote,  according  to  Fontenelle,  six  hun- 
dred plays.  The  French  poets  after  him  applied  themselves 
in  general  to  the  correct  improvement  of  the  stage,  which  was 
almost  totally  disregarded  by  those  of  our  own  country,  Jon- 
ion  excepted. 


Till  late  Comeille,  with  Lucan's*  spirit  fired, 
breathed  the  free  strain,  as  Rome  and  he  inspired ; 
And  classic  judgment  gained  to  sweet  Racine 
The  temperate  strength  of  Maro's  chaster  line. 

But  wilder  far  the  British  laurel  spread, 
And  wreaths  less  artful  crown  our  Poet's  head. 
Yet  he  alone  to  every  scene  could  give 
The  historian's  truth,  and  bid  the  manners  live. 
Waked  at  his  call  I  view,  with  glad  surprise, 
Majestic  forms  of  mighty  monarchs  rise. 
There  Henry's  trumpets  spread  their  loud  alarms; 
And  laureled  Conquest  waits  her  hero's  arms. 
Here  gentle  Edward  claims  a  pitying  sigh, 
Scarce  born  to  honours,  and  so  soon  to  die ! 
Yet  shall  thy  throne,  unhappy  infant,  bring 
No  beam  of  comfort  to  the  guilty  king : 
The  timet  shall  come  when  Glo'ster's  heart  shall 

bleed, 

In  life's  last  hours,  with  horror  of  the  deed : 
When  dreary  visions  shall  at  last  present 
Thy  vengeful  image  in  the  midnight  tent : 
Thy  hand  unseen  the  secret  death  shall  bear; 
Blunt  the  weak  sword,  and  break  th'  oppressive 
spear! 

Where'er  we  turn,  by  Fancy  charmed,  we  find 
Some  sweet  illusion  of  the  cheated  mind. 
Oft,  wild  of  wing,  she  calls  the  soul  to  rove 
With  humbler  nature,  in  the  rural  grove ; 
Where  swains  contented  own  the  quiet  scene, 
And  twilight  fairies  tread  the  circled  green : 
Dressed  by  her  hand,  the  woods  and  valleys  smile ; 
And  spring  diffusive  decks  th'  enchanted  isle. 

O,  more  than  all,  in  powerful  genius  blest, 
Come,  take  thine  empire  o'er  the  willing  breast ! 
Whate'er  the  wounds  this  youthful  heart  shall  fed, 
Thy  songs  support  me,  and  thy  morals  heal ! 
There  every  thought  the  Poet's  warmth  may  raise ; 
There  native  music  dwells  in  all  the  lays. 
O  might  some  verse  with  happiest  skill  persuade 
Expressive  picture  to  adopt  thine  aid ! 
What  wondrous  draughts  may  rise  from  every 

page! 
What  other  Raphaels  charm  a  distant  age ! 

Methinks  e'en  now  I  view  some  free  design 
Where  breathing  Nature  lives  in  every  line : 
Chaste  and  subdued  the  modest  lights  decay, 
Steal  into  shades,  and  mildly  melt  away. 
And  see  where  Anthony*  in  tears  approved, 
Guards  the  pale  relics  of  the  chief  he  loved  : 
O'er  the  cold  corse  the  warrior  seems  to  bend, 
Deep  sunk  in  grief,  and  mourns  his  murdered 
friend! 


•  The  favourite  author  of  the  elder  Corneffle. 

1  Turno  tempus  erit,  magno  cum  optaverit  emptum 

Intactum  Pallanta,  dec.  Virg. 

\  See  the  Tragedy  of  Julius  Caesar. 


14 


COLLINS'S  WORKS, 


Still  as  they  press,  he  calls  on  all  around, 

Lifts  the  torn  robe,  and  points  the  bleeding  wound. 

But  who*  is  he  whose  brows  exalted  bear 
A  wrath  impatient  and  a  fiercer  air  7 
A  wake  to  all  that  injured  worth  can  feel, 
On  his  own  Rome  he  turns  th'  avenging  steel; 
Yet  shall  not  war's  insatiate  fury  fall 
(So  heaven  ordains  it)  on  the  destined  wall. 
See  the  fond  mother,  'midst  the  plaintive  train, 
Hung  on  his  knees,  and  prostrate  on  the  plain! 
Touched  to  the  soul,  in  vain  he  strives  to  hide 
The  son's  affection  in  the  Roman's  pride: 
O'er  all  the  man  conflicting  passions  rise; 
Rage  grasps  the  sword,  while  Pity  melts  the  eyes. 

Thus,  generous  Critic,  as  thy  Bard  inspires, 
The  sister  Arts  shall  nurse  their  drooping  fires; 
Each  from  his  scenes  her  stores  alternate  bring ; 
Blend  the  fair  tint,  or  wake  the  vocal  string: 
Those  Sibyl-leaves,  the  sport  of  every  wind, 
(For  Poets  ever  were  a  careless  kind) 
By  thee  disposed,  no  farther  toil  demand, 
But  just  to  Nature,  own  thy  forming  hand. 

So  spread  o'er  Greece,  the  harmonious  whole 

unknown, 

E'en  Homer's  numbers  charmed  by  parts  alone. 
Their  own  Ulysses  scarce  had  wandered  more, 
By  winds  and  waters  cast  on  every  shore : 
When,  raised  by  fate,  some  former  Hanmer  joined 
Each  beauteous  image  of  the  boundless  mind; 
And  bade,  like  thee,  his  Athens  ever  claim 
A  fond  alliance  with  the  Poet's  name. 


DIRGE  IN  CYMBELINE;    . 

Sung  by  Guiderus  and  Arviragus  over  Fidele,  supposed  to  be 
dead. 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 

Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 
Each  opening  sweet  of  earliest  bloom, 

And  rifle  all  the  breathing  spring 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear 
To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove; 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here, 
And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  withered  witch  shall  here  be  seen ; 

No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew : 
The  female  fays  sho.ll  haunt  the  green, 

And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew! 

The  redbreast  oft,  at  evening  hours, 

Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid, 
With  hoary  moss,  and  gathered  flowers, 

To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

*  Coriolanus.   See  Mr.  Spence's  Dialogue  on  the  Odyssey. 


When  howling  winds,  and  beating  rain, 
In  tempests  shake  thy  Sylvan  cell ; 

Or  'midst  the  chase,  on  every  plain, 

The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell: 

Each  lonely  scene  shall  thee  restore; 

For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed; 
Beloved,  till  life  can  charm  no  more, 

And  mourned,  till  Pity's  self  be  dead. 


ODE 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR.  THOMSON. 

The  Scene  of  the  following  Stanzas  is  supposed  to  lie  on  the 
Thames,  near  Richmond. 

IN  yonder  grave  a  Druid  lies, 

Where  slowly  winds  the  stealing  wave ! 
The  year's  best  sweets  shall  duteous  rise, 

To  deck  its  poet's  sylvan  grave ! 

In  yon  deep  bed  of  whispering  reeds 
His  airy  harp*  shall  now  be  laid ; 

That  he,  whose  heart  in  sorrow  bleeds, 
May  love  through  life  the  soothing  shade. 

Then  maids  and  youths  shall  linger  here; 

And,  while  its  sounds  at  distance  swell, 
Shall  sadly  seem  in  Pity's  ear 

To  hear  the  woodland  pilgrim's  knell. 

Remembrance  oft  shall  haunt  the  shore, 
When  Thames  in  summer  wreaths  is  drest; 

And  oft  suspend  the  dashing  oar, 
To  bid  his  gentle  spirit  rest! 

And,  oft  as  ease  and  health  retire 

To  breezy  lawn,  or  forest  deep, 
The  friend  shall  view  yon  whiteningt  spire 

And  'mid  the  varied  landscape  weep. 

But  thou  who  own'st  that  earthly  bed, 
Ah !  what  will  every  dirge  avail! 

Or  tears  which  Love  and  Pity  shed, 
That  mourn  beneath  the  gliding  sail! 

Yet  lives  there  one  whose  heedless  eye 

Shall  scorn  thy  pale  shrine  glimmering  near ! 

With  him,  sweet  Bard,  may  Fancy  die ; 
And  joy  desert  the  blooming  year. 


But  thou,  lorn  stream,  whose  sullen  tide 
No  sedge-crowned  sisters  now  attend, 

Now  waft  me  from  the  green-hill's  side 
Whose  cold  turf  hides  the  buried  friend !    I 


*  The  harp  of  jEolus,  of  which  see  a  description  in  the 
Castle  of  Indolence. 
1  Richmond  Church,  in  which  Thomson  was  buried 


ODES. 


15 


And  see,  the  fairy  valleys  fade : 

Dun  Night  has  veiled  the  solemn  view! 

Yet  once  again,  dear  parted  shade, 
Meek  Nature's  child,  again  adieu  I 

The  genial  meads,*  assigned  to  bless 
Thy  life,  shall  mourn  thy  early  doom; 

There  hinds  and  shepherd-girls  shall  dress, 
With  simple  hands,  thy  rural  tomb. 

Long,  Ion -i.  thy  stone  and  pointed  clay"" 
Shall  melt  the  musing  Briton's  eyes-/ 

O !  vales,  and  wild  woods,  shall  he  :- 
Lu  vonder_  grave  your  Druid  UPS!        J 


VERSES 

Written  on  a  Paper  which  contained  a  Piece  of 

Bride-cake. 
YE  curious  hands  that  hid  from  vulgar  eyes, 

By  search  profane  shall  find  this  hallowed  cake, 
With  virtue's  awe  forbear  the  sacred  prize, 

Xor  dare  a  theft,  for  love  and  pity's  sake ! 

This  precious  relic,  formed  by  magic  power, 
Beneath  the  shepherd's  haunted  pillow  laid, 

Was  meant  by  love  to  charm  the  silent  hour, 
The  secret  present  of  a  matchless  maid. 

The  Cyprian  queen,  at  Hymen's  fond  request, 
Each  nice  ingredient  chose  with  happiest  art; 

Fears,  sighs,  and  wishes  of  th'  enamoured  breast, 
And  pains  that  please,  are  mixed  in  every  part. 

With  rosy  hand  the  spicy  fruit  she  brought, 
From  Paphian  hills,  and  fair  Cytherea's  isle; 

And  tempered  sweet  with  these  the  melting  thought, 
The  kiss  ambrosial,  and  the  yielding  smile. 

Ambiguous  looks,  that  scorn  and  yet  relent,        / 
Denials  mild,  and  firm  unaltered  truth ; 

Reluctant  pride,  and  amorous  faint  consent, 
And  meeting  ardours,  and  exulting  youth. 

Sleep,  wayward  God!  hath  sworn,  while  these 
remain, 

With  flattering  dreams  to  dry  his  nightly  tear, 
And  cheerful  Hope,  so  oft  invoked  in  vain,  7 

With  fairy  songs  shall  sooth  his  pensive  ear.  / 

^^         / 

If.  bound  by  vows  to  Friendship's  gentle  side. 

And  fond  of  soul,  thou  hop'st  an  equal  grace, 
If  youth  or  maid  thy  joys  and  griefs  divide, 

( >.  much  entreated,  leave  this  fatal  place! 

Sweet  Peace,  who  long  hath  shunned  my  plain- 
tive day, 

-ents  at  length  to  bring  me  short  delight; 
Thy  careless  steps  may  scare  her  doves  away, 
And  grief  with  raven  note  usurp  the  night. 


'  Mr.  Thomson  resided  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Richmond 
some  time  before  his  death. 

34 


"ODE 

On  the  popular  Superstitions  of  the  Highlands 
of  Scotland;  considered  as  the  subject  of 
Poetry. 

Inscribed  to  Mr.  John  Home. 

HOME  !  thou  return'st  from  Thames,  whose  Naiads 

long 

.  Have  seen  thee  lingering  with  a  fond  delay, 
Midst  those  soft  friends,  whose  hearts,  some 

future  day, 

Shall  melt,  perhaps,  to  hear  thy  tragic  song.* 
Go,  not  unmindful  of  that  cordial  youtht 

Whom,  long-endeared,  thou  leav'st  by  Lavant's 

side; 
Together  let  us  wish  him  lasting  truth, 

And  joy  untainted,  with  his  destined  bride. 
Go !  nor  regardless,  while  these  numbers  boast 
My  short-lived  bliss,  forget  my  social  name; 
But  think,  far  off,  how,  on  the  southern  coast 

I  met  thy  friendship  with  an  equal  flame ! 
Fresh  to  that  soil  thou  turn'st,  where  every  vale 
Shall  prompt  the  Poet,  and  his  song  demand; 
To  thee  thy  copious  subjects  ne'er  shall  fail; 

Thou  need'st  but  take  thy  pencil  to  thy  hand, 
And  paint  what  all  believe,  who  own  thy  genial 
land. 

There,  must  thou  wake,  perforce,  thy  Doric  quill: 

'Tis  Fancy's  land  to  which  thou  sett'st  thy  feet; 

Where  still,  'tis  said,  the  fairy  people  meet,  • 
Beneath  each  birken  shade,  on  mead  or  hill. 
There,  each  trim  lass,  that  skims  the  milky  store, 

To  the  swart  tribes  thtir  creamy%>wls  allots ; 
3y  night  they  sip  it  round  the  cottage  door, 

While  airy  minstrels  warble  jocund  notes. 
There,  every  herd,  by  sad  experience,  knows 

How,  winged  with  fate,  their  elf-shot  arrows  fly, 
When  the  sick  ewe  her  summer  food  foregoes, 

Or,  stretched  on  earth,  the  heart-smit  heifers  lie, 
Such  airy  beings  awe  the  untutored  swain : 

Nor  thou,  though  learned,  his  homelier  thoughts 

neglect ; 
^et  thy  sweet  muse  the- rural  faith  sustain ; 

These  are  the  themes  of  simple,  sure  efiect, 
That  add  new  conquests  to  her  boundless  reign, 

And  fill,  with  double  force,  her  heart-command 
ing  strain. 

2'en  yet  preserved,  how  often  may'st  thou  hear, 
Where  to  the  pole  the  Boreal  mountains  run, 
Taught  by  the  father  to  his  listening  son, 

Strange  lays,  whose  power  had  charmed  a  Spen- 
ser's ear. 

At  every  pause,  before  thy  mind  possest, 
Old  Runic  bards  shall  seem  to  rise  around, 


*  How  truly  did  Collins  predict  Home's  tragic  powers! 
t  A  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Barrow,  who  introduced 
Home  to  Collins. 


16 


COLLINS'S  WORKS. 


With  uncouth  lyres,  in  mary-coloured  vest, 

Their  matted  hair  with  boughs  fantastic  crowned : 
Whether  thou  bid'st  the  well-taught  hind  repeat 
The  choral  dirge  that  mourns  some  chieftain 

brave, 

When  every  shrieking  maid  her  bosom  beat, 
And  strewed  with  choicest  herbs  his  scented 

grave ! 
Or  whether  sitting  in  the  shepherd's  shiel,* 

Thou  hear'st  some  sounding  tale  of  war's  alarms; 
When  at  the  bugle's  call  with  fire  and  steel, 
The  sturdy  clans  poured  forth  their  brawny 

swarms, 

And  hostile  brothers  met,  to  prove  each  other's 
arms. 

'Tis  thine  to  sing,  how,  framing  hideous  spells, 
In  Sky's  lone  isle,  the  gifted  wizard-seer, 
Lodged  in  the  wintry  cave  with  Fate's  fell  spear, 

Or  in  the  depth  of  Uist's  dark  forest  dwells : 
How  they,  whose  sight  such  dreary  dreams  en- 


With  their  own  vision  oft  astonished  droop, 

When  o'er  the  watery  strath,  or  quaggy  moss, 
They  see  the  gliding  ghosts  unbodied  troop. 

Or,  if  in  sports,  or  on  the  festive  green, 
Their  destined  glance  some  fated  youth  descry, 

Who  now,  perhaps,  in  lusty  vigour  seen, 
And  rosy  health,  shall  soon  lamented  die. 

For  them  the  viewless  forms  of  air  obey: 
Their  bidding  heed,  and  at  their  beck  repair: 

They  know  what  spirit  brews  the  stormful  day, 
And  heartless,  oft  like  moody  madness,  stare 
To  see  the  phantom  train  their  secret  work  pre- 
pare. 

To  monarchs  dear,t  some  hundred  miles  astray, 
Oft  have  they  seen  Fate  give  the  fatal  blow ! 
The  seer,  in  Sky,  shrieked  as  the  blood  did  flow! 

When  headless  Charles  warm  on  the  scaffold  lay ! 


*  A  summer  hut,  built  in  the  high  part  of  the  mountains, 
to  tend  their  flocks  in  the  warm  season,  when  the  pasture  is 
fine. 

t  The  fifth  stanza,  and  the  half  of  the  sixth,  in  Dr.  Carlyle's 
copy,  printed  in  the  first  volume  of  the  "  Transactions"  of  the 
Royal  Society  of  Edinburgh,  being  deficient,  have  been  sup- 
plied by  Mr.  Mackenzie;  whose  lines  are  here  annexed,  for 
the  purpose  of  comparison,  and  to  do  justice  to  the  elegant 
author  of  the  Man  of  Feeling. 

"  Or  on  some  bellying  rock  that  shades  the  deep, 
They  view  the  lurid  signs  that  cross  the  sky, 
Where  in  the  west,  the  brooding  tempests  lie, 

And  hear  the  first,  faint  rustling  pennons  sweep. 

Or  in  the  arched  cave,  where  deep  and  dark 
The  broad,  unbroken  billows  heave  and  swell, 

In  horrid  musings  wrapt,  they  sit  to  mark 
The  lab'ringmoon  ;  or  list  the  mighty  yell 

Of  that  dread  spirit  whose  gigantic  form, 
The  seer's  entranced  eye  can  well  survey, 

Through  the  dim  air  who  guides  the  driving  storm, 
And  points  the  wretched  bark  its  destined  prey. 


As  Boreas  threw  his  young  Aurora*  forth, 

In  the  first  year  of  the  first  George's  reign, 
And  battles  raged  in  welkin  of  the  North, 

They  mourned  in  air,  fell,  fell  rebellion  slain! 
And  as,  of  late,  they  joyed  in  Preston's  fight, 

Saw,  at  sad  Falkirk,  all  their  hopes  near  crowned ! 
They  raved  !  divining,  through  their  second  sight.t 

Pale,  red  Culloden,  where  these  hopes  were 

drowned ! 
Illustrious  William !  t  Britain's  guardian  name ; 

One  William  saved  us  from  a  tyrant's  stroke; 
He,  for  a  sceptre,  gained  heroic  fame, 


Or  him  who  hovers  on  his  flagging  wing, 

O'er  the  dire  whirlpool,  that,  in  ocean's  waste, 
Draws  instant  down  whate'er  devoted  thing 

The  falling  breeze  within  its  reach  hath  placed — 
The  distant  seaman  hears,  and  flies  with  trembling  haste. 

Or,  if  on  land  the  fiend  exerts  his  sway, 
Silent  he  broods  o'er  quicksand,  bog,  or  fen, 
Far  from  the  sheltering  roof  and  haunts  of  men, 

When  witched  darkness  shuts  the  eye  of  day, 
And  shrouds  each  star  that  wont  to  cheer  the  night ; 

Or,  if  the  drifted  snow  perplex  the  way, 
With  treacherous  gleam  he  lures  the  fated  wight, 

And  leads  him  floundering  on  and  quite  astray." 

Shortly  after  these  lines  by  Mr.  Mackenzie  had  been  pub- 
lished, the  following  were  produced;  which  many  readers 
probably  will  think  have  at  least  as  much  of  Collins's  manuer 
in  them : 

"For  oft  when  Eve  hath  spread  her  dusky  veil, 
And  hid  each  star  that  wont  to  cheer  the  night, 

In  some  deep  glen  remote  from  human  sight, 
The  grisly  wizard  his  associates  hail. 
There  at  the  thrilling  verse,  and  charmed  spell, 

Fantastic  shapes  and  direful  shadows  throng; 
Night's  sober  ear  piercing  with  hideous  yell, 

While  in  the  goblin  round  they  troop  along. 

"Thence  each  betakes  him  to  his  several  toil ; 

To  dive,  to  fly,  to  ride  the  wintry  blast, 
To  dig  the  mine,  to  cleave  the  church-yard  soil, 

Or  rake  the  bottom  of  the  watery  waste. 
Each  powerful  drug,  with  more  than  mortal  skill, 

Where'er  bestowed,  or  hid  from  searching  eye, 
Selecting  heedful  of  their  tasker's  will : 

Nor  cease  their  labours  till  the  dawn  descry 
Their  hated  impious  work,  and  reddens  all  the  sky. 

"  Nor  wilt  thou  leave  for  other  bards  to  sing, 
The  ruthless  spirit  of  the  angry  flood  ; 
How,  at  gray  eve.  in  fell  and  crafty  mood, 
O'er  fen  and  lake  he  shakes  his  foggy  wing  : 
Or  when  the  curfew  with  his  sullen  note, 

Unchains,  to  roam  the  earth,  each  elfin  sprite, 
Like  some  drear  lamp,  from  out  the  quaggy  moat, 

The  fiend  shines  forth,  to  lure  th'  incautious  wight." 
*  By  young  Aurora,  Collins  undoubtedly  meant  the  first 
appearance  of  the  northern  lights,  which  happened  about  the 
year  1715 ;  at  least,  it  is  most  highly  probable,  from  this  pe- 
culiar circumstance,  that  no  ancient  writer  whatever  has  taken 
any  notice  of  them,  nor  even  any  one  modern,  previous  to  the 
above  period. 

t  Second  sight  is  the  term  that  is  used  for  the  divination  of 
the  Highlanders. 

J  The  late  duke  of  Cumberland,  who  defeated  the  Pretender 
i  at  the  battle  of  Culloden. 


ODES. 


17 


But  thou,  more  glorious,  Slavery's  chain  hast 

broke, 

To  reign  a  private  man,  and  bow  to  Freedom's 
yoke! 

too,  thou'lt  sing  !  for  well  thy  magic  muse 

Can  to  the  topmost  heaven  of  grandeur  soar ; 

Or  stoop  to  wail  the  swain  that  is  no  more  ! 
Ah,  homely  swains !  your  homeward  steps  ne'er 
lose;  / 

Let  not  dank  Will*  mislead  you  to  the  heath;/ 
Daneinsj  in  mirky  night,  o'er  fen  and  lake, 

He  glows  to  draw  you  downward  to  your  deatn, 
In  his  bewitched,  low,  marshy,  willow  brake!  » 
What  though  far  oft'  from  some  dark  dell  espied, 

His  shimmering  mazes  cheer  th' excursive  sight, 
Yrt  turn,  ye  wanderers,  turn  your  steps  aside, 

>\>r  trust  the  guidance  of  that  faithless  light; 
For  watchful,  lurking,  'mid  th'  unrustling  reed, 

At  those  mirk  hours  the  wily  monster  liesr 
And  listens  oft  to  hear  the  passing  steed, 

And  frequent  round  him  rolls  his  sullen  eyes, 
If  chance  his  savage  wrath  may  some  weak  wretch 
surprise. 

Ah,  luckless  swain,  o'er  all  unblest,  indeed ! 

Whom  late  bewildered  in  the  dank,  dark  fen, 

Far  from  the  flocks,  and  smoking  hamlet,  then! 
To  that  sad  spot  where  hums  the  sedgy  weed : 

On  him,  enraged,  the  fiend,  in  angry  mood, 
Shall  never  look  with  Pity's  kind  concern, 

But  instant  furious,  raise  the  whelming  flood 
O'er  its  drowned  banks,  forbidding  all  return ! 

Or,  if  he  meditate  his  wished  escape, 
To  some  dim  hill,  that  seems  uprising  near, 

To  his  faint  eye,  the  grim  and  grisly  shape, 
In  all  its  terrors  clad,  shall  wild  appear, 

Meantime  the  watery  surge  shall  round  him  rise, 
Poured  sudden  forth  from  every  swelling  source ! 

What  now  remains  but  tears  and  hopeless  sighs  7 
His  fear-shook  limbs  have  lost  their  youthful  force, 
And  down  the  waves  he  floats,  a  pale  and  breath- 
less corse ! 

For  him  in  vain  his  anxious  wife  shall  wait, 

Or  wander  forth  to  meet  him  on  his  way ; 
For  him  in  vain  at  to-fall  of  the  day, 

His  babes  shall  linger  at  th'  unclosing  gate  ! 
Ah,  ne'er  shall  he  return  !  Alone,  if  Night, 

Her  traveled  limbs  in  broken  slumbers  steep ! 
With  drooping  willows  drest,  his  mournful  sprite 

Shall  visit  sad,  perchance,  her  silent  sleep : 
Then  he,  perhaps,  with  moist  and  watery  hand, 

Shall  fondly  seem  to  press  her  shuddering  cheek, 
And  with  his  blue-swoln  face  before  her  stand, 

And,  shivering  cold,  these  piteous  accents  speak : 


*  A  fiery  meteor,  called  by  various  names,  such  as  Will 
with  (he  Wisp,  Jack  with  the  Lantern,  &c. ;  it  hovers  in  the 
air  over  marshy  and  fenny  places. 


"  Pursue,  dear  wife,  thy  daily  toils,  pursue, 
At  dawn  or  dusk,  industrious  as  before ; 

Nor  e'er  of  me  one  helpless  thought  renew, 
While  I  lie  weltering  on  the  osiered  shore, 

Drowned  by  the  Kelpie's*  wrath,  nor  e'er  shall 
aid  thee  more !" 

Unbounded  is  thy  range ;  with  varied  skill 

Thy  muse  may,  like  those  feathery  tribes  which 
spring 

From  their  rude  rocks,  extend  her  skirting  wing 
Round  the  moist  marge  of  each  cold  Hebrid  isle, 

To  that  hoar  pilet  which  still  its  ruins  shows : 
In  whose  small  vaults  a  pigmy-folk  is  found, 

Whose  bones  the  delver  with  his  spade  upthrows, 
And  culls  them,  wondering,  from  the  hallowed 

ground  ! 
Or  thither,*  where  beneath  the  showery  west, 

The  mighty  kings  of  three  fair  realms  are  laid : 
Once  foes,  perhaps,  together  now  they  rest, 

No  slaves  revere  them,  and  no  wars  invade  : 
Yet  frequent  now,  at  midnight  solemn  hour, 

The  rifted  mounds  their  yawning  cells  unfold, 
And  forth  the  monarchs  stalk  with  sovereign  power, 

In  pageant  robes,  and  wreathed  with  sheeny  gold, 
And  on  their  twilight  tombs  aerial  council  hold. 

But,  oh,  o'er  all,  forget  not  Kilda's  race, 

On  whose  bleak  rocks,  which  brave  the  wasting 
tides, 

Fair  Nature's  daughter,  Virtue,  yet  abides. 
Go !  just,  as  they,  their  blameless  manners  trace ! 

Then  to  my  ear  transmit  some  gentle  song 
Of  those  whose  lives  are  yet  sincere  and  plain, 

Their  bounded  walks  the  rugged  cliffs  along, 
And  all  their  prospect  but  the  wintry  main. 

With  sparing  temperance,  at  the  needful  tune, 
They  drain  the  scented  spring ;  or  hunger-prest, 

Along  th'  Atlantic  rock,  undreading  climb, 
And  of  its  eggs  despoil  the  solan 's§  nest. 

Thus  blest  in  primal  innocence  they  live, 
Sufficed,  and  happy  with  that  frugal  fare 

Which  tasteful  toil  and  hourly  danger  give. 
Hard  is  their  shallow  soil,  and  bleak  and  bare ; 

Nor  ever  vernal  bee  was  heard  to  murmur  there ! 

Nor  need'st  thou  blush  that  such  false  themes  engage 
Thy  gentle  mind,  of  fairer  stores  possest; 
For  not  alone  they  touch  the  village  breast, 

But  filled  in  elder  time,  th'  historic  page. 

There,  Shakspeare's  self,  with  every  garland 
crowned, 

*  The  water-fiend. 

T  One  of  the  Hebrides  is  called  the  isle  of  Pigmies ;  where, 
it  is  reported,  that  several  miniature  bones  of  the  human  spe- 
cies  have  been  dug  up  in  the  ruins  of  a  chapel  there. 

J  Icolmkill,  one  of  the  Hebrides,  where  near  sixty  of  the  an- 
cient Scottish,  Irish,  and  Norwegian  kings  are  interred, 

§  An  aquatic  bird  like  a  goose,  on  the  eggs  of  which  the  in- 
habitanta  of  St.  Kilda,  another  of  the  Hebrides,  chiefly  subsist. 


18 


COLLINS'S  WORKS. 


Flew  to  those  fairy  climes  his  fancy  sheen, 

In  musing  hour ;  his  wayward  sisters  found, 
And  with  their  terrors  drest  the  magic  scene. 

From  them  he  sung,  when,  'mid  his  bold  design, 
Before  the  Scot,  afflicted,  and  aghast ! 

The  shadowy  kings  of  Banquo's  fated  line 
Through  the  dark  cave  in  gleamy  pageant  passed. 

Proceed !  nor  quit  the  tales  which,  simply  told, 
Could  once  so  well  my  answering  bosom  pierce  ; 

Proceed,  in  forceful  sounds,  and  colour  bold, 
The  native  legends  of  thy  land  rehearse ; 
To  such  adapt  thy  lyre,  and  suit  thy  powerful 


In  scenes  like  these,  which,  daring  to  depart 

From  sober  truth,  are  still  to  Nature  true, 

And  call  forth  fresh  delight  to  Fancy's  view, 
Th'  heroic  muse  employed  her  Tasse's  art ! 

How  have  I  trembled,  when,  at  Tancred's  stroke, 
Its  gushing  blood  the  gaping  cypress  poured  ! 

When  each  live  plant  with  mortal  accents  spoke! 
And  the  wild  blast  upheaved  the  vanished  sword  ! 

How  have  I  sat,  when  piped  the  pensive  wind, 
To  hear  his  harp  by  British  Fairfax  strung  ! 

Prevailing  Poet !  whose  undoubting  mind ! 
Believed  the  magic  wonders  which  he  sung ! 

Hence,  at  each  sound,  imagination  glows ! 
Hence,  at  each  picture,  vivid  life  starts  here ! 

Hence  his  warm  lay  with  softest  sweetness  flows ! 
Melting  it  flows,  pure,  murmuring,  strong,  and 

clear, 

And  fills  th'  impassioned  heart,  and  wins  th'  har- 
monious ear ! 

All  hail,  ye  scenes  that  o'er  my  soul  prevail; 
Ye  splendid  friths  and  lakes,  which,  far  away, 

Are  by  smooth  Annan*  filled,  or  past'ral  Tay,* 
Or  Don's*  romantic  springs,  at  distance  hail ! 
The  time  shall  come,  when  I,  perhaps,  may  tread 

Your  lowly  glens,t  o'erhung  with  spreading 

broom; 
Or,  o'er  your  stretching  heaths,  by  Fancy  led ; 

Or  o'er  your  mountains  creep,  in  awful  gloom ! 
Then  will  I  dress  once  more  the  faded  bower, 

Where  Jonsont  sat  in  Drummond's  classic  shade; 
Or  crop  from  Tiviotdale,  each  lyric  flower, 

And  mourn  on  Yarrow's  banks,  where  Willy's 

laid! 
Meantime,  ye  powers  that  on  the  plains  which  bore 

The  cordial  youth,  on  Lothian's  plains!  attend! — 
Where'er  Home  dwells,  on  hill,  or  lowly  moor, 

To  him  I  love  your  kind  protection  lend, 
And  touched  with  love  like  mine,  preserve  my 
absent  friend ! 


*  Three  rivers  in  Scotland.  t  Valleys. 

I  Ben  Jonson  paid  a  visit  on  foot,  in  1619,  to  the  Scotch  poet 
Drummond,  at  his  seat  of  Hawthornden,  within  four  miles  of 
Edinburgh. 

§  Barrow,  it  seems,  was  at  the  Edinburgh  University,  which 
is  in  the  county  of  Lothian, 


The  following  exquisite  Supplemental  Stanzas  to  the 
foregoing  Ode,  will  be  found  to  commemorate  some  striking 
Scottish  superstitions  omitted  by  Collins.  They  are  the  pro- 
duction of  William  Erskine,  Esq.  Advocate,  and  form  a  Con- 
tinuation of  the  Address,  by  Collins,  to  the  Author  of  Douglas, 
exhorting  him  to  celebrate  the  traditions  of  Scotland.  They 
originally  appeared  in  the  Edinburgh  Magazine  for  April,  1788. 

"  Thy  muse  may  tell,  how,  when  at  evening's 
close, 

To  meet  her  love  beneath  her  twilight  shade, 
O'er  many  a  broom-clad  brae  and  heathy  glade, 

In  merry  mood  the  village  maiden  goes, 
There,  on  a  streamlet's  margin  as  she  lies, 

Chanting  some  carol  till  her  swain  appears, 
With  visage,  deadly  pale,  in  pensive  guise, 

Beneath  a  withered  fir  his  form  he  rears  !* 
Shrieking  and  sad  she  bends  her  eirie  flight, 

When  mid  dire  heaths,  where  flits  the  taper  blue, 
The  whilst  the  moon  sheds  dim  a  sickly  light, 

The  airy  unreal  meets  her  blasted  view! 
When,  trembling,  weak,  she  gains  her  cottage  low, 

Where  magpies  scatter  notes  of  presage  wide, 
Some  one  shall  tell,  while  tears  in  torrents  flow, 

That  just  when  twilight  dimmed  the  green  hills' 
side, 

Far  in  his  lonely  sheil  her  hapless  shepherd  died. 

"  Let  these  sad  strains  to  lighter  sounds  give  place! 

Bid  thy  brisk  viol  warble  measures  gay ! 
For  see !  recalled  by  thy  resistless  lay, 

Once  more  the  Brownie  shows  his  honest  face. 
Hail,  from  thy  wanderings  long,  my  much-loved 
sprite, 

Thou  friend,  thou  lover  of  the  lowly,  hail, 
Tell,  in  what  realms  thou  sport'st  thy  merry  night, 

Trail'st  the  long  mop,  or  whirl'st  the  mimic  flail. 
Where  dost  thou  deck  the  much-disordered  hall, 

While  the  tired  damsel  in  Eysium  sleeps, 
With  early  voice  to  drowsy  workmen  call, 

Or  lull  the  dame  while  mirth  his  vigils  keeps  1 
'Twas  thus  in  Caledonia's  domes,  'tis  said, 

Thou  plied'st  the  kindly  task  in  years  of  yore : 
At  last,  in  luckless  hour,  some  erring  maid 

Spread  in  thy  nightly  cell  of  viands  store: 
Ne'er  was  their  form  beheld  among  the  mountains 
more.t 


The  wraith,  or  spectral  appearance,  of  a  person  shortly  to 
die,  is  a  firm  article  in  the  creed  of  Scottish  superstition.  Nor 
is  it  unknown  in  our  sister  kingdom.  See  the  beautiful  Lady 
Diana  Rich. — Aubrey's  Miscellanies,  p.  89. 

t  'The  Brownie  formed  a  class  of  beings,  distinct  in  habit 
and  disposition  from  the  freakish  and  mischievous  elves.  lie 
was  meagre,  shaggy,  and  wild  in  his  appearance.  Thus,  Clea- 
land,  in  his  satire  against  the  Highlanders,  compares  them  to 

'Faunes,  or  brownies,  if  ye  will, 
Or  satyrs  come  from  Atlas  hill. 

In  the  day  time,  he  lurked  in  remote  recesses  of  the  old 
houses  which  he  delighted  to  haunt;  and,  in  the  night,  sedu- 
lously employed  himself  in  discharging  any  laborious  task 


ODES. 


19 


"  Then  wake  (for  well  thou  can'st)  that  wondrous 

lay, 
How,  while  around  the  thoughtless  matrons 

sleep, 

Soft  o'er  the  floor  the  treacherous  fairies  creep, 
And  bear  the  smiling  infant  far  away: 


which  he  thought  might  be  acceptable  to  the  family,  to  whose 
service  he  had  devoted  himself.  But,  although,  like  Milton's 
lubber  fiend,  he  loves  to  stretch  himself  by  the  fire,  *  he  does 
not  drudge  from  the  hope  of  recompense.  On  the  contrary, 
so  delicate  is  his  attachment,  that  the  offer  of  reward,  but 
particularly  of  food,  infallibly  occasions  his  disappearance  for 


ever.t 


*  ' — how  the  drudging  goblin  sweats, 
To  earn  the  creanvbowl,  duly  set ! 
When,  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 
His  shadowy  flail  had  thrashed  the  corn, 
That  ten  day-lab'rers  could  not  end; 
Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend 
And  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 
Basks  on  the  fire  his  airy  strength : 
And,  crop-full  out  of  door  he  flings, 
E'er  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings.' 

L'Allegro. 

1  When  the  menials  in  a  Scottish  family  protracted  their 
vigils  around  the  kitchen  fire,  Brownie,  weary  of  being  ex- 
cluded from  the  midnight  hearth,  sometimes  appeared  at  the 
door,  seemed  to  watch  their  departure,-  and  thus  admonished 
them— "Gang  a'  to  your  beds,  sir,  and  dinna  put  out  the  wee 
grieshoch  (embers." ') 

1 1t  is  told  of  a  Brownie,  who  haunted  a  border  family  now 
extinct,  that  the  lady  having  fallen  unexpectedly  in  labour, 
and  the  servant  who  was  ordered  to  ride  to  Jedburgh  for  the 
sage  femme  showing  no  great  alertness  in  setting  out,  the 
familiar  spirit  slipt  on  the  great-coat  of  the  lingering  domes- 
tic, rode  to  the  town  on  the  laird's  best  horse,  and  returned 
with  the  midwife  en  croupe.  During  the  short  space  of  his 
absence,  the  Tweed,  which  they  must  necessarily  ford,  rose 
to  a  dangerous  height.  Brownie,  who  transported  his  charge 
with  all  the  rapidity  of  the  ghostly  lover  of  Lenora,  was  not  to 
be  stopped  by  this  obstacle.  He  plunged  in  with  the  terrified 
old  lady,  and  landed  her  in  safety  where  her  services  were 


How  starts  the  nurse,  when  for  her  lovely  child, 

She  sees  at  dawn  a  gaping  idiot  stare ! 
O  snatch  the  innocent  from  demons  wild, 

And  sav«  the  parents  fond  from  fell  despair ! 
In  a  deep  cave  the  trusty  menials  wait, 

When  from  their  hilly  dens  at  midnight's  hour, 
Forth  rush  the  airy  elves  in  mimic  state, 

And  o'er  the  moonlight  heath  with  swiftness 

scour: 
In  glittering  arms  the  little  horsemen  shine ; 

Last,  on  a  milk-white  steed,  with  targe  of  gold, 
A  fay  of  might  appears,  whose  arms  entwine 

The  lost-lamented  child !  the  Shepherds  bold* 
The  unconscious  infant  tear  from  his  unhallowed 
hold." 


*  For  an  account  of  the  Fairy  superstition,  see  the  Introduc- 
tion to  the  "Tale  of  Tamlane,"  in  that  elegant  work  called 
Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border,  voL  ii.  p.  174.  Second 
Edition. 

wanted.  Having  put  the  horse  into  the  stable  where  it  was 
afterwards  found  in  a  woful  plight,  he  proceeded  to  the  room 
of  the  servant,  whose  duty  he  had  discharged;  and  finding 
him  just  in  the  act  of  drawing  on  his  boots,  he  administered 
to  him  a  most  merciless  drubbing  with  his  own  horse-whip. 
Such  an  important  service  excited  the  gratitude  of  the  laird ; 
who,  understanding  that  Brownie  had  been  heard  to  express 
a  wish  to  have  a  green  coat,  ordered  a  vestment  of  that  colour 
to  be  made,  and  left  in  his  haunts.  Brownie  took  away  the 
green  coat,  but  never  was  seen  more.  We  may  suppose,  that 
tired  of  his  domestic  drudgery,  he  went  in  his  new  livery  to 
join  the  fairies. 

"The  last  Brownie,  known  in  Ettrick  forest,  resided  in  Boda- 
beck,  a  wild  and  solitary  spot,  where  he  exercised  his  func- 
tions undisturbed,  till  the  scrupulous  devotion  of  an  old  lady 
induced  her  to  hire  him  away,  as  it  was  termed,  by  placing 
in  his  haunt  a  porringer  of  milk  and  a  piece  of  money.  After 
receiving  this  hint  to  depart,  he  was  heard  the  whole  night 
to  howl  and  cry,  "Farewell  to  bonny  Bodsbeck!"  which  he 
was  compelled  to  abandon  for  ever.' 

It  seems  no  improbable  conjecture,  that  the  Brownie  is  a 
legitimate  descendant  of  the  Lar  Familiaris  of  the  ancienta 


THE  END. 


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TeTnple." 

Much  of  the  happiness  of  every  family  depends 
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The  Theory  and  Practice  well  explained,  and 
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MALTE-BRUN'S  NEW  AND  ELEGANT 
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rica, ;mc!  <  >ci'.i:iii-u,  with  their  sever.il  Empires, 
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"  The  man  that  has  not  music  in  himself, 
Nor  is  not  moved  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds 
Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils." 

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A  TREATISE  ON  THE  MATERIA  ME- 
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ence. By  Edward  Turner,  M.  D.  Professor  in 
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Pleasing  Companion. 

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Grimshaw's  History  of  the  United  States. 

History  of  England. 

History  of  Greece. 

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Keys  to  each. 

Ladies'  Lexicon. 

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Walker's  Dictionaries. 

Murray's  Exercises  and  Key,  12mo  edition. 

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